While working on another post, I drifted into the “doctor thing” I wrote about earlier.  I am reminded of some of the lessons I learned, both, the easy way (advice offered by my teachers over the ten years in school and training), and the hard way (from mistakes I made and observed over the 35 years I was in medicine.). Of course we learn from the response we get from doing things correctly, but lessons from mistakes are in some ways more valuable.

I decided to  a doctor when I was about twelve years old.  Ever since I can remember I had a small plaque on the wall of my bedrooms, (several, because we moved alot) made from poster board and stick-on block letters that said “In Whose Image.”  My father had made it, put it on the wall, moved it when we moved, always above the side of my bed.  My father collected and read, among other things, biographies, mostly, but not exclusively, prominent  Americans. Lincoln was a favorite.  The message he was giving me was both simple and complex, who did I want to be, whose examples did I want to follow.  I admired my father, his intellect, has success in his career (a first generation Polish American, a respected scientist, engineer, and businessman), and  I seemed to have the aptitude for a scientific, perhaps engineering career.  He encouraged me in my studies, hobbies, sports, no real emphasis but to explore.  The “image”, though formed early as I observed the doctors who were caring for my mother who suffered with rheumatic heart disease from her youth.  Three in particular, two general practitioners, and eventually a cardiac surgeon.  The surgeon was famous, an early innovator in heart surgery, at a time when surgeons in that field were really self-taught, that is they were devising and developing techniques that would later become standard treatment.  I did not know that at the time, only much later, when I was able to work with other innovative surgeons, during my training, did I realize how valuable  their contributions to the progress of cardiac surgery were.

But, back in my teens, I was most influenced by how these men dealt on a personal basis with my mother.  In our home, or in their offices, they would sit with the family, discuss Mom’s problem, discuss the alternative treatments, and the alternative of no treatment, face to face, patiently answering questions, talking to. People who were basically ignorant in regard to the medical aspects, people who were frightened of the proposed treatment, unaware of the consequences.  Their patience and confidence inspired us,  and eventually lead us to a course of treatment and surgery that prolonged my mother’s life, preserved her ability to continue her dedication to her family, friends, and church.  How could I not see their images to emulate?

I I wanted to be like Dr. McClellan, Dr. Zuck, and Dr. Glover.  In a way, it was too early to make such a decision, two years of school before college to go, but I was certain.  The widow of a general practioner gave me his personal medical library.  I concentrated on science classes in high school,  applied to a prestigious college as a pre-med student, and got on the “fast track” to medical school.  But my father’s advice still was important.  While getting  all the premed courses under my belt, on his advice, I took advantage of the liberal education afforded by Dartmouth College, and majored in philosophy.  I did not excell in these classes.  But I did acquire an attitude, or, maybe better, an  understanding of the value of careful questioning, critical thinking, that helped me enormously in my further education and eventually practice of surgery.  I can only imagine what most of my fellow premeds thought of my decision.  The situation back in the early 60’s was characterized by severe competition for a place in med school, then an equally severe competition for places in good internships and residencies.  The decision to forgo some of the “helpful” advanced courses in biological sciences for philosophy courses might have been considered foolish, or even dangerous, but my Dad’s advice was something I valued greatly.

My father was a first generation Polish-American who had to fight for a place in college and graduate school, financial considerations being the greatest, but not the only hurdle he faced.   He studied metallurgical engineering, and after serving in the Navy during WW II, was in on the explosion of interest in nuclear metals, and atomic energy.  He was successful in research, production, and management in that field.  But his interest in philosophy and theology never waned.  His extensive personal library consisted of authors like Bohr, and Tillich, in equal measure.  After retirement forced by health considerations, he got a graduate degree in psychology, and taught at NJIT, until his age forced a second retirement.  But, he never tired of teaching.

Some of my most vivid memories of my youth are the times when we two, father and son, would sit together and he would talk of the importance of an open mind, one that would not quickly react to a differing opinion, would critically examine, and carefully form an opinion of it’s own, perhaps reserving “judgement” until further consideration takes place.

As usual, I have wandered from the original subject, but I think that rounding out my college education with courses in philosophy helped me become a better physician, allowing me to be more patient with my patients, less likely to jump to the “obvious” diagnosis, and more careful to treat my patients as people, rather than diseases to be cured or procedures to be performed.  I stressed these points to the students, interns and residents that I encountered, and was gratified to see a few of these young doctors follow through with that approach in their own practices.