We all have sad
feelings returning home after a holiday, especially if it was a fabulous
opportunity to get to know relatives who are not much more than names on a
family tree. But both Jan and I were excited about our second year at
University, and Jan was very keen to be back in touch with her parents and her
sisters. We had done our best to keep her from feeling lost, but when you have
always had such close emotional ties, to be away from them can be agony. If it
were possible, I loved her more for putting up with me re-emerging as a Martin,
and for the input from an often overwhelming tribe of us. She had put up with
living in very strange places, erratic hours, working in alien environments,
and being abused; the stress had taken its toll with migraines – her cardinal
sign of needing to slow down.
We arrived back in
England, and picked up at the airport and driven back to Kent, telling stories
about our adventures and filling in gaps between the sparse letters sent home to
Westgate. However, there was barely time to get over jetlag before we were back
into the maelstrom of living in London, and lectures and practicals, social
gatherings. During the time we were away, Reg had purchased a small flat at
Kidbrook near Blackheath in South London, and Wendy had already moved in. Cute,
first floor, square box in a three storey modern building, close to the
Kidbrook station, and with heating. Jan got settled. It was somewhat longer to
travel into Bedford College by train, but much closer to Halliday Hall.
King’s was a flurry
of pressure to revise all the work from the 1962-3 academic year, and build
towards the exams in early March 1964. I remember that pharmacology became the
bane of my existence, probably understandably given my rather poor underlying
knowledge of chemistry. I did my best. In fact I worked hard to get my head
around the various drugs used for systems and illnesses, but it was not really
to fall into place until we began to have contact with real live patients and
their medical problems. Almost every week we were expected to try a small dose
of a medicine and report on the results in our own body systems. A great way to
experience the drugs and any minor side effects, but I have to confess I balked
at taking each of the aperients, of which there were several types expected to
be taken week by week to compare results, and compile a report. These days, of
course, you would touch the button on your iPhone, and ‘Google’ the drugs,
using eloquent descriptions from others. I did manage some, but I also laboriously
constructed some of my written work from written texts from various books. This
cavalier approach to such a core subject came back to bite me when I did my
finals exams, but that was in the future.
‘The writtens’ took
place over three packed days. Six exams of three hours each sitting
uncomfortably at ancient etched desks in a large chilly hall at King’s on the
strand. A one-hour lunch break to wind down, discuss some of the questions in a
desultory way with friends, and then back into it. I remember the musty
atmosphere, the occasional cough or moan, the shuffling of bottoms, the intense
exam technique of writing brief notes on each question and then expanding the notes
somewhat more fulsomely, but under time pressure. I do not remember any of the
questions.
Within days we were
into ‘The practicals’, of which the only one I sort of remember is the anatomy
exam. We were seated outside one of the large demonstration rooms. Once your
name was called you passed through a large wooden door. The examiners sat at a
large desk covered with bits of bone and pictures, and various specimens
floating forever in formalin in a variety of glass containers. My steps echoed
on the wooden floor as I walked across the room and sat facing the tribunal.
The central figure, of course, was Professor Nichol. The exam began. “Mr.
Martin, (ah, the strains of that Scottish accent etched into memory) will you
peruse this organ, tell me what you think it is, and point out to me the
arterial and venous blood supply”. Haltingly, I did so to a non-committal grunt.
Several more jars followed, and nervously I stumbled through. “Tell me what you
think this bone may be, what function does it serve, and show me some of the
insertions of relevant muscles.” “On this diagram, point out where you think
the aqueous humour resides.” On and on we went, and I gradually gained in
confidence, and became less hesitant, until: “At what level of the spine does
the oesophagus begin?” I was flummoxed. I searched through what I knew, and
tried valiantly to visualise the oesophagus in place in relation to the spine.
I stumbled out “At about C2, sir…” (praying). “Would you like to think again,
laddie?” “Somewhat lower, sir?” The response was one of those pauses that tell
you that you have no hope, and have failed miserably. I felt winded. “Yes,
laddie, somewhat lower…”
“Come over here to
the model” (a live male stripped to the waist, removing what appeared to be a
dressing gown. “Now, I want you to ask the model to perform a movement that
will demonstrate Latissimus Dorsi.” Well, I did know that this muscle was the
broad
one either side of the back. I thought quickly, and asked the model to pull
against my hands in front of him. Phew, the muscle stood out quite well. I felt
pleased. “Now show me another way of demonstrating the Latissimus Dorsi.” I asked the model to pull down on
my outstretched hand above his head. He did so, and the muscle stood out. “Can
you tell me a much simpler method?” I thought hard, my momentary confidence
fading. “The model could push upward, sir.” “Well he could, but he won’t.” And
the Professor of Anatomy turned to the model and commanded: “Cough!” The model
did so, and the muscles on either side of his back stood out very well, of
course. “You may leave.” I knew I had failed, and head down I turned to retrace
my dragging steps to the door. Nearly there, I heard this triumphant Scottish voice:
“You won’t forget about C6 will you laddie?” Not only had I failed, I was being
mocked.
The next couple of
weeks went by in one of those miseries that follow failure, however big or
small. My medical career was over before it had really go going. How would I
face Jan? How would I face my friends? Whatever could I do? Well, like all of us
in the small group of med students at Halliday Hall, I waited in limbo. Well,
mainly in the bar, and then sleeping well into the morning. During the
afternoons, I read or went for runs around Clapham Common. Jan and I visited
the Tate Gallery on The Embankment, and the National Gallery in Trafalgar
Square. But she had pressures in her own Degree studies, as she moved towards
her end of her second year exams in June. She (not for the first or last times
in our lives) told me I had to be patient.
It seemed such a
crossroad. If I had failed, I was not quite sure what would happen, what I
would do (you must remember, I still had not come to terms with the system; I
did not understand I would be given a second chance of doing battle with the
Scottish professor). If I had passed, I would have to make rapid arrangements
to leave Halliday Hall, and find other accommodation nearer the hospital.
More tomorrow…
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