Some snippets from the past ….. lest
I forget.
Nihal D
Amerasekera
The assertion that
“Laughter is the best medicine” has never sounded more true as age has caught
up with us with all its vagaries. When APR, lack of energy and health issues
overwhelm us, Laughter must have a magical ingredient not found in pills and
portions. I have managed to rake up some incidents and anecdotes that have
raised a smile for me over the years. These have remained in the archives of my
memory over many years. I may even have shared some of them with you in the
distant past.
"When I was an intern in Kurunegala, the chef was an elderly
man who had severe asthma. No one knew his real name. We all called him Rhonchi
Rajapakse. His cooking left a lot to be desired and reminded me of the
chemistry book description of oxygen - tasteless, colourless and
odourless. Rhonchi Rajapaksa kept
telling us he was the best cook in the world. Fresh from the MBBS we were full
of text book medicine. The consensus of opinion was that Rhonchi Rajapaksa had delusions of grandeur of GPI due to tertiary
syphilis. Local gossip and innuendo told us he frequented brothels in his spare
time. We all got to know the guy well. He was never sober after he completed
the evenings work for us. Rhonchi partook generously in the illegal drink, kassippu,
that was doled out at the top of the road, in the funeral parlour. Rhonchi sat
with the mourners and wept with them and became a popular figure locally".
When I was an intern in Kurunegala I was designated to cover
Eye and ENT wards at night. My knowledge of those specialities could hardly
fill a postage stamp.
"Once in the Eye ward I noticed the letters P L on the BHT
of every patient. I asked the nurse what it stood for. She said “Plash Light”.
Although unconvinced, I accepted this. Next day I asked the Ophthalmic
registrar and he said PL stood for Perception of Light. The nurse wasn’t too
far wrong. In those days, getting the English wrong was a good reason to laugh. I told and retold this on numerous occasions in the HO’s quarters and we
laughed a lot. I remember when we asked
Rhonchi Rajapaksa what was there for dinner he said “Presh Piss”. Perhaps he meant ‘fresh fish’".
On looking
back in my early years in England, I too got my English language wrong on many
occasions but the English men and women
were far too polite to laugh at my mistakes. Their murky smile said it all.
"I worked in the OPD at Kurunegala in the late 1960’s. Sunday
was the ‘Pola day”. This was held close to the hospital. People from far and
wide converged on the Pola. It was their habit to drop in at the hospital for a
bit of free medicine. The patients’ waiting room was then heaving with people.
When weaving my way through the crowd I had developed a form of reflex apnoea.
When on duty I had the great propensity to attract hypochondriacs. One old man
related a catalogue of symptoms. On examination he had no physical signs to
support any of his myriad of complaints.
He insisted on some medicine and I prescribed him a bottle of ubiquitous “Sodi
Sal”, the panacea for all ills in those distant days. On the way out he said loudly “I get an ear
ache too”. I told him to apply the liquid on his ear twice a day."
Night duty as the MO/OPD could be a nightmare. It was rarely
that I had a sound sleep from dusk to dawn. Mostly, I drew the short straw and
suffered. When I heard the noise of the ambulance I could feel my pulse rise.
The noise or the wailing that followed gave me an indication of its urgency and
the severity.
"One soggy day a family arrived quite distraught. It transpired
that the lady had a prolapsed uterus and it was bitten by a dog. I considered
this an emergency and did the needful. It was when I returned to the quarters
and related the incident my mates tried to work out how this catastrophic event
could have happened. I am sure we now have the wisdom and the generosity to
pardon the crass humour of the young medics and those rough edges of youth.
After all we too were young bucks, once".
It seemed the flushing toilets had not reached the dry zone
yet. The quarters had bucket latrines and the daily ablutions were a tricky
business. Those at the back of the queue in the morning had to endure the
worst. Sirry Cassim, now a retired senior Ophthalmic Surgeon in Colombo, had
his own answer to the problem. He had a generous stock of Bulgarian cigars
(Bulgarian bog punt) which produced acrid fumes to counteract the other nasty
odours. The non-smokers had to make a quick exit cyanosed and blue poisoned by
the fumes and driven by the stench.
"In those halcyon days in the OPD, Mist Sodi Sal and
Carminative formed the bedrock of our treatment. Aspirin tablets were doled out
like Smarties. Once whilst returning for lunch there was an almighty commotion
by the gynae ward. A man in national dress was shaking his fist unable to
contain his anger and one of my doctor colleagues was calmly explaining to no
avail. It transpired the man was accusing the houseman of stitching the
episiotomy too tight. The doctor finally asked the man to mind his own business,
which left him rather speechless".
It was a great privilege of my life to live in Wattala in
1962/63 and develop a friendship with Bernard Randeniya and Razaque Ahamat. We
studied anatomy together. This was an enclave of a certain greatly respected
faith. In those days they conducted their funerals with a brass band following
the cortege. Whilst studying we often heard them walk past. One day we heard
them play a popular song and we soon recognised it was “He’s a jolly good
fellow”. What a lovely send-off to paradise!!
"Bernard always had a fund of amusing anecdotes. When we
studied at his house there was a rather large dog who came to sniff us. When I
asked him if he was a dog lover he said he was not, but the dog was bought to
look after the poultry pen to prevent thieves stealing them. Once when I went
to Bernard’s house he said thieves took away the poultry. I asked him about the
dog. He said the dog was fast asleep and he had to wake him up in the morning".
On entry to the faculty, we all had medical examinations.
"When Bernard went for his he was asked to remove his trousers. When the doctor
squeezed his scrotum, perhaps looking for hydrocoeles and hernias Bernard simply
couldn’t stop laughing. This irritated the doctor so much he virtually ‘kicked Bernard’
out of the room. For several weeks Bernard thought he may get sacked from the
Faculty".
My boss in General Medicine in London had a tremendous sense
of humour. This he shared with us in the pub opposite the hospital, after a
busy day.
"A surgeon on his ward rounds came to a patient with severe diabetes.
He told the patient “ I have some good news and some bad news. To give the bad
news first We have to amputate both your legs”.
The news hit him like a bolt of lightening. The
surgeon waited a few minutes until the patient composed himself. Then the surgeon went on “The good news is that the patient in the
next bed is willing to buy your shoes”.
This goes
back to the days of old Ceylon when Policemen wore Khaki shorts with knee high
socks and a funny khaki hat with a turned up edge. It was the rule
that to ride a cycle at night a light was required.
"A man was
cycling along Baseline Rd as the sky suddenly darkened just before the rain. He
didn’t have a cycle lamp. A Policeman stopped him. The cyclist spoke in English
saying “I didn’t anticipate the rain”. The
policeman was rather non-plussed as he did understand the turn of
phrase. He blurted “anty – ta- saneepa
naththang - yanna” and let the man go on his way".
I have selected these humorous clips which are beyond
reproach - even to medics of my era. There are many others in store that require
broad shoulders and a thick skin hence they have been excluded to avoid causing
any distress.
I sincerely hope “Laughter is the best medicine” will
continue to ring true as we march on to the naughty nineties.
