THE DIARY OF A DOCTOR WHO TELLS

Evening Star, Issue 24280, 22 August 1942, Page 3

THE DIARY OF A DOCTOR WHO TELLS

THE MEAKIHG OF “ HEAVES " Monday, August 17. Middle-aged Edith liaison came complaining of “ nerves ” to-day. She wanted a tonic. J sent her to a psychiatrist—not that I think a family doctor can't handle some sort of “ nerves,” hut Edith s were showing themselves in the form ot continued insomnia, bursts of weeping, lack of appetite, and irrational behaviour. The basic cause wants ferreting out. , “ Nerves ” is an entire misnomer Lor a condition that has nothing to, do with nerves. it is a state of mind rather than a state of body. There is a curious aversion to admitting in any shape or form that anything is wrong with onr mental outlook, though many of us tnko almost a passionate pride in. admitting to something wrong with onr stomach. This aversion to 'admitting psychological disorder persuades ns to use evasive phrases, such as 11 bad nerves, ' “ over nervous,” and so on. r 1 saw it put the other day hke this; T. am highly strung, Thou art nervous. Ho has a neurosis. We are nervy, Yon are neurasthenic, , They are neurotic. We keep the nice description for ourselves and the blunt truth for others. Tuesday, August 18. “ She just can’t rest,” said Mrs David, speaking of her exceedingly rundown daughter Harriett. “ Ivs her glands, or something, I’m sure.” “ Glands be damned,” snorted her father, “ All that young lady wants is a little more self-control and a good deal less craving for excitement.” Both of them were right. Our glands, or endocrine organs, control our physical life to a largo extent. But Nature has Iblessed us with a magical and mystreious power called “ intellect,” which, in some measure, controls the physical. Harriett has early thyroid trouble. Her heart heats a little quicker than most people’s. She is restless and can’t sit still for long. She is more sensitive than most. She has a hot, moist handshake. She eats a lot, but has lost a little weight. She confesses to being a little more thirsty than usual. She has slight digestive symptoms. These and other symptoms, any of which anyone could have individually without causing concern, helped the diagnosis. I told her she must go to bed for a while and then she would have to take things very quietly. If she doesn’t respond to quiet and medicine in due course wc shall have to see a surgeon about her. The thyroid gland is the pacemaker of the body. It cracks the whip over life. If it over-secretes it rushes us along to disaster. If it under-secretes it holds up everything, including our intellect. The thyroid is well known. What isn’t well known is the para-thyroid. The human has four para-thyroids, each about the size of a grain of wheat. Remove them and you die. Should they become diseased you may literally shrink many inches. They control much of our bono growth. Fortunately, they rarely give us trouble. In 'the brain is something the size of a pea. Let it go wrong, and wo may turn out to be an eight-feet giant or a two-foot dwarf. Let it go wrong' another way and sex troubles develop. It can have a hand in things as different as diabetes and dwarfism. It can even crack the whip over that impudent pace-maker, the thyroid. The master-gland is the pituitary, called at times the leader of the endocrine orchestra. Lot an unhappy mother be too long in producing her child, and, ]o, an injection of pituitary extract hurries things, along. We don’t know all the secrets of the pituitary as yet. Milions of people arc alive to-day because' a young Toronto doctor found put that diabetes was due to trouble in the pancreas gland and if you treated it with insulin, an extract of the pancreas, you could hold it in check. Wednesday, August 19, “ Baby’s had’a splinter in his leg for two or three days, and I can’t get it out,’’ said Mrs Graham this morning. This apparently simple story ended in baby going to hospital and a twoinch needle being extracted from him. Someone apparently left one oil the, bed. • Child accidents are many and varied, but the two commonest in my surgerv concern boiling water and ' mother's pills. Tiny toddlers have an insatiable curiosity. They tug at saucepans and kettles on stoves. They help themselves to anything new, especially a nice white or pink .pill that looks like a sweet. Certain pills have small doses of substances which in themselves are poisons, like strychnine. Common salt is harmful if great excess of it is taken. Thursday, August 20. “Doctor Young is very good,” said Mrs Evans to Patricia, the secretary, this afternoon, while waiting for a consultation. “He took one look at me last time I went to him, just before he moved, and told me exactly what was wrong with me. It’s the second time I’ve been to this doctor, and he doesn’t seem to know yet.” Loyal Patricia passed the information on, with some indignation, at the end of the day. ’ Without casting the slightest reflection on my late colleague, 1 can only hope that his accuracy matched his speed. Some diseases shriek their presence. It has been wisely said, however, that a good doctor does not always know exactly what’s wrong with you. “ The biggest mistakes in diagnosis are made when the doctor is most certain.” Which is merely a medical version of the old, old proverb. “ Pride goes before a fall.” As a class, 1 suppose, we doctors come in for a fair amount of individual abuse, isoine of use may over-charge: some of us may be better in our bedside manner than our textbook knowledge ; some of us may be more hardhearted than we should be. I like to think, however, that in its heart of hearts the public knows the doctor not only as a friend, but as someone who never deserts the job in the hour of danger, who knows no award hours of labour, and who, knowing perhaps more of the foibles of human nature than most people, still loves and devotes himself to his fellowman. “A parson sees our best side, a lawyer our worst, but the doctor sees us as we really are.” Friday, August 21. “ Wo were going to get a few fowls so that we would always have eggs if any food difficulties should arise,” said Jack Milson to-night as we walked away together from a meeting. “ They tell me that eggs aren’t so good after

all, though. What do you think about it? ” “ I'm for the fowls and the eggs,” I replied. “ Without claiming an egg as a perfect food, it is an important supplementary one.” “ Incidentally,” said Milson, “they're more nourishing taken raw, aren’t they? ” “ No,” I replied. “ Actually, cooked eggs are more digestible. The white of the egg is practically indigestible when it’s raw.” Names in this diary fictitious. (Copyright.)