Anda di halaman 1dari 32

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Prologue

y lifes path was set the moment I was born with an ugly tumour that appeared to be cancerous and possibly fatal. Within hours of my birth I was given a dose of what was then a brand new medical technology, radiotherapy, in the hope it might cure the tumour, with its mass of throbbing blood vessels protruding from my leg. No one at the time realised the radiologist had given me an overdose of rays, which led to multiple operations and has caused me physical problems ever since. My path would have been cut very short had it not been for the alert boy who rescued me from drowning when I was two. He was just fteen, but he spotted my small, still body lying on

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

the bottom of the pool, dived to the rescue and applied articial respiration to save my life. His name was Ken Youdale, and he and I would team up in later years to ght for the future of people born with the most severe abnormalities. I was eleven when my leg bones, weakened from their exposure to my early radiotherapy treatment, collapsed, and I had to undergo the rst of eight operations on them. I lay at on my back, tied to a bed all by myself in a dark, underground room in a small local hospital for almost a year, enduring seven more painful, failed operations. I hated my surgeon and developed an unshakeable desire to become a different kind of doctor, one whose operations were so carefully planned and researched that they would work the rst time. I also resolved to nd out, somehow, why I, and other babies, were not born fully nished and perfect. I kept my resolve and studied medicine at university, and while doing so fell in love with a younger medical student. To my amazement I learnt that she had been born with exactly the same type of tumour (a large haemangioma) as me. Mine had been irradiated and operated upon, but hers was in the frontal part of her brain, extending into one eye, and an operation to remove it would be a unique challenge. From the moment I found out about her tumour I became determined to be the one who would invent the surgical technique needed to rescue her from this catastrophe. The resolve I had made in childhood to learn to understand congenital abnormalities strengthened throughout my years at

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

PROLOGUE

university, especially in my fth year, when I delivered a baby under the watchful eye of an instructing obstetrician. The mother was radiantly happy, but the obstetrician took one look at the slippery bundle in my hands and ordered me not to show her the baby, but to throw it into the rubbish bin. The tiny creature I was holding by the chest while supporting its little head had no lower body skin and no legs, just a mass of bowels and protruding organs. I was shocked at the sight, but even more so at the idea of throwing out a living infant. I bundled it into the senior doctors hands and raced from the room, extremely disturbed. That year I had heard about the research being done by a Dr Marshall Edwards on what might actually cause these and other severe congenital defects. I contacted him and he allowed me to take part in his amazing work. Then, in 1958, just after I had sat my nal-year exams, a drug was put on the market for pregnant women who had developed morning sickness in the rst half of their pregnancies. The drug was, of course, thalidomide, and not long after its introduction there was a sudden increase in the incidence of unusually severe abnormalities, such as babies being born without arms or legs. The career in childrens surgery I developed after graduation brought me into contact with some of these thalidomide victims in both Australian and English hospitals, and I subsequently joined my old friend Ken Youdale in his campaign to help them. These are some of the formative events in my life that I relate in the story that follows; from them came my resolve to become a completely new type of surgeon, a friend to my patients and an

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

innovator who would strive to nd new ways to help people with the most challenging medical conditions live normal lives. I did what I had set out to do, but it wasnt a smooth road. The morning after my brother-in-law and I had successfully replanted a childs amputated nger (believed until then to be impossible), I was dismissed from the Sydney Childrens Hospital as a troublemaker; happily, four decades later the University of Sydney ofcially welcomed my Microsearch Foundation into its Department of Surgery. In time, I would pioneer the art of microsurgery; conceptualise and co-design instruments; and select the best of my trainee microsurgeons to form and lead the team that did the worlds rst successful single and double hand transplants. I would design seats for audiences in the Sydney Opera House; I would know love, profound stress and loss in my family life. But rst I had to survive the ordeal of my rst day on the job.

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Beginnings

t was January 1958. My very rst day as a real doctor. Only 7.45 am and already sweltering. Thirty of us excited, enthusiastic, nervous graduates junior resident medical ofcers twenty-eight men and two women, were assembled on the marble oor of the draughty and echoing foyer of Sydneys Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, our starched white uniforms bathed in a coloured glow from the stained glass windows. We were waiting for a man who would have power over us for the months of our training here the Chief, Dr Edgar Thompson, whose fearsome reputation preceded him. No doubt that is why I can remember every single moment of that very first day.

