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To my grandma Dorothy Sissors, my bonus in life
PROLOGUE: THE AGE OF AGONY
When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is almost certainly wrong.
—ARTHUR C. CLARKE
ON THE AFTERNOON OF DECEMBER 21, 1846, hundreds of men crowded into the operating theater at London’s University College Hospital, where the city’s most renowned surgeon was preparing to enthrall them with a mid-thigh amputation. As the people filed in, they were entirely unaware that they were about to witness one of the most pivotal moments in the history of medicine.
The theater was filled to the rafters with medical students and curious spectators, many of whom had dragged in with them the dirt and grime of everyday life in Victorian London. The surgeon John Flint South remarked that the rush and scuffle to get a place in an operating theater was not unlike that for a seat in the pit or gallery of a playhouse. People were packed like herrings in a basket, with those in the back rows constantly jostling for a better view, shouting out “Heads, heads” whenever their line of sight was blocked. At times, the floor of a theater like this one could be so crowded that the surgeon couldn’t operate until it had been partially cleared. Even though it was December, the atmosphere inside the theater was stifling, verging on unbearable. The crush of bodies made the place feel plaguey hot.
The audience was made up of an eclectic group of men, some of whom were neither medical professionals nor students. The first two rows of an operating theater were typically occupied by “hospital dressers,” a term that referred to those who accompanied surgeons on their rounds, carrying boxes of supplies needed to dress wounds. Behind the dressers stood the pupils, who restlessly pushed and murmured to one another in the back rows, as well as honored guests and other members of the public.
Medical voyeurism was nothing new. It arose in the dimly lit anatomical amphitheaters of the Renaissance, where, in front of transfixed spectators, the bodies of executed criminals were dissected as an additional punishment for their crimes. Ticketed spectators watched anatomists slice into the distended bellies of decomposing corpses, parts gushing forth not only human blood but also fetid pus. The lilting but incongruous notes of a flute sometimes accompanied the macabre demonstration. Public dissections were theatrical performances, a form of entertainment as popular as cockfighting or bearbaiting. Not everyone had the stomach for it, though. The French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau said of the experience, “What a terrible sight an anatomy theatre is! Stinking corpses, livid running flesh, blood, repellent intestines, horrible skeletons, pestilential vapors! Believe me, this is not the place where [I] will go looking for amusement.”
The operating theater at University College Hospital looked more or less the same as others in the city. It consisted of a stage partially enclosed by semicircular stands rising one above another toward a large skylight that illuminated the area below. On days when swollen clouds blotted out the sun, thick candles lit the scene. In the middle of the room was a wooden table stained with the telltale signs of past butcheries. Underneath it, the floor was strewn with sawdust to soak up the blood that would shortly issue from the severed limb. On most days, the screams of those struggling under the knife mingled discordantly with everyday noises drifting in from the street below: children laughing, people chatting, carriages rumbling by.
In the 1840s, operative surgery was a filthy business fraught with hidden dangers. It was to be avoided at all costs. Due to the risks, many surgeons refused to operate altogether, choosing instead to limit their scope to the treatment of external ailments like skin conditions and superficial wounds. Invasive procedures were few and far between, which was one of the reasons why so many spectators flocked to the operating theater on the day of a procedure. In 1840, for instance, only 120 operations were performed at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. Surgery was always a last resort and only done in matters of life and death.
The physician Thomas Percival advised surgeons to change their aprons and to clean the table and instruments between procedures, not for hygienic purposes, but to avoid “every thing that may incite terror.” Few heeded his advice. The surgeon, wearing a blood-encrusted apron, rarely washed his hands or his instruments and carried with him into the theater the unmistakable smell of rotting flesh, which those in the profession cheerfully referred to as “good old hospital stink.”
At a time when surgeons believed pus was a natural part of the healing process rather than a sinister sign of sepsis, most deaths were due to postoperative infections. Operating theaters were gateways to death. It was safer to have an operation at home than in a hospital, where mortality rates were three to five times higher than they were in domestic settings. As late as 1863, Florence Nightingale declared, “The actual mortality in hospitals, especially in those of large crowded cities, is very much higher than any calculation founded on the mortality of the same class of diseases amongst patients treated out of the hospital would lead us to expect.” Being treated at home, however, was expensive.
The infections and the filth weren’t the only problems. Surgery was painful. For centuries, people sought ways to make it less so. Although nitrous oxide had been recognized as a painkiller since the chemist Joseph Priestley first synthesized it in 1772, “laughing gas” was not normally used in surgery, because its results were unreliable. Mesmerism—named after the German physician Franz Anton Mesmer, who invented the hypnotic technique in the 1770s—had also failed to be accepted into mainstream medical practice in the eighteenth century. Mesmer and his followers thought that when they moved their hands in front of patients, a physical influence of some kind was generated over them. This influence created positive physiological changes that would help patients heal and could also imbue a person with psychic powers. Most doctors remained unconvinced.
