In the weeks beforehand, two girls, another boy, and I were carefully prepared by our earnest young pastor. As expected, the appointed Sunday evening was frosty. The water in the baptistery looked coldand uninviting. I had always harboured strong feelings for the other boy because of his excellent swimmer’s build. We shivered together in the icy vestry as we donned the clothes laid down for the occasion – white shirts and cricket flannels. In the other change room, the two girls dressed in their long white dresses, with hems carefully weighted down to guard against all impropriety. The pastor, clad in thigh-length rubber waders, stood waiting for us in the baptistery. He baptised the two girls first, ‘in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit’, then it was my friend’s turn. I was last. When I came up out of the water, having been well and truly immersed, I staggered back to the change room. As I rubbed water from my eyes, it was as if I had been actually struck a physical blow. I had an up-close, full frontal view of my naked companion as he desperately towelled his back to get warm. He was so beautiful – infinitely more appealing than Tom, the camp counsellor. A wave of intense sexual longing overwhelmed me. It had only taken three minutes to find out that my homosexual desires had not been washed away.
Despite this inner struggle, I was outwardly a model teenager with an ingrained desire to please. I did well at school and was zealous in church activities, as my father, church secretary and lay preacher, expected. Despite my secret life of masturbation, ‘burning lust’ for all things male, and physique magazines, I led a life apparently beyond reproach. I fervently believed everything the Bible said, but my beliefs didn’t have any impact on my secret life. As the years passed with no relief in sight, my faith faltered. I never admitted this to anyone else, and only rarely to myself, but the fact that God did not seem to care about my struggles made me increasingly doubtful whether there was anyone listening to my prayers at all.
In addition to being a moral failure I was a failure at sport. My father, who had been something of an athlete in his day, was a very manly man. The only thing manly about me was the school I attended – Manly Boys’ High School. I was better at reading abook or playing the piano than I was at games. Dad saw this and, although we never discussed it, I know it saddened him. The boys at school were another matter. My ineptitude at sport and my lack of manliness seemed to enrage some of them. One boy, whom I had been on reasonable terms with since primary school, grew more and more exasperated with me. One sports afternoon, after an even worse performance at football than my usual lacklustre effort, he had shouted out at me in the change rooms:
‘You really are such a little queen, Mary, aren’t you?’
The unfortunate and embarrassing nickname stuck. From then on everyone at school called me ‘Mary’. In the first three years of my secondary education, a group of four boys, a year older than I was, used to give me a ‘work-out’ every morning before school. It was persistent and serious bullying – Chinese burns, ear pulling, arm wrestling, punching, kicking, butt slapping, teasing, verbal abuse – enough to make me depressed and unhappy. It left me bruised in body and soul. As the months went by, I began to recognise a sexual element to the bullying; at the end of each session, I was often left with an erection and I know my persecutors were aroused as well. This fact prevented me from ever talking about the bullying. I felt as though, in some way, I deserved these ordeals. I took to heart what the bullies often said:
‘You’re just asking for it, aren’t you Mary?’
I was spared more bullying when those four boys left school after the Intermediate Certificate. My nickname continued, but it gradually lost its sting. School kids began to use it almost affectionately. My last two years of high school were much more enjoyable than the first few. I took great pleasure in watching my classmates blossoming into young manhood around me.
Although I had never shown the slightest inclination, it was an article of faith in my family that I would one day be a doctor. My father was a pharmacist, but wished he were a doctor. Unfortunatelyfor him, his family circumstances had not allowed him to study medicine. They just could not afford it. Studying pharmacy was a compromise. As the end of school approached and university loomed, I felt increasingly uneasy. I didn’t want to do Medicine. I knew I had to broach the subject with my parents, but I put off the discussion as long as possible. At last, a month or two before the Leaving Certificate exams, I caught my parents alone in the living room after my siblings had gone to bed. Very hesitantly, I began, ‘Look, Mum and Dad, I know this will be a disappointment, but I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to do Arts at University instead, and become a teacher.’
