ONE of the most sought-after placements for medical students in my time in Cork, was as an elective in the Accident Room at the North Infirmary.
Apart from free digs for at least a week, there was the opportunity to see first-hand the emergency cases presenting, and you got to hang with the resident house surgeons, recruited from the cream of the recent graduates, and always willing to teach.
An additional bonus was getting to work with the ultra-competent and beautiful Sister Marie of the French Sisters of Charity, who glided about like a stately galleon in the stunning garb of the order. She broke many a heart, but gently rebuffed any tentative hints by the smitten that she ‘jump over the wall’.
Cases showing up by ambulance or at the door varied: the most challenging were the ‘acute abdomens’. Differential diagnosis of these was the sought-after skill to be learned in the front-line, and the satisfaction of being proved right, and assisting at subsequent emergency surgery if needed, provided the ultimate in bragging rights.
In the autumn of 1956, Seamus O’Donoghue, later to become one of Cork’s leading paediatricians, and myself were sharing the elective. A young man arrived and asked to see a male doctor.
This request usually involved a case of what was unofficially known as ‘the clap’.
An aerial view of Cork city showing Shandon, North Cathedral and the North Infirmary hospital in September, 1967
We welcomed such patients as there was an unofficial private practice among us students in treating those too shy to be followed up at the Public Health VD Clinic; anonymity was often paramount and could be assured by being treated privately. A modest fee of ten shillings and a course of penicillin administered in confidence did the trick.
But the case that day in 1956 was different.
Initial examination revealed a markedly swollen distal penis, constricted halfway up by a fair-sized metal washer. It transpired that the patient had a job in a local metal works, and he and his colleagues were discussing the ever-fascinating topic (among men) of the size of the male organ.
Alas, the washer on this patient had got stuck, and the penis had swollen to impressive proportions.
Panic-stricken, the man had rushed up to the consulting rooms of surgeon Mr Frank Whelton in nearby Patrick’s Place.
Frank recalled: “When I saw his predicament, I told the man I would ‘cut it off’. He nearly fainted, as he thought I was referring to the subject member, not the washer…”
Frank advised him to go back to the Accident Room, but to divert en route to The Cork Iron and Hardware Store, just across Patrick’s Bridge, and buy two hacksaw blades.
The young man had been clutching a brown paper bag, and now opened it to show us the blades and a receipt for them.
Frank duly joined Seamus and I at the North Infirmary and we all went to the operating theatre. The patient was put under by the lady consultant anaesthetist, who didn’t blink at, or comment on, the assuredly unusual presenting complaint.
Frank put a patient-purchased blade in the hacksaw frame and sawed away. He astonished us all as he did this by keeping up a running commentary on the many perverts he had encountered in his practice over the years. Seamus and I never knew Cork was such an interesting place.
The offending washer was finally removed, the injured area dressed, and the patient kept under observation until he was ready to be sent home.
Mission completed, Frank put his cleaned-up hacksaw and pliers in his bag, and bade us goodbye.
Seamus and I went off to report this most interesting case to our suitably impressed classmates.