Mesmerism enjoyed a brief revival in Britain in the 1830s, when the physician John Elliotson began holding public displays at University College Hospital during which two of his patients, Elizabeth and Jane O’Key, were able to predict the fate of other hospital patients. Under Elliotson’s hypnotic influence, they claimed to see “Big Jacky” (otherwise known as Death) hovering over the beds of those who later died. Any serious interest in Elliotson’s methods was short-lived, however. In 1838, the editor of The Lancet, the world’s leading medical journal, tricked the O’Key sisters into confessing their fraud, thus exposing Elliotson as a charlatan.
The scandal was still fresh in the minds of those attending University College Hospital on the afternoon of December 21, when the renowned surgeon Robert Liston announced he’d be testing the efficacy of ether on his patient. “We are going to try a Yankee dodge today, gentlemen, for making men insensible!” he declared as he made his way to the center of the stage. A hush fell over the theater as he began to speak. Like mesmeri
sm, the use of ether was seen as a suspect foreign technique for putting people into a subdued state of consciousness. It was referred to as the Yankee dodge due to its being first used as a general anesthetic in America. It had been discovered in 1275, but its stupefying effects weren’t synthesized until 1540, when the German botanist and chemist Valerius Cordus created a revolutionary formula that involved adding sulfuric acid to ethyl alcohol. His contemporary Paracelsus experimented with ether on chickens, noting that when the birds drank the liquid, they would undergo prolonged sleep and awake unharmed. He concluded that the substance “quiets all suffering without any harm and relieves all pain, and quenches all fevers, and prevents complications in all disease.” Yet it would be several hundred years before it was tested on humans.
That moment came in 1842, when Crawford Williamson Long became the first documented doctor to use ether as a general anesthetic, in an operation to remove a tumor from a patient’s neck in Jefferson, Georgia. Unfortunately, Long didn’t publish the results of his experiments until 1848. By that time, the Boston dentist William T. G. Morton had won fame in September 1846 by using ether on a patient while extracting a tooth. An account of this successful and painless procedure was published in a newspaper, prompting a notable surgeon to ask Morton to assist him in an operation removing a large tumor from a patient’s lower jaw at Massachusetts General Hospital.
On November 18, 1846, Dr. Henry Jacob Bigelow wrote about this groundbreaking moment in The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal: “It has long been an important problem in medical science to devise some method of mitigating the pain of surgical operations. An efficient agent for this purpose has at length been discovered.” Bigelow went on to describe how Morton had administered what he called “Letheon” to the patient before the operation commenced. This was a gas named after the river Lethe in classical mythology, which made the souls of the dead forget their lives on earth. Morton, who had patented the composition of the gas shortly after the operation, kept its parts secret, even from the surgeons. Bigelow revealed, however, that he could detect the sickly sweet smell of ether in it. News about the miraculous substance that could render people unconscious during surgery spread quickly around the world as surgeons rushed to test the effects of ether on their own patients.
Back in London, the American physician Francis Boott received a letter from Bigelow giving a full account of the momentous events in Boston. Intrigued, Boott persuaded the dental surgeon James Robinson to administer ether during one of his many tooth extractions. The experiment was such a success that Boott hurried over to University College Hospital to speak to Robert Liston that very same day.
Liston was skeptical, though not enough to pass up an opportunity to try something new in the operating theater. If nothing else, it would make for a good show, something for which he was known throughout the country. He agreed to use it in his next operation, scheduled two days hence.
* * *
Liston arrived on the scene in London at a time when “gentleman physicians” held considerable power and influence over the medical community. They were part of the ruling elite, forming the top of a medical pyramid. As such, they acted as gatekeepers for their profession, admitting only men whom they believed had good breeding and high moral standing. They themselves were bookish types with very little practical training who used their minds, not their hands, to treat patients. Their education was rooted in the classics. It was not uncommon during this period for physicians to prescribe treatment without first performing a physical examination. Indeed, some dispensed medical advice through letters alone, never laying eyes on the patient in question.
In contrast, surgeons came from a long tradition of being trained through apprenticeships, the value of which depended heavily on the master’s capabilities. Theirs was a practical trade, one to be taught by precept and example. Many surgeons in the first decades of the nineteenth century didn’t attend university. Some were even illiterate. Directly below them were the apothecaries, who were in charge of dispensing drugs. In theory, there was a clear demarcation between the surgeon and the apothecary. In practice, a man who had been apprenticed to a surgeon might also act as an apothecary and vice versa. This gave rise to an unofficial fourth category, the “surgeon-apothecary,” who was akin to the modern general practitioner. The surgeon-apothecary was a doctor of first resort for the poor, especially outside London.
