- Email: [email protected]
Medicine as metaphor
DISSECTING ROOM
Books Secret of the mummy’s hand
Books
hat is the secret of the mummy’s hand? According to Arthur Aufderheide, mummies were involved in perhaps the worst known case of medical deception, as well as one of the great apocryphal media-scare stories—the curse of the tomb of Tutankhamun—which, as we all know, led to the premature deaths of most of those involved in the opening of King Tut’s tomb, some 80 years ago. Or did it? Certainly, Lord Carnarvon, who was present at the opening and funded Howard Carter’s archaeological exploration, died 9 days later. His death led to theories of an ancient plague or fungal pathogen bursting forth from the Egyptian pharaoh’s sepulchre to decimate the desecrators. But as Aufderheide carefully documents in one of the many fascinating passages contained in his encyclopaedic volume, the mean and median intervals from tomb opening to death were both about 19 years, at least in 13 of the 20 individuals present for whom documentation exists. Indeed, Carter died at a reasonable old age for his time—66 years—and 16 years after he descended to Tut’s final resting place. Yet, ever the scientist, Aufderheide cautions that his statistics would be more definitive if individuals allegedly involved in the tomb’s curse were ageand-sex matched for longevity with others who shared similar exposure to everything but the mummy of a pharaoh.
Medicine as metaphor
The Scientific Study of Mummies. Arthur C Aufderheide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Pp 608. £100.00. ISBN 0 521 81826 5.
These calculations are unlikely to sway those who like to believe that mummies carry curses, but indicate to anyone interested in serious study that The Scientific Study of Mummies is a classic work by a true empiricist. What’s more, the author emphasises the ethical issues surrounding the exhumation and study of preserved bodies—indeed, he considers the appropriate treatment of these human remains, the oldest dating back almost 10 000 years, as part and parcel of proper protocol for mummy studies. And with good reason: among his global survey of spontaneous and deliberate acts of mummification, he notes a few incidents where mummy studies, undertaken to explore the life, disease, and culture of ancient peoples, have contravened the wishes and beliefs of their descendants, leading to prolonged disputes and legal wrangling.
2130
Not that all mummies are so respected. One valid reason for the removal and study of mummies is to prevent damage through the looting of tombs. And the latter-day mummies detailed in the book seem to attract more popular interest than scientific import—notable examples being Stalin, Eva Peron, and Comanche the horse (the mount of General Custer at the battle of the Little Bighorn). Alongside pictures of these infamous mummies are many other truly gruesome images of mummified people, animals, and body parts. Which brings me back to the secret of the mummy’s hand. Up to the 18th century, mummy parts were commonly used in the potions of quacks and apothecaries, for the alleged therapeutic properties of múmiyá—the name given to blackened soft-tissue remains of what came to be called mummies. So desirable was múmiyá that tombs were raided by the unscrupulous, and mummified remains even faked to ensure supply. As Aufderheide documents, the irony is that this Persian word originally described naturally occurring bitumen (asphalt), which was thought to have healing powers. Sometime in the 13th century, when the popularity of bitumen exceeded supply, the name was transferred to the blackened resins found in Egyptian mummies, simply because the substances looked similar. The rest of this sorry tale of medical misrepresentation is, as they say, history. Well, let’s hope so. Kelly Morris e-mail: [email protected]
hortlisted for this year’s Man Booker Prize, The Good Doctor is narrated by Frank Eloff, a middle-aged South African medic whose isolated hospital has almost no patients. Frank and his small band of colleagues conscientiously report for duty each day, yet weeks go by without them being required to do anything other than fill in forms or play darts. When a case does present, the doctors are too rusty and ill-equipped to be able to deal with it, and invariably the patient has to be transferred elsewhere. This bizarre existence is unsettled by the arrival of Laurence Waters, fresh out of medical school, who has come for a year on a governmentsponsored community service scheme. Overcoming his dismay at the futility of the post, Laurence determines to shake the resident staff out of their complacency. The hospital is a relic of the twisted social engineering of apartheid, situated in the derelict and deserted former capital of one of the homelands— economically unproductive areas where black South Africans were handed quasi-autonomy during white rule. Rendered obsolete by the political and demographic shifts that followed the collapse of apartheid, the hospital now constitutes a slowly disintegrating bunker for characters unable to engage with the new society being forged around them. It is an inspired choice of setting, providing Damon Galgut with a platform from which to examine some of the undercurrents in the Rainbow Nation. At one level, Laurence represents the new idealism. His proposed programme of outreach clinics—taking the doctors out of their empty buildings to engage with the poverty-stricken inhabitants of far-flung villages—initially meets with resistance. After the first, successful clinic, enthusiasm grows among most of the existing staff, although less for altruistic reasons than because of the potential for personal validation or political gain. Frank is a challenging fictional creation who was complicit in, and traumatised by, nefarious aspects of the old regime. His father and step-mother are paid-up members of the white elite, and their routine abuse of their black servants exemplifies the persistence of supremacist attitudes. Frank himself has an uneasy relationship with Maria— a married black woman who sells African carvings to tourists—whom he
S
Ancient Egyptian Picture Library
W
Rights were not granted to include this image in electronic media. Please refer to the printed journal.
THE LANCET • Vol 362 • December 20/27, 2003 • www.thelancet.com
For personal use. Only reproduce with permission from The Lancet.
