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(Download PDF) The Mystery of The Exploding Teeth and Other Curiosities From The History of Medicine 1St Edition Morris Online Ebook All Chapter PDF
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Version_1
For Jenny
✴
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
1. UNFORTUNATE PREDICAMENTS
A fork up the anus ✴ Swallowing knives is bad for you ✴ The golden padlock ✴ The boy who got
his wick stuck in a candlestick ✴ Shot by a toasting fork ✴ Mr. Dendy’s eggcup case ✴ Broken
glass and boiled cabbage ✴ Honking like a goose ✴ Penis in a bottle ✴ The colonic carpentry kit
✴ Suffocated by a fish
2. MYSTERIOUS ILLNESSES
A hideous thing happened in High Holborn ✴ The incredible sleeping woman ✴ The dreadful
mortification ✴ The human pincushion ✴ The man who fought a duel in his sleep ✴ The mystery
of the exploding teeth ✴ The woman who peed through her nose ✴ The boy who vomited his own
twin ✴ The case of the luminous patients ✴ The missing pen
3. DUBIOUS REMEDIES
Death of an earl ✴ The tobacco-smoke enema ✴ Saliva and crow’s vomit ✴ The pigeon’s-rump
cure ✴ Mercury cigarettes ✴ The tapeworm trap ✴ The port-wine enema ✴ The snake-dung
salesman
4. HORRIFYING OPERATIONS
The case of the drunken Dutchman’s guts ✴ If you can’t find a surgeon . . . ✴ The self-inflicted
lithotripsy ✴ A high pain threshold ✴ A window in his chest ✴ The sad case of Hoo Loo ✴ All at
sea ✴ An extraordinary surgical operation
5. REMARKABLE RECOVERIES
The wandering musket ball ✴ The miller’s tale ✴ In one side and out the other ✴ A bayonet
through the head ✴ An interesting and remarkable accident ✴ The lucky Prussian ✴ A case for
Dr. Coffin ✴ The healing power of nature ✴ Severed, replaced, reunited ✴ Give that man a medal
✴ A bit of a headache
6. TALL TALES
Sleeping with the fishes ✴ Death of a 152-year-old ✴ The combustible countess ✴ He sliced his
penis in two ✴ Half man, half snake ✴ The human waxwork ✴ The slugs and the porcupine ✴
The amphibious infant ✴ The seventy-year-old mother-to-be
7. HIDDEN DANGERS
A surfeit of cucumbers ✴ The perils of being a writer ✴ Why children should never wear hats ✴
Killed by his false teeth ✴ Pegged out ✴ The cast-iron stove panic ✴ Brolly painful ✴ A flaming
nuisance ✴ Cycling will give you heart disease
Sources
Acknowledgments
Index
About the Author
INTRODUCTION
John Marsh, aged 50, a labourer, was brought into the hospital,
having just been run over by a cart laden with bricks. His scrotum, on
inspection, was found to be of most enormous size, extending two
thirds downwards between the thighs, and measuring in circumference
17 inches. Its colour of a jet black; and its texture, from over
distention, so exquisitely thin as to threaten immediate rupture from
the slightest manipulation.
On the twelfth day from the occurrence of the injury the patient was
reported as quite convalescent, and able to sit up for some hours in
bed, the precaution of applying a truss having previously been taken.
At the end of the third week he was discharged cured.
He is compelled to wear his double truss both night and day, otherwise
the viscera descend immediately into the scrotum in very large
quantities.
I soon discovered that you can hardly flick through the pages of an old
medical journal without stumbling across a story that is compellingly
disgusting, hilarious or downright bizarre. In between long, dry
dissertations on London sanitation or the treatment of yellow fever are
scattered little anecdotal gems: tales of patients who glowed in the dark,
performed surgery on their own bodies or vomited living slugs. Some are
poignant or touching, a few are grim, but they all have more to offer than
just a good yarn. However embarrassing the ailment or odd the treatment,
every one of these cases says something about the beliefs and knowledge of
an earlier age. While superstition and folk traditions can be seen influencing
medics until surprisingly late, it is also clear that the practitioners of long
ago were sometimes capable of immense sophistication. I began to collect
these incredible tales from little-known corners of the medical literature:
stories of weird treatments, jaw-dropping surgery and miraculous recovery
from almost certain death.
