Text From doctor in the house

By R. Gordon

Richard Gordon was born in 1921. He has been an anaesthetist at St. Bartho­lomew's Hospital,' a ship's surgeon and an assistant editor of the British Medical Journal. He left medical practice in 1952 and started writing his «Doctor» series.

«Doctor in the House» is one of Gordon's twelve «Doctor» books and is noted for witty description of a medical student's years of professional training.

To a medical student the final examinations are something like death: an unpleasant inevitability to be faced sooner or later, one's state after which is determined by care spent in preparing for the event.

An examination is nothing more than an investigation of a man's knowledge, conducted in a way that the authorities have found the most fair and convenient to both sides. But the medical student can­not see it in this light. Examinations touch off his fighting spirit; they are a straight contest between himself and the examiners, conducted on well-established rules for both, and he goes at them like a prize­fighter.

There is rarely any frank cheating in medical examinations, but the candidates spend almost as much time over the technical details of the contest as they do learning general medicine from their text­books.

Benskin discovered that Malcolm Maxworth was the St. Swith-in's representative on the examining Committee and thenceforward we attended all his ward rounds, standing at the front and gazing at him like impressionable music enthusiasts at the solo violinist. Mean­while, we despondently ticked the days off the calendar, swotted up the spot questions, and ran a final breathless sprint down the well-trodden paths of medicine.

The examination began with the written papers. A single invigi­lator² sat in his gown and hood on a raised platform to keep an eye open for flagrant cheating. He was helped by two or three uniformed porters who stood by the door and looked dispassionately down at the poor victims, like the policemen that flank the dock at the Old

Bailey.³

Three hours were allowed for the paper. About half-way through the anonymous examinees began to differentiate themselves. Some of them strode up for an extra answer book, with an awkward expres­sion of self-consciousness and superiority in their faces. Others rose to their feet, handed in their papers and left. Whether these people were so brilliant they were able to complete the examination in an hour and a half or whether this was the time required for them to set down unhurriedly their entire knowledge of medicine was never ap­parent from the nonchalant air with which they left the room. The invigilator tapped his bell half an hour before time; the last question, was rushed through, then the porters began fearing papers away from gentlemen dissatisfied with the period allowed for them to express themselves and hoping by an incomplete sentence to give the exam­iners the impression of frustrated brilliance.

I walked down the stairs feeling as if I had just finished an eight-round fight. In the square outside the first person I recognized was Grimsdyke.

«How did you get on?» I asked.

«So-so,» he replied. «However, I am not worried. They never read the papers anyway. Haven't you heard how they mark the tri­pos⁴ at Cambridge, my dear old boy? The night before the results come out the old don totters back from hall and chucks the lot down the staircase. The ones that stick on the top flight are given firsts,⁵ most of them end up on the landing and get seconds, thirds go to the lower flight, and any reaching the ground floor are failed. This system has been working admirably for years without arousing any comment.»

The unpopular oral examination was held a week after the papers. The written answers have a certain remoteness about them, and mis­takes and omissions, like those of life, can be made without the threat of immediate punishment. But the viva⁶ is judgement day⁷. A false answer, and the god's brow threatens like imminent thunderstorm. If the candidate loses his nerve in front of this terrible displeasure he is finished: confusion breeds confusion and he will come to the end of his interrogation struggling like a cow in a bog.

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I was shown to a tiny waiting-room furnished with hard chairs, a wooden table, and windows that wouldn't open, like the condemned cell. There were six other candidates waiting to go in with me, who | ] illustrated the types fairly commonly seen in viva waiting-rooms. ' * There was the Nonchalant, lolling back on the rear legs of his chair with his feet on the table. Next to him, a man of the Frankly Worried class sat on the edge of his chair tearing little bits off his invitation card and jumping irritalingly every time the door opened. There was the Crammer, fondling the pages of his battered textbook in a des­perate farewell embrace, and his opposite, the Old Stager, who treat­ed the whole thing with the familiarity of a photographer at a wed­ding. He had obviously failed the examination so often he looked upon the viva simply as another engagement to be fitted into his day.

The other occupant of the room was a woman. Women students — the attractive ones, not those who are feminine only through ines­capable anatomic arrangements — are under disadvantage in oral ex­aminations. The male examiners are so afraid of being prejudiced favourably by their sex they usually adopt towards them an attitude of undeserved sternness. But this girl had given care to her prepara­tions for the examination. Her suit was neat but not smart; her hair tidy but not striking; she wore enough make-up to look attractive, and she was obviously practising, with some effort, a look of admir­ing submission to the male sex. I felt sure she would get through.

«You go to table four,» the porter told me.

I stood before table four. I didn't recognize the examiners. One was a burly, elderly man like a retired prize-fighter; the other was invisible, as he was occupied in reading the morning's Times.

«Well, how would you treat a case of tetanus?» My heart leaped hopefully. This was something I knew, as there had recently been a case at St. Swithin's. I started off confidentially, reeling out the lines of treatment arid feeling much better. The examiner suddenly cut me short.

«All right, all right,» he said impatiently, «you seem to know that. A girl of twenty comes to you complaining of gaining weight. What would you do?» I rallied my thoughts and stumbled through the an­swer...

The days after the viva were black ones. It was like having a se­vere accident. For the first few hours I was numbed, unable to realize what had hit me. Then I began to wonder if I would ever make a recovery and win through. One or two of my friends heartened me by describing equally depressing experiences that had overtaken them

oreviously and still allowed them to pass. I began to hope. Little shreds of success collected together and weaved themselves into a trium­phal garland...

«One doesn't fail exams,» said Grimsdyke firmly. «One comes down, one muffs, one is ploughed, plucked, or pipped. These infer a misfortune that is not one's own fault. To speak of failing is bad taste. It's the same idea as talking about passing away and going above in­stead of plain dying.» The examination results were to be published at noon.

We arrived in the examination building to find the same candi­dates there, but they were a subdued, muttering crowd, like the sup­porters of a home team who had just been beaten in a cup tie.

We had heard exactly what would happen. At midday precisely the Secretary of the Committee would descend the stairs and take his place, flanked by two uniformed porters. Under his arm would be a thick, leather-covered book containing the results. One of the por­ters would carry a list of candidates' numbers and call them out, one after the other. The candidate would step up closely to the Secretary, who would say simply «Pass» or «Failed». Successful men would go upstairs to receive the congratulations and handshakes of the examin­ers and failures would slink miserably out of the exit to seek the opi­ate oblivion.

One minute to twelve. The room had suddenly come to a fright­ening, unexpected silence and stillness, like an unexploded bomb. A clock tingled twelve in the distance. My palms were as wet as spong­es. Someone coughed, and I expected the windows to rattle. With slow scraping feet that could be heard before they appeared the Sec­retary and the porters came solemnly down the stairs. The elder por­ter raised his voice.

«Number one hundred and sixty-one,» he began. «Number three hundred and two. Number three hundred and six.» Grimsdyke punched me hard in the ribs, «Go on,» he hissed. «It's you!»

I jumped and struggled my way to the front of the restless crowd. My pulse shot in my ears. My face was burning hot and I felt my stomach had been suddenly plucked from my body. Suddenly I found myself on the top of the Secretary.

«Number three, o, six?» the Secretary whispered, without look­ing up from the book. «R. Gordon?» «Yes,» I croaked.

The world stood still. The traffic stopped, the plants ceased grow­ing, men were paralysed, the clouds hung in the air, the winds dropped, the tides disappeared, the sun halted in the sky.

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«Pass,» he muttered.

Blindly like a man just hit by blackjack, I stumbled upstairs.