The Diary of a Doctor Who Tells The Real Conservatives

Evening Star, Issue 23189, 11 February 1939, Page 3

The Diary of a Doctor Who Tells The Real Conservatives

Monday, February C. " You’re a conservative crowd, you doctors,” said my friend, the suburbs solicitor, yesterday, when we visited bis home for tea. I’m surprised that an intelligent person like you should repeat that sort of rubbish,” 1 replied. “Upto a point you’re right, in that man ns an animal is incurably conservative. The only point about the medical profession is that it is less conservative than others.” “ That’s a cool claim for the crowd that rejected Pasteur and Lister,” the legal man chipped me. Admittedly there was a brief interval before the claims were accepted, but the medical profession was the first to accept them. The general public hasn’t accepted them yet.” “ What do you mean? ” demanded my friend. One instance that comes to mind at the moment concerns dipthcria immunisation. We know definitely, and council authorities know, that immunisation will reduce the dipthcria rate to almost nothing. “It has been proven beyond all doubt. Yet the public-are so conservative that only comparatively few parents are willing to safeguard their children in this way. Not only that, but they are willing to listen and take notice' of any lone, uninformed voice that tries to put them against it.” “ One to you.” said the lawyer. “ Any other reasons? ” “ Dozens,” I said. “We know that early tuberculosis is detectable by X-ray, and that if all young people in their early ’teens were X-rayed a great number of lives would be saved. The public don’t believe it yet, though undoubtedly one day they will. “ 1 could go on talking jike this a long time.” I threatened him. " I give in.” said the solicitor hastily. “ though f still retain the right of rny own views." Tuesday, February 7. Billy Tunks had a bunged-up eye. two cauliflower ears, and a vacant expression when 1 visited him at his young wife’s recr’cst this morniiv'. ‘‘ It’s his wretched boxing a r ain,” she said. “ IT" doesn’t remember a thing after i’-a tb’-d round last m v ht. and it went to eight before he knocked the other follow out.” “ Wbot did you remember last? ’ I asked Billy. “ We mixed it in the third round and T got an uppercut that shook me a bit. T rmernVr going clown for six, but that’s all.” Up worries ric to renth, said nis wife. “ This ?s the third time he’s been like this. And his memory isn’t as pood as it was. I don’t think he’s even walking as straight as he used to." “ I’m all right,” grunted Billy. ‘ I can still win my fights.” “ Maybe,” said his wife. " hut you won t he doing that for long.”' She turned to me. her eyes fined with tears. "You’ve got to stop Hm doctor. I don’t want to he saddled with a punch-drunk husband for the rest of mv life.” Punch-drunk nothing.” said Billy. Billy is punch-drunk already;. If he fi<rhts acain it wid be against my strongest advice. No purse, however romporißntes for a fuddled brain. Repeated blows over vears of training and professional fighting have ruptured some tinv blood vessels in his hr:-'n. "ith resultant clots pressing on and nerhans injuring that most delicate of ell mechanisms. Recently, some medical men did a fair amount of research into the question of hei”g “ pwh-drunk. and there is ,1 o doubt of the existence of this trouble. T f 's signalised in a vniirtv of wavs, chief of wlvch be imnrlament of memory md periods of de-(V,-—‘'r'-Mi. There mav ho unsteady walk, slurred speech. Some of the -Indents, under observation showed a change of temperament, becoming ov---tal’-"tive -nd restless. As a blunt American observer put it the other day: An audience might think twice when thirsting for blood. The boxer is risking a one-way tnn to the craze housm the p’-cc where the occupational disease of boxers too often brings them.”

Wednesday. February 8. “ Take it about 15 minutes before meals.” 1 said to .Tobn Trenton to-day, as I banded him his prescription. 11 What would happen if I took it after meals?” he asked. “ Nothing at all,” I replied, and was

asked to explain why 1 had been so particular as to time. “ The medicine’s a gastric tonic,” 1 said, “ designed to stimulate your gastric juices and appetite. Therefore, it’s no good taking it after a meal.” ” How about those medicines you take after a meal, then? ” asked Trenton. ” Those are chiefly designed to put tilings in order after the food has entered the stomach,” 1 replied! _ “ They mostly help things like indigestion, dyspepsia, or even serious stomach conditions.” “ I suppose then,” said Trenton, “ that most medicines are all right whether you take them before or after meals.” “ That is so.” I replied. " The most important thing form the patient’s point of view is not to worry what the relationship is to meals unless it is specifically stated on the bottle.” Thursday, February 9. “ I don’t know if it’s right to ask a doctor how to look after your hair,’’ said Mrs Quinn, half-apologetically, today. “ I never feel it infra dig. to discuss any part of the body,” I replied. “ You never know, you know,” said Mrs Quinn sagely. " Some doctors won’t discuss corns with you.”

“ If so. they arc, in my opinion, unworthy of the name of doctor, or ignorant of corn cures.” I replied. “ Well, if you can tell me how to stop my hair falling out, i’ll be grateful,” said Mrs Quinn. " You had better see a skin specialist for the latest advice,’ 1 said. " Meanwhile, frequent washing removes the dirt and grease, and massage and brushing, I think, stimulate growth.” Women seem to have lost the art of blushing or inclination to brush their hair those days. When 1 was a boy our mothers were delighted if we would brush their hair for half an hour or so. They knew it improved it. Who brushes the hair that long these days? Is hair destined to become (like the muscles of the car lobe, the human appendix, and other unused parts of the body) merely a vestigial remnant? Once our hair warmed and clothed us. Now it is merely an adornment on the head, and almost absent from the rest of our bodies.

Friday, February 10. Mostly patients are very thoughtful about calling the doctor after midnight, but, of course, there are exceptions. At 2 a.m. to-day I received an urgent summons to Mrs Printon’s. On arriving I found that the cause of the excitement was a septic leg, which she had had for four days. “ I suppose you’ll think that I ought to have sent for you before,” she sa'id with a guilty look. “ It’s just that I thought it would be getting better before this, and in the last three or four hours it began to throb very badly. I got scared then, and thought I’d wasted too much time already, and that I might have to lose the leg,'or something.” On examination I found that the leg had a little mild ointment on it,-and was bandaged with unnecessary length and tightness. 1 recommended constant bathing over the bath with running hot water, and suggested an hour of it to begin with. " Couldn’t it wait for the morning? ” asked Mrs Printon.

“ No.” I said definitely, feeling if it was worth getting me up out of bed for it was worth immediate action after my services had been given. Incidentally, many septic cuts and ordinary sores would improve with hot water bathing and a little iodine. There is a tendency to look on a cut as something to be anointed with ointment and shut off (by a bandage) from the rest of the world. On the contrary, fresh air, sunshine, hot water, and a little soap will do quite a lot for most of them.

I like the story of Air ATTavish, who knocked up his chemist at 2 in the morning for two-pennyworth of bicarbonate of soda for his indigestion. ‘‘l think it’s a bit hot disturbing me for that when a glass of hot water would probably be just as effective,” said the chemist indignantly from his bedroom window.

“ Thank ye for the advice.” said Air Al'Tavish hastily. “In tha’ case I’ll no be troublin’ ye.” Names in this diary are fictitious, (Copyright.)