My father’s face fell. My mother looked apprehensive and dis-appointed. They must have guessed something like this was coming. Dad adopted the sad, deeply hurt voice he knew how to use so effectively, ‘Davo, we know you enjoy English and Latin, and Greek of course, and we’ve encouraged you to do well in those subjects, but the opportunity to study Medicine is something that only comes once in a lifetime! If you miss the chance you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.’
Then my mother, trying to be understanding, ‘Teaching is a great profession, David, but compared to Medicine you won’t have the same opportunity to do good in the world. Your father would have loved to study medicine, but his father couldn’t afford it. We know you have the brains, and you’ll do well.’
My heart dropped – it was just as I had expected. Dad again, a little unctuous this time. ‘David, your mother and I have prayed together about this for many years. We have to think first and foremost about God’s plan for your life and be sure that we do His Will. Sometimes His Will isn’t what we would want. It might mean choosing the less easy road …’
God’s will may not have been what I wanted, but it was certainly in line with what my parents wanted for me.
And Mum again: ‘You see so many bright students go off and do Arts at university. But, it’s really a dead-end course.’
‘But Mum, I know I want to be a teacher. Sure, it doesn’t pay as well as medicine and it’s not so glamorous, but it’s what I want to do.’
Dad: ‘But Davo, you can do so much better. Remember what Jesus said: ‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required’.
I had anticipated that Jesus would not take too long to enter the discussion. God’s Will was always the trump card. There was no answer to it. I was made to feel guilty. However, I did argue, quite strongly for me, that if my marks at the Leaving Certificate weren’t good enough for medical school, then maybe we could look again at the possibility of Arts. My parents were pleased with this proposition. They said:
‘If it’s God’s will you study Medicine, you’ll get the necessary marks.’
And so it was left in God’s hands!
It was clear the Almighty wasn’t on my side. Maybe He was getting back at me for buying those awful magazines and being ‘such a little queen’. When my results were published in the Sydney Morning Herald, I had scored a mediocre pass. But, astonishingly, I had also secured a Commonwealth Scholarship. There was nothing now to stop me entering the Medical Faculty at Sydney University. So, off to medical school I went; it wasn’t possible to argue against God, and clearly He had prevailed.
* * *
4Most ten year olds in 1952 would not have thought much about circumcision. However I came from a Bible reading family. The story of David collecting one hundred Philistine foreskins couldn’t help but leave a considerable impression and even in New Testament readings it was impossible to avoid the term. I had pestered my mother until she described what the operation involved. Like many middle-class Australian boys at that time, I had been circumcised, so I recognised Tom’s penis as being different
Chapter Three
University
First year medicine was bearable. It wasn’t all that different from high school: Chemistry, Physics, Botany and Zoology. I managed to pass, albeit unspectacularly, at the end of the year. Second year wa
s to be a whole new ball game. I would be studying Anatomy, Physiology, Histology and Embryology, as well as Biochemistry. We would move to the Old Medical School (now called the Anderson-Stuart Building) and become true medical students.
The Old Medical School at Sydney University is a gem of Victorian sandstone. Its lofty, marbled corridors and intricate stained-glass windows make it a worthy sanctuary for the cult of Asclepius, God of Medicine, whose statue stands above the main entrance. But, for a struggling, second-year medical student who didn’t want to be there, the building felt cold, unfriendly, and unwelcoming. I wasn’t worthy, and I didn’t belong.
By contrast, in the Vice-Chancellor’s courtyard, just off the main quadrangle of Sydney University, stood a bronze statue of winged Mercury, copy of a famous one by Giovanni Bologna in Florence. Every morning, on my way to the Old Medical School, I would look forward to seeing him. His elegant finger pointing skyward, his lissom limbs and graceful pose, and, his nicely rounded testicles seemed to hint at a brighter world than I knew. I was amazed the first time I returned to visit the university after a gap of forty years to discover another statue in the courtyard – a female figure. As a student hurrying past, I had eyes only for Mercury. I’d nevereven noticed forlorn Fortuna on the other side. But, they’re both still there. Mercury in all his bronze splendour, just a little more weathered. I found he still had the power to cheer me.