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

When he nally arrived he didnt bother with a preamble. What a rabble you lot are, he said. Now, line up in one long row for inspection, and hurry up I havent got all day. To the rst hapless victim he asked, What do you call those, boy? White shoes, sir. Well, go up to your room and paint them white this minute. Now. Now? Now! Exit first doctor. The rest of you, take note. When I say white, I will have you in white, as specied, and that means newly whitened shoes every day, you hear? The next victim was condent, but not for long. Everyone put out your hands for nail inspection, Thompson said. You call those nails clean, boy? Go and scrub them until either they look clean or you get down to the bone. Exit chastened doctor number two. Number three who seemed impeccably dressed in a new white shirt, crisp new white pants and a doctors short white coat complete with stethoscope and pens in the top pocket fell short because of his tie. Come out here, said Thompson, gesturing to the young man. You, with the brown tie. Whats the meaning of this, you moron?

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

I didnt nd a blue tie, sir, this morning, sir, I . . . Get out of here, and dont come back until you begin to resemble a doctor. I will have my staff here, lined up every day, Monday to Sunday, with your hands ready and clean, spotless; regulation dress. Even if you havent a clue how to be doctors, you will, at least, look like doctors of this venerable hospital. You lot get worse every year, he finished. Now, look at this. We have two female doctors with us this year. Its bad enough we have to have ladies as resident staff God knows we havent the toilets, or rooms, for you but at least you must look neat and tidy. I dont want to see long hair all over the place, no amboyant jewellery, and no mooching about with boys, either. Finally those of us who hadnt been sent back to try again were dispersed, quivering, to the hallowed hospital wards. Two doctors per fifty beds. The surgical ward to which I was allocated was in the charge of a senior sister I had met on many occasions during my previous, eventful student years. Senior Sister Anderson had thrown me out of her ward several times for misdemeanours such as being there after the few hours set aside for doctors to speak to the patients. I was nearly always late for these visiting hours, but couldnt bear to miss the opportunity for such contact as I was trying to see and learn as much as possible. Now here she was again a familiar, statuesque gure, hands on hips, tapping one foot loudly on the wooden oor as I approached.

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

The temperature seemed to have climbed; sweat ran down my face and my new white clothes clung to me. Are you aware we do a ward round at 8.15 every morning, young man? Good morning, Sister. Dont think you can sweet-talk me after being a doctor for ten minutes. I soon started to feel that, despite passing our exams, we young doctors had failed to learn a single thing of any use to a junior resident (or slave) in a major teaching hospital. This one had more than fteen hundred beds, hundreds of nurses, and fteen senior residents, who seemed to be invisible perhaps they were hiding from us. This left our inexperienced band of thirty to look after every patient in the hospital, as well as those queuing up in the huge outpatients waiting sheds, and those lined up outside the Accident and Emergency entrance. As if that wasnt enough, we were also looking after the patients across the road in the hospital buildings that had been especially set up for births, and the chest and heart failure patients, who were housed in a building that was un nished. How would we ever be able to help all these needy and distressed people? Learn from my nurses, barked Sister Anderson. Come and well do our rst ward round. Each of you must know whats wrong with each of the men in this ward. Our senior physician does his rounds at 2 pm today and you will present each case to him, together with all their latest test results. You can assemble

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

these from the relevant hospital departments and youll have them ready there and then he doesnt expect to ask twice. Turning to me, she said, We have, you will note, fty sick patients under my care here, young man. How do I know what is wrong with them? Read up the hospital day notes [the histories] and youll learn what was ordered and be up to scratch on their day-today progress by the time the senior doctor comes in. If a test report ordered yesterday isnt in by eleven, go and get it from the relevant laboratories. And change the bottles of blood or IV drips, or their dressings, or whatever, to make the patients neat and ready for your boss. At that moment, Dr Thompson himself strode in. Owen, here, boy! reverberated down the long wide ward. My rst thought was that, less than half an hour into the day, things must be bad as he knew my name when we hadnt yet been introduced. Thompson informed me that I was now not to be on this ward at all, but was to immediately replace a colleague who was being taken, bleeding, from the Accident and Emergency Unit, having injured his hand trying to remove a patients plaster bandage with cutting shears. I ran the length of the hospital corridors in the midsummer heat, relieved to have been rescued from Anderson and her disturbingly complex tasks. Little did I know . . . In A and E, multiple patients were having heart attacks, needing, in order, their pulse and BP (blood pressure) to be taken, their ECG (electrocardiogram reading of their cardiac rhythms)

