- Email: [email protected]
MAC
Melvyn H. Schreiber, MD, Editor
i/IAC My friend Mac died about a year ago. He was in his 70s and suffered from intractable end-stage renal disease. He was maintained shakily for a time with dialysis treatments, unable to be a proper candidate for transplantation because of his fragility. He and I had been colleagues for decades, and, early on, he was my teacher and mentor in radiology. Like most old men, I have forgotten more than I remember, but much of what I remember I learned from Mac. He explained image analysis in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner, unembellished by theatrics or self-serving pomp. He suffered fools not at all, and one quickly learned to put one's brain in gear before one stepped on the accelerator with one's mouth. Yes, he was a bit gruff, but always in the service of common and uncommon sense. He frequently reminded us that information we obtained that had no implications in terms of value to the patient was not worth knowing. Mac was not a big-time scientist. He taught us to say what we mean, get to the point, and provide useful information to the referring physician, not just badinage. He particularly disliked and criticized hedging opinions about with long lists of unlikely differential possibilities, which we mostly did to cover our behinds, partly to keep from sticking our necks out, and occasionally simply to sound learned. Reading was his passion, and Mac and I frequently exchanged ideas on books, each suggesting to the other works we had read that the other might enjoy. A rapid reader, he consumed volumes in record time. I wondered if he could remember anything from books he read so fast, but even a superficial discussion of the work revealed that he had chewed, swallowed, and digested it thoroughly. This splendid man did not have high regard for most public opinion, and he cannot be said to have been a very happy man. His dark eyebrows grew together across his forehead, giving him a somewhat grim and forbidding look, as though his eyes were peering out from beneath a parapet, ready to engage whatever nonsense came his way. His decisive "No" in reply to foolish requests was legendary. Mac was not a hateful man; he simply had a powerful crap detector. His stern demeanor disguised a kind and loving heart, which he displayed generously to his friends and family and particularly to his grandchildren, whom he adored. Mac was a good tennis player, and we played memorable matches. I wrote about one of them in these pages long ago. He tore his Achilles tendon while chasing a difficult volley, fell to the court, needed help to get to the hospital, and under-
456
went surgery that afternoon. He called me on the telephone that night and asked, through the haze of pain relievers and slowly vanishing anesthetic, whether the last ball he hit had been in. During his final illness, I visited him in the hospital. We talked about old times, remembered former residents, and grumbled about the administration. Sometimes I would read to him, particularly poems we both enjoyed. On one occasion I read Leigh Hunt's "Abou Ben Adhem," one of Mac's favorite poems. His eyes were closed as he lay in bed, and I was not really sure he was entirely awake. But I began to read. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold As the poem continues, Abou Ben Adhem questions the angel and learns that it was writing in the book the names of those who love the Lord. Abou's name was not among them, but he replied, I pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-man. Mac opened his eyes and turned his head toward me; with no apparent effort, he recited perfectly the last lines of the poem: The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night it came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had b l e s s e d , And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! Leigh Hunt was not talking only about Abou Ben Adhem. And neither was Mac.
MeIvyn H. Schreiber, MD University of Texas Medical Branch Galveston, Tex
3AF I don't know how they do it. First-year medical students are introduced to gross anatomy at the very beginning of their medical school career by means of the Gross Anatomy-Radiology (GAR) course, which lasts 8 weeks. The course is taught
i/IAC My friend Mac died about a year ago. He was in his 70s and suffered from intractable end-stage renal disease. He was maintained shakily for a time with dialysis treatments, unable to be a proper candidate for transplantation because of his fragility. He and I had been colleagues for decades, and, early on, he was my teacher and mentor in radiology. Like most old men, I have forgotten more than I remember, but much of what I remember I learned from Mac. He explained image analysis in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner, unembellished by theatrics or self-serving pomp. He suffered fools not at all, and one quickly learned to put one's brain in gear before one stepped on the accelerator with one's mouth. Yes, he was a bit gruff, but always in the service of common and uncommon sense. He frequently reminded us that information we obtained that had no implications in terms of value to the patient was not worth knowing. Mac was not a big-time scientist. He taught us to say what we mean, get to the point, and provide useful information to the referring physician, not just badinage. He particularly disliked and criticized hedging opinions about with long lists of unlikely differential possibilities, which we mostly did to cover our behinds, partly to keep from sticking our necks out, and occasionally simply to sound learned. Reading was his passion, and Mac and I frequently exchanged ideas on books, each suggesting to the other works we had read that the other might enjoy. A rapid reader, he consumed volumes in record time. I wondered if he could remember anything from books he read so fast, but even a superficial discussion of the work revealed that he had chewed, swallowed, and digested it thoroughly. This splendid man did not have high regard for most public opinion, and he cannot be said to have been a very happy man. His dark eyebrows grew together across his forehead, giving him a somewhat grim and forbidding look, as though his eyes were peering out from beneath a parapet, ready to engage whatever nonsense came his way. His decisive "No" in reply to foolish requests was legendary. Mac was not a hateful man; he simply had a powerful crap detector. His stern demeanor disguised a kind and loving heart, which he displayed generously to his friends and family and particularly to his grandchildren, whom he adored. Mac was a good tennis player, and we played memorable matches. I wrote about one of them in these pages long ago. He tore his Achilles tendon while chasing a difficult volley, fell to the court, needed help to get to the hospital, and under-
456
went surgery that afternoon. He called me on the telephone that night and asked, through the haze of pain relievers and slowly vanishing anesthetic, whether the last ball he hit had been in. During his final illness, I visited him in the hospital. We talked about old times, remembered former residents, and grumbled about the administration. Sometimes I would read to him, particularly poems we both enjoyed. On one occasion I read Leigh Hunt's "Abou Ben Adhem," one of Mac's favorite poems. His eyes were closed as he lay in bed, and I was not really sure he was entirely awake. But I began to read. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold As the poem continues, Abou Ben Adhem questions the angel and learns that it was writing in the book the names of those who love the Lord. Abou's name was not among them, but he replied, I pray thee, then, write me as one that loves his fellow-man. Mac opened his eyes and turned his head toward me; with no apparent effort, he recited perfectly the last lines of the poem: The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night it came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had b l e s s e d , And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! Leigh Hunt was not talking only about Abou Ben Adhem. And neither was Mac.
MeIvyn H. Schreiber, MD University of Texas Medical Branch Galveston, Tex
3AF I don't know how they do it. First-year medical students are introduced to gross anatomy at the very beginning of their medical school career by means of the Gross Anatomy-Radiology (GAR) course, which lasts 8 weeks. The course is taught