Some snippets from the past ….. lest I forget.
Nihal D Amerasekera
"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.