Beginning in 1815, a form of systematic education began to emerge in the medical world, driven in part by a broader demand within the country for uniformity in a fragmented system. For surgical students in London, reform brought about requirements that they attend lectures and walk the wards of hospitals for at least six months before obtaining a license from the profession’s governing body, the Royal College of Surgeons. Teaching hospitals began to spring up all over the capital, the first appearing at Charing Cross in 1821, with University College Hospital and King’s College Hospital following in 1834 and 1839, respectively. If one wanted to go a step further and become a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, he had to spend at least six years in professional study, including three years at a hospital; submit written accounts of at least six clinical cases; and take a grueling two-day examination that sometimes required him to perform dissections and operations on a cadaver.
The surgeon thus began his evolution from an ill-trained technician to a modern surgical specialist in those first decades of the nineteenth century. As an instructor at one of the newly built teaching hospitals in London, Robert Liston was very much a part of this ongoing transformation.
At six feet two, Liston was eight inches taller than the average British male. He had built his reputation on brute force and speed at a time when both were crucial to the survival of the patient. Those who came to witness an operation might miss it if they looked away even for a moment. It was said of Liston by his colleagues that when he amputated, “the gleam of his knife was followed so instantaneously by the sound of sawing as to make the two actions appear almost simultaneous.” His left arm was reportedly so strong that he could use it as a tourniquet, while he wielded the knife in his right hand. This was a feat that required immense strength and dexterity, given that patients often struggled against the fear and agony of the surgeon’s assault. Liston could remove a leg in less than thirty seconds, and in order to keep both hands free, he often clasped the bloody knife between his teeth while working.
Liston’s speed was both a gift and a curse. Once, he accidentally sliced off a patient’s testicle along with the leg he was amputating. His most famous (and possibly apocryphal) mishap involved an operation during which he worked so rapidly that he took off three of his assistant’s fingers and, while switching blades, slashed a spectator’s coat. Both the assistant and the patient died later of gangrene, and the unfortunate bystander expired on the spot from fright. It is the only surgery in history said to have had a 300 percent fatality rate.
Indeed, the perils of shock and pain limited surgical treatments before the dawn of anesthetics. One surgical text from the eighteenth century declared, “Painful methods are always the last remedies in the hands of a man that is truly able in his profession; and they are the first, or rather they are the only resource of him whose knowledge is confined to the art of operating.” Those desperate enough to go under the knife were subject to unimaginable agony.
The traumas of the operating theater could take a toll on student spectators too. The Scottish obstetrician James Y. Simpson fled an amputation of the breast when he was studying at the University of Edinburgh. The sight of the soft tissues being lifted with a hook-like instrument and the surgeon preparing to make two sweeping cuts around the breast proved too much for Simpson. He forced his way back through the crowd, exited the theater, hurried through the hospital gates, and made his way up to Parliament Square, where he declared breathlessly that he now wished to study law. Fortunately for posterity, Simpson—who would go on to discover chloroform—was dissuaded from pursuing a change
of career.
Although Liston was all too aware of what awaited his patients on the operating table, he often downplayed the horrors for the sake of protecting their nerves. Just months before his experiment with ether, he removed the leg of a twelve-year-old child named Henry Pace, who had been suffering from a tubercular swelling of the right knee. The boy asked the surgeon whether the operation would hurt, and Liston responded, “No more than having a tooth out.” When the moment came to have his leg removed, Pace was brought into the theater blindfolded and pinned down by Liston’s assistants. The boy counted six strokes of the saw before his leg dropped off. Sixty years later, Pace would recount the story to medical students at University College London—the horror of the experience, no doubt, fresh in his mind as he sat in the very hospital in which he had lost his leg.
Like many surgeons operating in a pre-anesthetic era, Liston had learned to steel himself against the cries and protests of those strapped to the blood-spattered operating table. On one occasion, Liston’s patient, who had come in to have a bladder stone removed, ran from the room in terror and locked himself in the lavatory before the procedure could begin. Liston, hot on his heels, broke the door down and dragged the screaming patient back to the operating room. There, he bound the man fast before passing a curved metal tube up the patient’s penis and into the bladder. He then slid a finger into the man’s rectum, feeling for the stone. Once Liston had located it, his assistant removed the metal tube and replaced it with a wooden staff, which acted as a guide so the surgeon wouldn’t fatally rupture the patient’s rectum or intestines as he began cutting deep into the bladder. Once the staff was in place, Liston cut diagonally through the fibrous muscle of the scrotum until he reached the wooden staff. Next, he used the probe to widen the hole, ripping open the prostate gland in the process. At this point, he removed the wooden staff and used forceps to extract the stone from the bladder.
The Butchering Art Page 1
