THE DIARY OF A DOCTOR WHO TELLS

Evening Star, Issue 22881, 12 February 1938, Page 3

THE DIARY OF A DOCTOR WHO TELLS

CHILDREN DON'T OUTGROW THEIR STRENGTH Monday, February 7. “ Mother says that the trouble is that he’s outgrown his strength and that his brain is too active for his little body,” announced Mrs Yerton, looking at her eight-year-old with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “He’s so terribly skinny, she continued, “ and it’s not as if he didn’t get the best of everything. He has exactly what his father has, and his father is most particular about his food.” „ “ He has plenty of milk, I suppose. “ Oh, no, he doesn’t like milk,” replied h’is mother, “and when they don’t like it what can you do about it?” “How about eggs?” “ No, he doesn’t like eggs cither. Neither does his father.” ■ Further inquiry revealed that young Yerton was suffering from a not uncommon thing in rich families —undernourishment. His meals are unsatisfactory because his choiq© of eating is wide and unrestricted by the hour of day. He appears to be always picking at biscuits, cakes, and sweets. Sweet drinks are his for the asking. Of course, Mrs Yerton was horrified at the verdict, and said coldly that she felt sure I wouldn’t mind if she had another opinion, to which I cheerfully agreed. (No one could miss the diagnosis.) Meanwhile I suggested that reasonable regularity of eating times, combined with a wiser choice of diet, would be the best medicine. “ Another point,” I added, “ is that children often take their meals better when they are away from adults. Young laddie here is an ardent admirer of his father, and if father doesn’t have milk and eggs that’s a good enough precedent to follow, I think I’d try giving him his evening meal at least on his own. Breakfast could be taken alone for at least a fortnight. “ Actually,” I added, “ there is no such thing as outgrowing your strength, and most of these cases in children boil down to erroneous diet and insufficient rest.” , • * * * Thinking over the Yerton case tonight, I wondered if I had handled it sufficiently tactfully. The truth hah sometimes to be wrapped in a sugarcoated pill before it is fit to be swallowed. Beminds me of a cynical colleague who said the other day that a successful doctor is one -whose practice is so large that when a patient has nothing the matter with her he can afford to tell her so. Tuesday, February 8. Oliver Weeks tried hard to search for words adequately to describe his symptoms when he called for “ a good, strong nerve tonic ” to-night. At last he said rather desperately, “ I suppose the trouble is that I’m fed up.” “About what?” I asked. “ Everything,” he smiled unhappily. “ The office, the weather, and sometimes the wife.” “ Don’t worry,” I said. “ Everyone gets that way sometimes; it’s a sort of liver attack.” “That’s it,” he said; that’s just what I feel like. I think it’s the office chiefly. My holidays are due in a month, and they oan’t_ come quickly enough. I’ve been a hit fed up with things there lately. It ! s a case of no praise for anything yon do reasonably well and pretty quick and sharp blame for any errors.” • * • '• I’ve been thinking a lot about his last sentence to-day. Office efficiency depends on office happiness and_ cooperation. Human beings love a little praise and recognition, and an ounce of it measured out to them every now and again will oil the wheels of industry better tha,n a ton of reproof and criticism.

Wednesday, February 9 Death is the great leveller, not only to those who .pass on, but those who remain. Two deaths occurred in the practice to-day, both old people, whose circumstances of living were in direct contrast, the one coming from a rich home and the other from a poor one. The sorrow of the relatives was shared equally, and not all the wealth of the one family helped it to escape one iota. We all have those hours when we wonder what death is like, what lies beyond the veil, how we shall face it when our turn comes. Actually, death is in the vast majority of cases peaceful and unfeared by the elderly. Perhaps an anaesthesia of weariness softens everything, or perhaps when the hour comes it is revealed that there is nothing to fear. Whatever be the cause, I entirely agree with the colleague who recently said that death is a much more trying' ordeal for our friends and relatives than for the dying. Thursday, February 10 “I sell things,” said Jo Preme, huskily, “Me voice is givin’ out on me.” “ How do you sell them?” I asked. “ Auction,” said Jo briefly. Examination of Jo’s larynx showed that it was chronically inflamed. In common with bookmakers and clergymen, auctioneers tend to suffer so. “I want a good gargle, please,” said Jo. “ It’s a problem,” I said, “ because your trouble is occupational. Complete silence is necessary to rest your overtired vocal cords, and it will take them a long time to recover.” , “ Yer mean I should find another job?” asked Jo. “ It would be better,” I said. “ Good-oh,” he replied nonchalantly. It isn’t always as easy as that, but Jo is evidently a man of ideas.

Continuous talking and shouting will ruin any vocal cords. The former habit is generally confined to the fairer sex and schoolmasters, while the latter is mostly occupational in the male. As a distinguished throat specialist explained recently, to use the larynx for

shouting is like getting a tune out of a Strad by hitting it with a hammer. If the damage is done, rest is the best treatment. The acute loss oi voice that comes with a cold often leeds to a more serious loss if care be not taken of it. Complete silence is flie treatment, and no singer should be so foolish as to try to sing when his or her larynx is inflamed-. They should not even talk. As a matter of fact, if singers are using their voice many hotrs a day, the less they talk when off dity the better. If talking is necessary, a quiet tone is advisable, Friday, February 11 “ Without wishing to be unduly inquisitive,” said my secretary, Patricia, this evening, “ I trust that that last patient isn’t suffering from glandular trouble.” “ I see no reason t« think so,” I replied as I entered on his card: Wilfred Canley • . . aged 62 . . . married . . . four children . . . high blood pressure. “ What made yoi) think so?” I added. ‘‘ It may be that my fatal beauty fascinated him the instant he noticed it,” said Patricia ironically, ‘‘ but whatever it was, he was trying ',o hold my hand before he had even huig up his hat.” And she patted a far curl into place with the characteristically deft movement I am beginning td know so well. “ Gentlemen prefer! blondes, you know,” I warned her. “ Mavbe,” answered Patricia boldly, “ blondes generally prefer gentlemen.” Names in this diary ire fictitious. Copyrighl