Health Sciences Center Library

Health Sciences Center Library '///////vy////;///y////v//:///yf////y)yrr/f///'////r/ /r ;/////s</</rr/j ///>y/r/y ///.y/////// ///r/y/// /// (ZMC /// ///////J it/'///'//-/-/. • ./ft//.'/</fsJ.r/ //////fyj///f J//J/f r/;//y/f-n//rr rr //y/////rr r.)////'//.;, //so /////// /y, PRAESES CURATORES PROFESSORES UXIVERSITATIS TEMPLATE PHILADELPHIEXSIS Yr//r/f-;/y/f//r <Z <L(yd"Vfr/tf/r/f/Y / M/ >////3d //./////'/////// ///'/'/j f/'//M/j/JJ/f /v// ///vrf/ff/// ec/ccn/ aeM Pcfared //•low? rt'/e ////////Jf/////,) euM/se />///////////rrr///>//c/yj // r/ /'//r///s/ ///////////•///'///////// //////////////'/ //r/'/f//("////// ///'r///s'r r//s/r/'.).J//////J. fz/////.J /w ///• /i'j////wj/////// /*/,///•/.//'////'/jt/f.// nvrn/z/ta, ///u//vr ////' XV ///r//J/.J Tti/tt'c a/////>. //f/////j A/CA'/i,X/ . y/////////r//////'//f> jffrjr/'//tj/)///o CJl RV „/y,r/,:/f,„„,/,. 5. <y^d^^.<^Z^Jd^-^ TEMPLE UNIVERSITY SCHOOL OF MEDICINE Library T!f ^reenter Health bci—•> u CONTENTS Dedications Elizabeth Lautsch M.D., Ph.D. H. Taylor Caswell M.D. History of the Health Sciences Center Clinics and Community Medicine Faculty and Administration Senior Class Social Events Underclassmen Patrons and Advertisements Elizabeth V. Lautsch, M.D., Ph.D. She moves around the rostrum, lecturing with great enthusiasm and intensity. In the laboratory she works with extraordinary endurance, appreciative of small gains in research. In private conversation she displays the outspokenness of a teenage girl; one is surprised realizing this is an august Professor of Pathology. More than fifteen years ago, Elizabeth Lautsch went directly from an internship to a local practice in a small industrial town near Winnipeg. In time the practice grew so large she was "collecting symp toms" and giving what she hoped was "appropriate" therapy only. She had little knowledge of the disease process; she had few ways of checking her method ology. She felt "inadequate," thinking she was failing to advance her understanding. She decided to become a student again. Despite the loss of patient contact, which she treasured, she chose Pathology. Her loss became the students' gain. Her students became her "patients" —sick in ignorance, "cured" by regular, insidious doses of knowledge. The reward is mutual. Dr. Lautsch believes in the power of the science of Pathology to show the "errors and possibilities" of medicine. The autopsy, in her eyes, is a learning opportunity for all physicians and students; a chance to witness the disease process, to reveal the enemy. But the revelation comes at some cost. The "little unpleasantness" of the autopsy room, the cost of seeing the "hideous," the "tragic," is an admitted liability but is no barrier to knowledge. She has never performed an autopsy without "compassion and sorrow." This woman who can speak of the "celestial" joy of childbearing, who made sure to put her daughters to bed every evening before returning to the hospital, loves teaching. Her students, like her children, are her "social life" and they too grow by learning. She always gets "spastic" while preparing a lecture, not sure of herself unless she has combed the latest sources. She is chronically dissatisfied with her lec ture presentations and she gave herself three years to improve her teaching, or leave the very year the students singled her out for excellence. She is al ways "a little bit dissatisfied." She reveals some Prussian blood, a hard sense of duty. She must have the German Romantic in her too, enjoying the aspiring quality of her research, the anticipation. She is genuine. If we ever forget the "realities of life and death," that we figure in the patient's "destiny," we shall see those grey eyes flash as if to say, "perhaps you were stupid, or careless, or did your best, but it is the patient who pays in the end." And we finally grow up, realizing that responsibility; but always we remain her students. H. Taylor Caswell, M.D. The conference room, with its antiseptic lack of color, is quickly hushed. Several handsful of stu dents concentrate on the droning recitation of a student discussor. Infrequently, a distant page is heard; the hospital has just begun to awaken. Some where near the rear of the room, cigarette smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling. Along the side of the room, a lanky, thin, somewhat drawn man squirms uncomfortably in a chair not made for his dimen sions. He tries first one position, then another. Moments later, he settles into a cross-legged, semi- reclining slouch, the lab coat in careless disarray. He straightens it, wraps it about his limbs and re laxes to the monotonous recitative. Now the signals begin. Much as the classic parody of a third-base baseball coach, "Cas" begins his routine of hand and facial movements: right hand to forehead; stroke the temple; rub the chin; join the index fingers and prop the nose with the so-formed buttress; scratch the cheek. He shifts his