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

done, an IV drip put up and morphine administered. All the other seriously bleeding or unconscious patients waiting in the Emergency room had to be quickly assessed, too. Meanwhile, a continuous ow of ambulances and taxis and cars dropped off more accident victims. Only for the dire and complicated cases were we to call the senior resident for his experienced help. Us two raw medical recruits assigned to A and E were trying to avoid patients being sick on us, bleeding over us and grabbing us in pain as we and a team of heroic nurses tried to help them. This was more like a battleground than a hospital. We bandaged, resuscitated, injected, X-rayed, plastered, examined eyes, pulled out objects from dark places, addressed fractures, haemorrhages, rashes, lacerations and severe diarrhoea, treated vomiting babies, semi-comatose and demented people, and somehow got through that first day. It wasnt till the night staff arrived at 6 pm that we noticed we hadnt had anything to eat or drink since seven that morning, except for the odd glass of water and some lukewarm tea. But by then we were so pumped that we just kept going, staying on for another four hours to assist the other two junior residents, whose shift had just started. Finally the pair of us staggered up three ights of stairs to the doctors dining room. I was exhilarated. No one had punched me. No one had died on me and I didnt think I had killed anyone. I was also famished, but the room was deserted; dinner had nished hours before. The only thing we could nd was a big

10

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

refrigerated box of individual vanilla ice creams. We ate a dozen or so each, then walked up three more steep ights of stairs and collapsed on our beds, which were in a six-man dormitory. I was a real doctor and had survived my baptism by re. But it was just the rst step on the path I was determined to follow: to become a surgeon and, whats more, a new kind of surgeon, unlike any I had so far encountered.

My father was a doctor and so were eight of my uncles, so I might well have followed in their footsteps anyway. But the circumstances of my birth, and the complications that resulted, made it a certainty. Most unusually for his generation, my father was present at my birth in Sydney on 6 September 1933. My full head of bright red hair and my blue eyes were his rst shock, given that everyone else in the family, including my sister, Pam, born three years before, was brown-eyed and brown-haired. But that shock was easy to overcome. The second one was a great deal harder to bear. As the obstetrician delivered me, both he and my father could clearly see an ugly pulsating tumour the size of a tennis ball on my right ankle and lower leg. Neither man could identify this throbbing mass of red and blue blood vessels, but it didnt look good, or safe. They quickly placed a rm crepe bandage around the area to protect it, then made sure that I was breathing and otherwise normal and, without telling my mother much, called for reinforcements.

11

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

As many as possible of my doctor uncles, many of them specialists in various elds, quickly gathered. None could accurately diagnose the tumour. So Dad bundled me up and carried me to Macquarie Street home to Sydney Hospital, where he had trained and was now on the surgical staff the area where Sydneys specialist medical fraternity had their rooms. My uncles formed a procession behind. No one at the hospital knew what the tumour was, so my father crossed the street and carried me into the suites of any orthopaedic surgeon who was present that morning. None of these experts actually took an X-ray, but that didnt stop them making a diagnosis. They seemed to all agree that cutting into the tumour in order to get a biopsy would cause severe arterial and venous bleeding and perhaps spread cancer cells into the bloodstream and hasten my death. The majority opinion was that the tumour was a cancer and my leg should be amputated, perhaps just below the knee. Dad was now well past second opinions, but he wasnt satised, and insisted on consulting with Professor of Surgery Sir Harold Dew. Off to his rooms, inside the British Medical Association (BMA) building, he marched. The great man was in. Sir Harold examined me, then chaired a discussion about what was to be done. He did not concur with the other surgeons recommendation to amputate, because he knew something the others didnt. Only a few weeks earlier, a brand new deep radiation machine, designed to provide radiotherapy treatment for cancers, had been installed in the BMA X-ray department, and a

12

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

few people with cancers had already received its rays. My father readily agreed to me being treated by this machine, and I was taken to it there and then. To gauge the dose the operator used a chart from the US, but it only covered adult patients. I was strapped, lying on my left side, to a wooden operating table, unable to move, at the business end of the huge machine. Everyone was made to go outside while I was thoroughly radiated. Later events would indicate that my tiny body had been given far too heavy a dose. This assault on all my newborn tissue was to seriously affect my growth and health, and thus my destiny. Radiation delivered, I was returned to my mother and a daily treatment program was begun during which a bandage was placed around the whole ankle area, to protect it and to encourage the mass to shrink. This, it turns out, was precisely the right thing to do unlike the radiation or, heaven forbid, amputation. When I was six, the swelling was nally diagnosed as a benign haematoma an exuberant overgrowth of abnormally large and twisted arteries and veins. These usually do not go on to become a cancer and careful, prolonged compression can help them to shrink. By the time I was one year old, the only apparent damage to me was that the skin over my lower right leg and foot was very thin indeed, and a blue colour. The swelling had gone down. Although Dad took credit for saving my leg, I cant recall him ever again examining it once it had settled down.