Books Secret of the mummy’s hand
Books
hat is the secret of the mummy’s hand? According to Arthur Aufderheide, mummies were involved in perhaps the worst known case of medical deception, as well as one of the great apocryphal media-scare stories—the curse of the tomb of Tutankhamun—which, as we all know, led to the premature deaths of most of those involved in the opening of King Tut’s tomb, some 80 years ago. Or did it? Certainly, Lord Carnarvon, who was present at the opening and funded Howard Carter’s archaeological exploration, died 9 days later. His death led to theories of an ancient plague or fungal pathogen bursting forth from the Egyptian pharaoh’s sepulchre to decimate the desecrators. But as Aufderheide carefully documents in one of the many fascinating passages contained in his encyclopaedic volume, the mean and median intervals from tomb opening to death were both about 19 years, at least in 13 of the 20 individuals present for whom documentation exists. Indeed, Carter died at a reasonable old age for his time—66 years—and 16 years after he descended to Tut’s final resting place. Yet, ever the scientist, Aufderheide cautions that his statistics would be more definitive if individuals allegedly involved in the tomb’s curse were ageand-sex matched for longevity with others who shared similar exposure to everything but the mummy of a pharaoh.
Medicine as metaphor
The Scientific Study of Mummies. Arthur C Aufderheide. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. Pp 608. £100.00. ISBN 0 521 81826 5.
These calculations are unlikely to sway those who like to believe that mummies carry curses, but indicate to anyone interested in serious study that The Scientific Study of Mummies is a classic work by a true empiricist. What’s more, the author emphasises the ethical issues surrounding the exhumation and study of preserved bodies—indeed, he considers the appropriate treatment of these human remains, the oldest dating back almost 10 000 years, as part and parcel of proper protocol for mummy studies. And with good reason: among his global survey of spontaneous and deliberate acts of mummification, he notes a few incidents where mummy studies, undertaken to explore the life, disease, and culture of ancient peoples, have contravened the wishes and beliefs of their descendants, leading to prolonged disputes and legal wrangling.
2130
Not that all mummies are so respected. One valid reason for the removal and study of mummies is to prevent damage through the looting of tombs. And the latter-day mummies detailed in the book seem to attract more popular interest than scientific import—notable examples being Stalin, Eva Peron, and Comanche the horse (the mount of General Custer at the battle of the Little Bighorn). Alongside pictures of these infamous mummies are many other truly gruesome images of mummified people, animals, and body parts. Which brings me back to the secret of the mummy’s hand. Up to the 18th century, mummy parts were commonly used in the potions of quacks and apothecaries, for the alleged therapeutic properties of múmiyá—the name given to blackened soft-tissue remains of what came to be called mummies. So desirable was múmiyá that tombs were raided by the unscrupulous, and mummified remains even faked to ensure supply. As Aufderheide documents, the irony is that this Persian word originally described naturally occurring bitumen (asphalt), which was thought to have healing powers. Sometime in the 13th century, when the popularity of bitumen exceeded supply, the name was transferred to the blackened resins found in Egyptian mummies, simply because the substances looked similar. The rest of this sorry tale of medical misrepresentation is, as they say, history. Well, let’s hope so. Kelly Morris e-mail: [email protected]
hortlisted for this year’s Man Booker Prize, The Good Doctor is narrated by Frank Eloff, a middle-aged South African medic whose isolated hospital has almost no patients. Frank and his small band of colleagues conscientiously report for duty each day, yet weeks go by without them being required to do anything other than fill in forms or play darts. When a case does present, the doctors are too rusty and ill-equipped to be able to deal with it, and invariably the patient has to be transferred elsewhere. This bizarre existence is unsettled by the arrival of Laurence Waters, fresh out of medical school, who has come for a year on a governmentsponsored community service scheme. Overcoming his dismay at the futility of the post, Laurence determines to shake the resident staff out of their complacency. The hospital is a relic of the twisted social engineering of apartheid, situated in the derelict and deserted former capital of one of the homelands— economically unproductive areas where black South Africans were handed quasi-autonomy during white rule. Rendered obsolete by the political and demographic shifts that followed the collapse of apartheid, the hospital now constitutes a slowly disintegrating bunker for characters unable to engage with the new society being forged around them. It is an inspired choice of setting, providing Damon Galgut with a platform from which to examine some of the undercurrents in the Rainbow Nation. At one level, Laurence represents the new idealism. His proposed programme of outreach clinics—taking the doctors out of their empty buildings to engage with the poverty-stricken inhabitants of far-flung villages—initially meets with resistance. After the first, successful clinic, enthusiasm grows among most of the existing staff, although less for altruistic reasons than because of the potential for personal validation or political gain. Frank is a challenging fictional creation who was complicit in, and traumatised by, nefarious aspects of the old regime. His father and step-mother are paid-up members of the white elite, and their routine abuse of their black servants exemplifies the persistence of supremacist attitudes. Frank himself has an uneasy relationship with Maria— a married black woman who sells African carvings to tourists—whom he
S
Ancient Egyptian Picture Library
W
Rights were not granted to include this image in electronic media. Please refer to the printed journal.
THE LANCET • Vol 362 • December 20/27, 2003 • www.thelancet.com
For personal use. Only reproduce with permission from The Lancet.