position in the chair and begins the routine anew. The dis cussor must have received the signal for he begins a recital of statistical studies. Numbers are juggled, three cherries appear in the slot and the treatment, as recommended, pops out at the bottom of the machine. Having appeared lethargic throughout the entire conference, "Cas" is now wide awake. Sitting bolt upright, he begins the destruction of the discussor's theories, hopes, and fantasies. The coup de grace is administered by recounting the tale of the female patient whose symptoms, diagnosis, and treatment run counter to everything recommended by the standard authorities—the statistical dictators. The lesson to be learned is that the physician is an entity, the patient another entity, and that a treatment must be devised which is satisfactory and acceptable to both. This, to the student, is the reality of H. Taylor Caswell, surgeon. It is not a Hollywood vision of flashing steel, grandeloquent gestures, heroic deeds, and primadonna temperament. Rather, it is the image of a great teacher; patient, yet demanding, informative, but not didactic. He is a product of Temple's educational philosophy just as he now perpetuates it; the production of a highly skilled, knowledgeable, free-thinking clinician. "Cas" wears many hats to many different people. He is president of the faculty, author of respected papers, protector to his patients, and father of four boys including a member of our own class. But to the Class of 1968, H. Taylor Caswell is a great teacher. •y'"" ' "-..•"• " . yy. yy:y->. ...... ...... - . ...... The house is a large double one with fourteen rooms, admirably adapted to hospital purposes. It stands on a plot of ground fifty by two hundred and twenty feet, which is tastefully laid out in lawns, flower beds, trees, walks, etc. and presents an appearance, inside and out, of a large private home rather than a hos pital—a feature quickly observed and highly appre ciated by the patients. —Report of Samaritan Hospital, 1892 FROM CARRIAGE HOUSE TO SCIENCE CENTER One evening in 1890, in the parlor of a home in Tioga, ten men discussed the recent death of a patient and friend. These physicians were residents of Tioga, Franklinville, and Germantown, and period ically they met to review the causes of mortality in their respective practices. The post-mortem sessions led to closer professional relationships, and often during their social hours the dream of a new hospital dominated the conversation. In early 1891 under the name North Philadelphia Medical Society they rented a brick building at 3320 N. Broad. It offered free and paid inpatient service, plus an active dispensary unit. Five months after its opening, the President of the Society proclaimed the venture a financial disaster. His resignation was followed by desperate attempts by a group of good Baptist ladies to raise funds, but their efforts were fruitless and the hospital closed. Finally the Society appealed to the Rev. Russell H. Conwell, an educator of high repute, who had dis tinguished himself for raising money when there was no money. In late 1891 Conwell transferred the facilities to a brick building north of Ontario and East Broad, and on January 20, 1892 he formally opened it as the Samaritan Hospital. Because Conwell was a visionary, young Philadel- phians turned to him with their ideas. Many wanted to become physicians, but could not give up their regular sources of income. Therefore, in 1901 Con well opened Temple College School of Medicine to thirty students, who were willing to study medicine on evenings and weekends. To compound this mad ness Conwell admitted women and made Temple Pennsylvania's first coeducational medical school. The chemistry and biology laboratories of the College and the hall next to the Baptist Temple were the arenas of the basic sciences, while clinical in struction took place at the Samaritan Hospital. The first dissection room was located in the loft of the hospital ambulance house—with the vehicle and horses quartered below. The curriculum was five years—equivalent to four years of day courses. In 1903 a correlated curricu lum was established—a method of modern design; for Conwell scheduled simultaneous lectures on specific organ systems by professors of anatomy, physiology, and medicine. By 1907 Temple offered a four year day course. Night classes continued, but only accounted for the first two years. The clinical years required day attendance. By 1908 there were 232 enrolled. The lack of facilities was offset by the quality of the new faculty. In 1903 no one could be on the Samaritan House Staff unless they taught at the medical school. They were distinguished and adven turous men. The first TB lobectomy and the first peripheral nerve transplant for paralysis were per formed at the Samaritan in addition to important work with spinal anesthesia and new methods of skin grafting.

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