13

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

No one seemed to notice that my right leg did not grow as fast as my left. As I got older, I became aware of a pain in my right ankle when I walked. When I started to run, it always gave a kind of a click and the pain grew distinctly sharper. Although with every step the pain became worse, I grew used to it and mostly ignored it. Pictures of me as a child show that I sometimes stood with my right foot on top of my left, because my back felt better that way. But, despite all their medical training, none of my extended family members seemed to notice or comment on this, except much later, looking back over the photos. Nor did they remark on my limp a symptom of my developing scoliosis (curvature of the spine), which brought its own pain. Only when I was about ten did my mother realise that I wasnt standing up straight even when she insisted I do so and I tried hard to comply. In a sense it didnt matter: my twisting leg and limp never made any difference to how I was treated by my family. They expected me to participate just like everyone else and so I did, running around, kicking balls and wrestling like the other boys I knew. My family also actively encouraged my curiosity, my father in particular. His view was that you have only learnt a new thing properly when you are condent enough to explain it to someone else. I remember at a very early age asking my mother for a differently shaped spoon at mealtimes so I could take a full mouthful all at once, instead of many small ones. She was tolerant of this, but not of me, at four, asking the man painting the outside of

14

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

our house why he applied one colour and then covered it with a completely different colour. She was unhappy with me for disturbing the painter with foolish questions, until Dad explained to her that he had given permission to Pam and me to ask any question, so long as we asked politely. I have done just that all my life, questioning myself and others, often to great effect. We lived opposite the body of water that gives the suburb of Rose Bay its name. From an early age, I saw this big, beautiful bay as my playground. There was always something to see on the water in front of the house: dozens of moored boats, with Shark Island further out and, further still in the distance, Port Jackson. My fathers general practice surgery was in rooms at the back of the house, with its own entrance and an 8-centimetre thick soundproofed door separating it from our living quarters. When Dad had nished off in his consulting rooms at Kings Cross, and had visited his patients in the hospitals in which he had operated on them, he would come home for his evening practice. This was managed by a nurse cum secretary, and it sometimes went on for hours as he was very popular. Consequently he was always running late and we seldom saw him at the evening meal. When he didnt eat with us, the nurse would have some food ready in his rooms for him to eat between seeing patients. So we rarely saw our father during the week. Pam and I have speculated all our lives as to what our mother would do every day, as she was always off somewhere and would only appear around 6.30. First she would check that the garden was being

15

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

watered, then she would make us dinner, which she insisted we nish (Mum was not a good cook). After dinner we would hear her arranging her forthcoming soires or keeping in touch with our large number of relations. Mum was the parent who ensured we were doing our homework, our piano practice and our chores: the grass-cutting was my job. She would tell us to ask our father if we needed any pocket money. That was a laugh, because although Dad would promise he would pay us pocket money if we really needed any, no payments ever transpired, making it imperative to earn money ourselves. At the age of about seven I went to the local newsagents to take on a paper round, which I would complete before running to school. My mother loved to sing and could accompany herself on the piano. I like to think I heard her smooth and warm contralto voice singing while I was in utero. Her repertoire came from popular operas and stage musicals. Oh My Beloved Father, from Saint-Sans opera Gianni Schicchi was a favourite; she had even performed with the State Opera in Sydney. Every morning, she played the baby grand piano in our sunny lounge room, lled with light reecting from the bay. By the age of two I had been taught to sit with her on the long piano stool as she sang special songs just for me. Then she would show me how to depress the keys to make sounds, and eventually how to play the piano. But Mum didnt stop there. She also taught me quite a repertoire of relatively easy pieces by Mozart, Haydn, Bach, Schubert and suchlike.

