The Diary of a Doctor Who Tells When Seconds Count

Evening Star, Issue 23687, 21 September 1940, Page 3

The Diary of a Doctor Who Tells When Seconds Count

Monday, September 16. Sometimes seconds are valuable. Tonight the broken voice of Ralph Williams said: “Come at once, Peter. Jean’s been electrocuted. She’s unconscious. . . . I’ve turned off the power point.” He had almost hung up when I said quickly: “ Listen carefully, Ralph. Start artificial respiration at once . . . just as you do in the life-saving club. Don’t rush it.” , , “I ... . think ( . . • she’s . , . gone,” he said, and started to soh. “ Listen,” I said sharply. ‘ Every second is valuable. Start artificial respiration at once. I'll be there as fast as I can.” They’live on the edge of our suburb, three miles from the surgery, and I was there in six minutes, allowing a minute to get into the car. (If I’ve been booked I’ll have to go and see my friend the sergeant and explain.) “Can wc get her into 'hospital. Ralph said as I ran through the front door and reached his side. “ No.” I said. “ We’ve got to keep artificial respiration going. You go and get Hal Brown next door to come and stand by for a relief shift. This is going to be a long job.” He ran down the hall and I took up the job on the unconscious woman, in whom, it seemed, life barely remained.' The two men came in less than a couple of minutes. Get rugs and fill two water bot- } ties,” 1 said to Ralph. “ Hal, you massage the legs towards the heart.” Five minutes later Ralph took over the artificial respiration, permitting me to give the patient an injection. Then back to the job of dragging someone bock from the edge of eternity. It was about half an hour afterwards that the,first sign of life returned. I do not know a moment more dramatic than that one when you know that you have beaten death. # • * • When life had fully returned we lifted the patient gently into bed and saw that she was warm and comfortable. Instructions were given not to leave her for some hours. _ Artificial respiration is oho of the most valuable forms of treatment for electric shock. It should be persisted with for hours if necessary, and it has been wisely said that the only sure signs of death in this circumstance are the development of rigor mortis, cooling of the body, and post-mortem discoloration. Tuesday, September 17. “What’s this I hear about the Germans having food- pills?” asked Mrs lumill this morning. “ Someone told I me yesterday that she saw something in the papers about airmen being captured with boxes of food pills in their pockets.” “ There has been talk about Nazi food pills,” I replied. “ aud the soya bean is' the main part of it. As a matter of.fact, if I remember aright, my medical journal mentioned the other day that ‘ the soya bean has been described as vitally important to Germany from the nutritional, economic, and military standpoint ’.”

“What’s so good about it?” asked MrsTmnill. N

“ Tlie ’fionr from it has nearly 50 per cent, protein,9 1 said, “and they put it into soups and sausages, bread aud biscuits.”

It is being claimed by the Germans that the rapid advance of their mechanised units was made possible by the soya bean. Troops relied on it when cut off from their supporting columns. Making duo allowance for the fact that the Reich is now the home of the modern fairytale, the boast is one that cannot lightly be dismissed. It is to be hoped that someone in the Ministry of Food is interested in the soya bean.

For centuries an army has marched on its stomach. It still marches that way, the only variation being that the civilian population has got to march

that way, too, in most countries, today.

Wednesday, September 18. *' Wc have the usual arguments about going to bed,” said Mrs Leenlv this afternoon, discussing her children. “ Harry’s the problem. He’s nine now, and he insists that he ought to be allowed to stay up as late as Dick, who’s 10. What’s the answer?” “ I don’t think there’s much difference at that age,” I replied. “ Wendy's nine, or soon will be, and I think that she should be asleep by 8 o’clock. I”m going to try and stick to that time at least till she’s 11.” “ You’ll be lucky if yon succeed,” said Mrs Leculy, grimly. “ That is, if she’s anything like my Margaret was when she was 11.”

“ i believe in sleep as the best of all tonics,” I said. “So I’ll do my best.”

Sleep is so important to children that institutions like the London County Council have issued special pamphlets about it. The L.C.C. says: Children at 4 should go to bod at 6.30 p.m., and have 12 hours’ sleep; children from 5 to 7, to bed at 7 p.m., for .11-I*2 hours’ sleep; children from 8 to 11. 8 p.m., 10-11 hours; children from 12-14, 9 p.m., 9-10 hours. t Parents arc asked to remember that doctors and teachers agree that late hours mean tired, pale-faced children, drowsy in the morning ’and cross in the afternoon.

Beware of sleep starvation . . . especially for children.

Thursday, September 19. “They may be. twins, but they’re entirely different in almost everything,” said the mother of Bruce and Barbara Allen to-day. “ They even seem to fight more often than the other children. There must be something wrong somewhere.” . “ They’re fraternal twins instead of identical twins.” I explained. “ Identical twins are always the same sex, aud are very much alike. Fraternal twins can bo two entirely different individuals, aud may be different sexes, though not necessarily so. It’s just luck that they were born together.” “When the twins are the same sex, how can yon tell whether they’re identical or fraternal? ” asked Mrs Allen. “ By their similarity of looks, 1 suppose? ” “ Not necessarily,” I replied. “ There’s, the question of blood groups, blood pressure, pulse, eye colour, vision, skin, and hair colour, patterns on the palms and soles, and all sorts of modern tests that have been perfected recently.” Friday, September 20. To-night 1 spoke to Gordon Huutly about his diet, telling him the old story of fresh fruits and vegetables, dairy, products, and meat. He smiled indulgently. “ I’d believe that my salvation lay that way if I didn’t know that you doctors are worse than dressmakers the way you invent and advocate the fashion of the moment,” he said. “ You’re, all diet mad these days. It won’t he long before something else takes its place.” _ “ It’s fair enough criticism,” I said, “ but you have to remember that each fashion leaves something useful behind. “ Because we rush enthusiastically into u new treatment it does not necessarily mean that we leave our judgment behind or drop it immediately something else comes along.” “ I rather thought you did,” said Gordon, cheerfully. “ I can well remember 10 years ago, going along to a doctor complaining of a swollen joint, and he wanted me to have all my teeth out. That was the day when what yon called focal infection was in fashion.” “It still is,” I said, “ and it still works wonders as an explanation and treatment in some cases. Admittedly, we use X-ray more these days, and are loath to act in the absence of definite evidence.”

“ Then there’s the appendicitis craze in full bloom again,” commented Gordon. “ Didn’t Edward VII start that one off? ” « “He did,” I said, “and it has continued a sound diagnosis in many cases ever since.”

We have to admit fashion in medicine. When Edward VII. was found to have an inflamed appendix loyal subjects in their thousands aud tens of thousands had the same condition. Early this century someone found out that adenoids and tonsils could cause a Jot of trouble, aud that improvement often followed their removal. It’s been fashionable ever since, and rightly so—in many cases Only a few medical fashions have failed to survive, not the least of which might be said to be a floating kidney, a common ailment of my student days ■but a rarity in 1940.

“ Fashion ” in medicine mostly serves a useful purpose In directing sudden and large attention on a condition and treatment which possibly has been neglected up to that point.

But the story about correct diet and vitamins is over 20 years old, and still going strong. It has passed the fashion stage.

(Names in this Diary are fictitious.) (Copyright.)