There were some aspects of medical school I enjoyed. One was the study of Anatomy. An alumnus once described the Sydney dissecting room as ‘a temple of arcane mysteries’.5 With its elaborately carved windows and neat rows of dissecting tables with their lead-lined trays, it was the one place in the Old Medical School I didn’t mind. Each tray held a naked and embalmed cadaver laid out at waist height. The not unpleasant smell of formaldehyde-based embalming fluid permeated every corner of the room. On our first day in second year, Professor NWG Macintosh, universally known as ‘Black Mac’ because of his jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes, subjected us to an opening harangue, warning against any signs of disrespect towards the bodies. Those found guilty of such misdemeanours would be ‘expelled from the medical faculty, forthwith’. Apparently, placing a lunch bag on the cadaver’s chest and eating from it didn’t count as disrespectful, because I saw that happen on many occasions.
Two groups were allocated to each body. One group had six months to dissect the upper body, while the other group dissected the lower body. We followed the dissecting plan laid down in Cunningham’s Manual of Practical Anatomy. At the end of six months, a fresh body would be supplied and the groups would swap ends. Each group had ten to twelve members, which theoretically meant more than twenty people working on one body. It was very social – there were even informal inter-body rugby matches organised! Not with body parts, I hasten to add. But, back in the dissecting room, with twenty people around the body, overcrowding made meaningful dissectingimpossible. Fortunately, after the first day, only a small number attended at any one time. Some students never attended, but claimed to learn all their anatomy from the textbooks.
When I arrived home, my mother was anxious about my first day’s Anatomy class. Had I felt faint seeing those dead, naked bodies? I thought for a minute; I hadn’t felt faint or nauseated, nor had I found the dead bodies repulsive. They weren’t frightening – they just looked very dead. I couldn’t honestly say I felt much more emotion for them than I had for the formalinised dogfish I’d had to dissect in Zoology the year before. And, in spite of what one of the deacons at our Baptist Church had predicted, the experience didn’t make me think deeply about my own mortality, nor about the transience of life. My main concern was whether I would be able to learn the details of human anatomy I had to know by the end of the year. My mother was pleased with my low-key response and decided this was evidence I was ‘cut out’ to be a doctor. God’s will was being vindicated.
Our prosector – one of a small band roving the dissecting room to answer questions, help with difficult dissections, and demonstrate structures and organs – was a young rugby-playing surgical registrar from Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. He went on to make a career as Professor of Surgery. He used to dress in white shirt and sports trousers, looking like he was heading out for a game of croquet rather than supervising a dissection. Unusually for the time, he never wore a tie. A mass of golden chest curls blossomed from his open collar, and he had a musky, manly aroma that was strong enough to drown out the all-pervading smell of formaldehyde. I was captivated by his physical presence, unlike the only female student on our body, who declared in a loud stage whisper when we first met him, ‘He should be ashamed of himself, having such terrible B.O.!’
Our prosector’s knowledge of anatomy was unsurpassed; he made sense of our messy dissections. It was due to his teaching that I neverfailed Anatomy – that, and the fact that Anatomy was the only subject I enjoyed in second and third year. I’ve always been fascinated by human bodies and how they’re put together.