16

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

She was thrilled when I could, eventually, accompany her as she sang at the frequent soires she held at our house. My father, tone deaf and not interested in music at all, escaped these evenings by seeing his patients. Almost every weekend, and on many weeknights too, there was some cultural or musical event at our house. Mum hosted famous and not yet famous instrumental musicians, local music clubs, chamber music groups, singers, dancers, authors and actors. At rst I objected to being summoned to perform at the soires. I would come down from my room and be put on the piano stool and the performance would begin. Eventually, I got over my embarrassment at the applause and kind comments from my mothers friends. I saw these evenings as a penance for the benets of living in such a well-placed home with a bohemian mother and an encouraging father (on the rare occasions when we might actually see him). From the time I was a year old, Dad would take the family to the Lapstone Hotel in Blaxland for our Christmas and New Year holidays. The proud features of the hotel, the nearest mountain resort to Sydney, were its swimming pool, manicured lawns and gardens, and the sweeping view from its mountain location. The air was clear and the sunshine bright, and this was all supposed to be healthy for us. On one holiday, after Id turned two the previous September, my mother took me, as usual, to the swimming pool area to play. It wasnt long before she was stretched out on a banana lounge reading a book and I was playing on the grass beside her.

17

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

A young and athletic boy, Ken Youdale, came out for his morning swim in the sun. Ken was fteen years old, tall and tanned, and already one of his schools junior swimming and diving champions. When he had climbed the ladder to the springboard, he looked down to the supposedly empty pool, and noticed lots of bubbles rising from the corner nearest where my mother was sleeping on her sun lounger. On closer inspection there was something small in the water there. It was me. Without a thought, Ken dived straight in, picked me up and deposited me at the feet of my mother. He quickly climbed out of the pool and started to resuscitate me, and my mother awoke to his shouting for assistance. People came running and watched Kens resuscitation, which was successful, as I started to cough and vomit water. Ken picked me up and took me into the shade of the hotel, where I was examined on a table by all and sundry I was obviously alive, it was announced, although still bringing up lots of swallowed pool. Ken was the big hero and the hotel threw a festive dinner for him that night, while my mother sat, worrying, beside my little bed upstairs. Our families friendship continued throughout my life, the life I owe to this quick-thinking, athletic young boy. Ken didnt see me again until I grew up, when I was to meet and cooperate with him many times. He has remained a best friend and genuine hero in our adventures together.

18

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

At the age of three I was sent to a preschool just around the block from our home. I already knew how to tie my shoelaces, to count backwards from one thousand and to say the alphabet backwards as well as forwards. Dad had taught me these things on weekends: it was his way of setting time to play with his son, whom he assumed would be following in his footsteps and taking over his practice one day. Apparently I lapped up everything he taught me, and I remember nding him a good teacher, with a nice way of awarding points and using rhymes to assist the memory. Later, he taught me to write with both my left and right hands independently and together. He also taught me to keep my hands and unusually big hands they are absolutely still. He did this in two ways. First, he got me to hold out both my hands in front of my body and keep them there with my index ngers almost, but not quite, touching. When I could do this with ease, he upped the stakes by offering me an incentive to keep them still for long periods of time. I was awarded a success fee of a Mintie for keeping them completely still for ten minutes every day. After a month the required time was upped to twenty minutes, and I was given two Minties if my hands and ngers remained totally still for that long each day of the week. So, without labouring the point, as I grew up, I was already unique in one respect. My hands were steadier than those of any doctor I was to meet. By contrast with the encouragement and challenges I was given at home, the unimaginatively regimented preschool I

19

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

attended was boring and disappointing. No one there answered my questions, even though I asked very politely. There was only one thing to be done: in the rst week I escaped and walked home. Mum took me back twice more that day and several times the next morning when I repeated my escape. The school and my mother came to a compromise. All they had to do to keep me there was to make it interesting and exciting. Starting school proper at Rose Bay Infants State School when I was four, I was a year younger than anyone else in the class and I quickly discovered not everyone appreciated my precociousness. A little boy like me getting the same privileges as the bigger, older boys in the class, and being able to put my hand up and answer questions they couldnt, provoked hostility. I learnt quickly to play the smiling friend to my classmates and not to show fear when targeted by bullies. I somehow knew that I wouldnt be popular if I appeared to be too smart, so I didnt strive to come top at any subjects, just to come somewhere within the rst few places. I found I liked being at school and made some rm friends there. I also learnt the hard way that I had to protect my weakened leg from injury. The thin skin on my upper foot, ankle and lower leg could be traumatised by even slight contact sometimes I would nd myself bleeding through my sock following a dash through some sharp-edged long grass. I could soon put on my own bandage (from the bandage drawer in Dads surgery) and add a bit of thick rubber as padding. But I still suffered from stray knocks to that leg and these

20

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

traumas would take such a long time to heal that I eventually asked my parents to get me more protection. My father took me to a hospital where the splint-and-support department constructed a pad of thick rubber surrounded by leather and straps that tted into a metal strut device. This brace was worn under my long school socks. The other kids knew about it, but didnt make a fuss of it. When I was almost ve, the Rose Bay Flying Boat Base was opened a few blocks to the east of our house. This was the launching spot for the passenger and mail seaplanes that ew all the way to England. (In those days the short journey took nine days, with the plane having to land often to pick up supplies, fuel and let its passengers spend the night in local hotels.) The planes made quite a noise landing or taking off; we soon stopped noticing, but the noise often startled visitors to our house. War was thought to be on the horizon, and because the local public school had no air raid shelters, after Id been there only a year, in 1938 my parents decided to transfer me to the nearest private boys school, Cranbrook, which had already dug its air raid shelters and was just two streets away from our house. Pam was sent to Kambala, the private girls school in Rose Bay, from the beginning of her school years. Cranbrook had excellent teachers and a tradition of encouraging its pupils talents, however offbeat they may have been. In the case of one boy, Graeme, this meant nding an alternative activity to compensate for his lack of enthusiasm for any existing subjects. The headmaster, Mr Brian Hone, encouraged Graemes

21

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

enthusiasm for growing vegetables and plants, and excused him from many academic subjects so he could attend to the schools extensive garden. There was great pride throughout the school in the results. I dont know of any other school that so individualised its encouragement of boys who were different, including, to some extent, myself. Even though my teachers knew I was somewhat physically handicapped and wore a brace, as I got older I joined in school sports, cricket in summer and rugby in the winter. My companions knew that I was not the fastest of runners but had a good eye. I did better on the grass tennis courts, and at table tennis and squash, at which I could hold my own. But the sports masters, who knew about my developing ability on the piano, allowed me to attend music lessons if they clashed with sports practices or events. At Cranbrook Junior School, we sat in a special order in class. The boys who did well were in the back row, and those in need of the greatest attention sat in the front row. Our desks had hinges so the desktop opened upwards towards you. As I progressed through the school years I became a fast reader and writer, and those who nished assignments early were allowed to get out a book and read it, placing it on the top of the desk. I would appear to be doing this, while actually occupying myself quite differently beneath the slightly opened lid. In those days, particularly during the war, even relatively afuent families had virtually no bought childrens toys. Only two boys in my class seemed to have such toys; otherwise we

22

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

made our own. When I was in Year 5, I discovered that a small sharp Swiss Army knife my dad had given me was very useful for carving soap into tanks and army truck shapes. But it became messy and hard to handle with my sweaty young ngers. Then I found I could buy soft balsa wood cheaply and I switched to carving that at home. One day I took some plasticine and a small block of balsa wood into school and slipped them inside my desk. When I had nished my work, I put a book on top of the desk, as usual. Then I slid my hands into the cavity and set to work. I began with the plasticine, moulding it into little generic gures, then into soldiers, guns and ships all very small. I was always ready to squash them into an innocent-looking ball if I was about to be discovered, but that never happened. So I decided to get organised and branch out into balsa wood carvings. After that, one side of my desk cavity was used to house books and my pencil box, and the other side was for my war effort. I put down a green and blue plasticine base to serve as a eld and a harbour. Then I worked on constructing a really small army and its eld guns, trucks, tanks, hospital, mess tent, and a jetty, boats and sailors. That took many months, as I did have schoolwork to get through. Eventually I ran out of space, so I moved my books and other school equipment onto the oor between my legs and the back wall. I built an aireld with miniature planes in the newly available space inside my desk. When opportunity presented itself, my classmates enjoyed seeing the progress of the developing battle scenes.

23

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

One day I was concentrating hard on my carving when suddenly I found myself in the grip of an angry teacher, who dragged me by the ear to my feet. What are you doing, boy? What have you got under that desk top? Up came the lid and there, to the amazement of the teacher, was a complete battleground with tiny soldiers, tanks and guns, and sundry Spitre and Hurricane ghter planes. In my left hand was a partially carved tank and in my right, my trusty Swiss Army knife. How long has this been going on? said the abbergasted class master. Mr Hone (who would later be knighted in recog nition of his services to education) came to inspect my handiwork, then took me back to his ofce for an interview. We discussed the value of school discipline and proper attendance to school subjects. As my carving project seemed to him outside the school curriculum, he suggested that I propose a punishment to t the crime. Instead, I placed myself at his mercy. You see the blank space behind my desk? he said. The other walls have paintings of previous headmasters of this ne school, but this wall is blank. It should really display something to remind people who visit me of the importance of this school in their lives. So I want you to get a large piece of wood and use your carving skills to produce a version of the school crest and its motto Esse quam videre (to be rather than to seem) to hang up behind my desk for future generations.