The year I turned twenty-one, I commenced clinical medicine at Royal North Shore Hospital, the start of the final three years of medical school. At the same time, my family moved to West Pennant Hills in the heart of Sydney’s ‘Bible Belt’. They were difficult years. I missed Seaforth, Manly Beach, and the Spit Baths, and I disliked the long daily train trips to Royal North Shore and the University. As well, I didn’t feel at home at the church my father insisted we attend, one of the most hard-line Baptist churches in NSW. Of course, having reached my majority I could have disregarded his wishes, but I was ever a dutiful son. But, by far the hardest part was reconciling myself to becoming a doctor. Clinical medicine and surgery are confronting for most young medical students. For the first time, they are brought into contact with seriously ill and dying patients. Being ‘on the wards’ presents a psychological challenge. Today, with the assistance of counsellors and experienced clinicians, students are given opportunities to talk through their reactions. In our day, we were expected to just get on with it. No-one in medical school back then took much notice of students’ feelings and needs.
Unsurprisingly, in view of my ambivalence about Medicine, my passage through the six years at medical school (seven in my case, as I had to repeat second year), was undistinguished, but I did graduate at last. After graduation, at the end of 1964, I was allocated to work as junior resident medical officer at Concord Repatriation General Hospital, a respectable Sydney teaching hospital, where I remained for two years. It was a chance event in my life that was to have far-reaching consequences.
Concord started life as a military hospital during World War II. In the mid-sixties, the hospital’s primary purpose was to provide medical care for returned servicemen and war widows. In addition, soldierson active service who needed specialist investigation or surgical operations came to us from all over NSW. Once a week, straight from Richmond Airforce Base and Vietnam, we would receive medevaced ill or wounded soldiers who were too unwell or medically complicated to be managed at the small Army hospitals.
Many of the senior consultants had served during World War II. Our two chiefs of Surgery and Medicine were rough and gruff ex-military men6, but they treated patients with respect and gentleness. Almost all the senior nursing sisters had served overseas during the War, some with great distinction. I appreciated the motherly interest some of them took in my progress and, over the years, stayed in contact with two senior nurses. When their Christmas cards eventually ceased some fifteen years ago, I concluded both had died.7 But, quite by chance, I recently came upon a short article and photograph in the Queensland RSL News announcing that Sister Olga Anderson had celebrated her hundredth birthday in January 2017. All decked out in army uniform with starched veil and bright red cape, she still looked fighting fit!
I liked the patients who came under my care. They were almost all ex-servicemen from World War II, but in the mid-sixties there were still some World War I veterans, including survivors of the ANZAC campaign at Gallipoli, and there were a handful of Korean
War veterans too. I dimly perceived it then, but only fully appreciate now, what a rare privilege it was to play a part, if only a very junior part, in their medical care.
Concord Hospital in those days lacked an Emergency Department. A couple of my junior resident colleagues complained that they were missing an opportunity to gain experience in an essential branch of medicine. As compensation, the hospital administration offeredeach of us, in turn, the chance to undertake a six-week posting to 2 Camp Hospital at Ingleburn under the control of the Australian army. Like my colleagues, I took up the offer, but I had no idea what to expect. I’d had no previous contact with the army. On the appointed Monday morning I reported for duty.
2 Camp Hospital was in the midst of an army camp which had existed on the outskirts of Sydney since World War II. Set in typical Sydney bushland, it looked like a weatherboard cottage hospital. There were young soldiers in uniform everywhere and I was directed to the Commanding Officer (CO) by a laconic corporal at the front gate. I’d been forewarned. The CO, Bill Watson, had been labelled ‘Big, bad, bachelor Bill’ by one of my fellow residents, who’d already done his stint at Ingleburn. Bill Watson was certainly big and blunt, but he was also very civil. He showed me around the hospital and pointed out the forty-bed surgical ward he wanted me to look after. He said I must also assist the visiting surgeons in the small operating theatre, live in at the hospital, take emergency calls every second night and every second weekend, and help with the weekly triage of new medevac arrivals. To a new doctor it sounded daunting. However, I loved the work from the start. Apart from the few who were very unwell, most of my soldier patients were a cheerful lot of young men. They were happy to be away from their usual strenuous army routine. I had never had such appreciative ward occupants before. I took great pleasure in getting to know my patients, and I actually came to begrudge my off-duty times.
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