24

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

Could you please have it nished by the end of the school year. Now, return to your class. Having expected to be expelled, or at least to get six of the best (strokes from a cane), I couldnt believe my good luck. I was even allowed to rescue the miniature battleeld from my desk as long as it was off the premises by nightfall. Mr Hone was a remarkable man and a great educator; I was determined to do him proud. Unfortunately, my rst attempt was an abject failure. But I joined the woodwork class and on my second attempt was able to make a fair job of capturing the proportions of the crest. Sandpapered and varnished, it was in position before the deadline. Years later, in 1996, I was asked to give the oration at Cranbrooks end-of-year prize day. Some years before, the school had found my carefully carved badge and motto in a dusty cupboard. Theyd rescued it and put it on display in a glass case in one of the school corridors. They had also started an Old Cranbrookian of the Year award, and I was that years winner, so it was my great honour to hand out the prizes and give what I hoped was an inspiring address to the boys and their parents. I was able to recount the story of how Id practised carving inside my desk, and made the observation that all those hours sitting upright in a chair with my hands supported and working away inside the covered desktop had helped to give me dexterity that was essential in my microsurgery career, when my head and hands would be in exactly that position as I looked through the operating microscope.

25

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

When I was eleven, I took part in the schools athletics carnival, as I usually did. On these days I took off my splint so as to run faster, despite the fact that it hurt much more to run when my leg was unsupported. I was on the home stretch of the 400-yard race, well behind the leader, when I heard a strange clicking noise. With every stride of my right foot, this clicking noise became louder. About 30 yards from the nish, the bones in my right leg suddenly snapped just above the ankle and I fell at on my face. The next thing I can remember is being carted off on a stretcher with my foot at a funny angle. Thus began a very difcult twelve months. X-rays revealed that the broken bones could be traced all the way back to the day of my birth. The radiation I had received then was intended to treat the tumour I had been born with. Instead, the rays had prompted the formation of another tumour a bone tumour of the bula, the thinner of the two lower leg bones. Over the next ten years that tumour, called an osteoid osteoma, had slowly grown, rubbing away the shaft of the tibial bone. Not only were the bones thinner than they should have been, they were decalcied, having been demineralised by the radiation, so they broke under the pressure I exerted on them during the race. My father called in a distinguished orthopaedic surgeon, who told us that although this was an unusual event, the two fractured bones could be repositioned and would easily fuse and grow as they should. He reassured me that it wouldnt be long

26

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

before I was up and running again. The private hospital at which he operated was St Lukes at the back of Kings Cross, and it was there I was taken to be prepared for surgery. I was given a small single room below street level because of its size it was deemed suitable for a child. And nine months and eight operations later, I was still in that same gloomy room. I had come to regard it as my prison. The only window, which couldnt be opened, was high and narrow, and through it all I could see were the bottom of a brick wall and the lower legs of occasional passers-by. I was the only patient on the basement level, and next door to me was a noisy goods lift that clanked day and night. There was no chance of being moved, either: the orthopaedic surgeon didnt want me on the childrens ward because of the chance of my picking up an infection there. I lay at on my back, with the foot of my bed raised on wooden blocks and my right leg attached to a weighted pulley to keep it elevated in what was supposed to be the optimal healing position. Because my own bodyweight served as a counter-balance, I could only turn a little towards each side so as not to affect the traction. I was effectively immobilised. It would have been bad enough for an adult, but for an active boy it was torture. In the early days, my parents and sister or other family members came daily to visit me, and my schoolmates and one or two of their parents came regularly to bring homework. But as the weeks and then months passed, the visits dropped off, so that my father might come every second or third day, depending on how busy he was seeing his patients and attending to various

27

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

roles in his many clubs and associations. He would try to keep up my spirits by saying how brave I was, and he did say from time to time that he was seriously considering changing my surgeon. Nothing, however, did change. My mother came occasionally during the week and on most weekends, when she would bring Pam and delight me with some real food instead of the hospital offerings. But my most consistent visitor throughout those long, grim months was my Aunty Peggy. Peggy was my mothers youngest sister, and her devotion to the task she had set herself taught me the value of loyalty and of following through on your intentions. She had decided that each day she would come and read to me, and day after day, there she was. I really loved her and was devastated some years later when she died far too young of a cancer of the bowel. At that time it was Peggys job to serve as driver for her father, my beloved maternal grandfather, John Goulston, known as JG. She would drive him to work in the morning and then come and see me, or call in in the afternoon before going to pick him up from his ofce. Occasionally JG himself would accompany her. At the time he was part owner and board member of a chain of motion picture theatres. In this capacity he got all the special movie trade journals and he would keep them for me. They kept me up to date with what moving pictures were in production or opening soon, and I studied them in order to hold sensible conversations with Grandpa and impress on him how keen I was to get out of this bed and to see one of his movies as soon as possible.

28

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

Other than these visits, my only entertainment came from books and a little radio I had. Despite his early reassurances, my surgeons operations failed time and again. After each operation I would awaken at on my back with my foot elevated, in acute pain from both the leg itself and from the hip, where marrow and bone had been harvested. I had conquered pain in my leg for the past ten years and I wasnt going to give in to it now, but bone pain is very severe and after the second operation my ordeal was worsened by the fear of hearing bad news. I learnt to dread the distinctive sound of my surgeons footsteps walking down the hallway towards me in the days after an operation. Having examined the latest post-operative X-rays, he would utter a sentence I came to hate: Well, weve nearly done it. We should be able to x it next time, young fellow. Then he would smartly turn around, ignoring any questions, and go back up the stairs, leaving me feeling abandoned and hopeless and in dread at the thought of yet another operation. With his method failing repeatedly, I could not understand why he didnt try something new. I feared I would never heal and so would never be able to lead a normal active life again. Nobody would answer my questions about how bones really heal, how long this healing might really take, when the next operation would take place if this latest one failed, whether I would ever walk normally again and why I couldnt stay at home between operations. No one understood that I needed to know what the doctors knew, even if they didnt know much themselves. Even though I was a child, they should not have

29

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

UNDER THE MICROSCOPE

ignored my questions. Not even my father was any help: he believed fervently that he had picked the very best specialist available, and that therefore it was only a matter of time before I would walk again. Instead of comfort and help, I came to associate my surgeon with pain and misery, and this is when I resolved that I would one day become, not just a surgeon, but one of the best surgeons ever; one whose operations actually worked, and one who told their patients in detail about their condition, answering all their questions and treating them with respect. One memorable bright spot in those months was a visit from my ancient history teacher, Mr Nicholson. Greek mythology was his hobby and that day he sat down beside my bed and spoke to me about early Greek civilisation and its writers and philosophers. He also brought with him enough of his precious books to sustain me for months. (Years later Mr Nick, as we called him, came as a special guest to a school reunion and I was able to tell him how much his warmth and compassion had helped me at that time.) Finally, with the changing seasons and the little extra sunlight that reached my room, came some good news. I knew something was different after my eighth operation, rst from the unfamiliar bounce in my surgeons step as he approached and then by the grin on his face. The latest X-rays showed some sign that healing was taking place, so from one day to the next I found myself being allowed to sit up, albeit with my foot still slightly angled upward. Soon afterwards I was allowed to learn

30

Copyright Earl Owen 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

BEGINNINGS

to support myself on crutches. I still slept with my bed on an angle, but I no longer had to be in traction. Instead, my right foot was put in a heavy splint, which took some getting used to. Now I could actually turn over in bed to catch the little sunlight that made it through the high, dusty window pane. Things were denitely looking up. Having learnt from my mother that I was to be allowed out of my jail reasonably soon, my school piano teacher, Miss Edwards, came to visit me. There was a piano in the hospital and now that I was able to get about the building on my crutches, she made arrangements to come regularly. We took up the lessons again and I learnt rapidly. In another treat prompted by my imminent release, my grandfather appeared one day with a huge smile on his face and presented me with a very special pass. It was addressed to the manager of each of the cinemas he ran in Sydney, telling them that a guest and I were to be given free access to the best seats in the house at any performance in the coming year. This was something wonderful to look forward to and Grandpa made it even better by saying that when I was released he would like me to come and stay in his big house, where I would be cared for with the help of his cook and maid. He said he wanted to smother me in love. Perhaps he felt that my parents were preoccupied with their own lives and he would be better equipped to look after me during the rst, intensive months of my recuperation. Eventually the big day arrived and I was taken back to JGs house to celebrate my freedom with a wonderful party.

31

Anda mungkin juga menyukai