The case histories in this book span three hundred years, from the early
seventeenth century to the turn of the twentieth. Medicine changed
dramatically during that period, undergoing a partial transformation from an
art into a science. Early modern clinicians were still heavily influenced by
the theories of ancient medicine, especially the writings of the Greek
physician Galen—even if the realization that his opinions were not, after
all, infallible had stimulated a new age of inquiry and innovation.
Nevertheless, many of their treatments were based on the Galenic idea that
health depends on the correct balance among four bodily fluids, or humors:
blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile. If a surfeit of one humor was
suspected, equilibrium could be restored by evacuating the excess, using
bleeding or purgative medicines to do so. There was no anesthesia, so
operations were short, painful and brutal—and while physicians and
apothecaries had a vast range of drugs at their disposal, few were of much
use.
Three centuries later, the microscope had shown that most infectious
diseases were caused by organisms too small to be seen by the naked eye.
Doctors had learned to control infection and perform surgery on an
unconscious patient and could prescribe drugs that were effective against a
range of serious conditions including heart failure and epilepsy. But old
remedies still lingered: Bleeding was being recommended by some old-
fashioned physicians as late as 1894, and laxatives were prescribed with
wild abandon by Victorian doctors, who seldom failed to inquire about the
state of their patients’ bowels.
Many of the treatments offered in these stories may seem ludicrous, even
barbaric, from a modern perspective, but it is worth remembering that the
medics of the past were no less intelligent or assiduous than their modern
counterparts. One thing that these case histories demonstrate is the
admirably tenacious, even bloody-minded, determination of doctors to help
their patients, in an age when their art left much to be desired. Where there
were no effective remedies, they looked for new ones, and it was inevitable
that many dead ends would be explored before they found the way ahead.
The methods they used were consistent with their understanding of how the
human body worked, and it is not their fault that medical knowledge has
advanced considerably since then.
In 1851, James Young Simpson, the pioneer of chloroform anesthesia,
wrote an article about the strange remedies employed by ancient Roman
doctors. He cautioned that it was unwise to be too hard on the
“extravagance and oddity” of their methods, adding presciently:
Perhaps, some century or two hence, our successors . . . will look back
upon our present massive and clumsy doses of vegetable powders,
bulky salts, nauseous decoctions, etc., with as much wonderment and
surprise as we now look back upon the preceding therapeutic means of
our ancestors.
Modern medical journals aren’t exactly famous for their snappy headlines.
The professional terminology doesn’t help: It’s not easy to write a zinger of
a heading if the subject of your article has a name like bestrophinopathy,
idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura or necrotizing fasciitis.
But recent years have seen a fightback against such sterile jargon, with a
few researchers trying to grab their readers’ attention by means of literary
allusions, pop culture references and bad puns. One recent article in The
New England Journal of Medicine made a desperate pitch to George R. R.
Martin fans with the headline “Game of TOR: The Target of Rapamycin
Rules Four Kingdoms.” Another, about foreign bodies in the bladder, was
headed “From Urethra with Shove.”* And for sheer chutzpah, it’s difficult
to beat “Super-mesenteric-vein-expia-thrombosis, the Clinical Sequelae
Can Be Quite Atrocious”—the improbable title of an article about a serious
complication of appendicitis.
But my favorite medical headline of all was written almost three hundred
years ago. In 1724, the Philosophical Transactions, the journal of the Royal
Society, published a letter from Mr. Robert Payne, a surgeon from
Lowestoft in Suffolk. The title is unimprovable:
This is the old sense of the word tumor: not necessarily indicating abnormal
tissue growth, but a swelling of any description. This example was, as it
turned out, some sort of cyst, and eventually its surface broke. The surgeon
suspected it was an anal fistula—an anomalous channel between the end of
the bowel and the skin. But events soon proved him wrong:
Shortly after the prongs of a fork appeared through the orifice of the
sore, above half an inch beyond the skin. As soon as the prongs
appeared, his violent pains ceased; I divided the flesh between the
prongs, according to the best of my judgment; and after that made a
circular incision about the prongs and so with a strong pair of pincers
extracted it, not without great difficulty, handle and all entire. The end
of the handle was besmeared with the excrement, when drawn out.
It is six inches and a half long, a large pocket-fork; the handle is ivory,
but is dyed of a very dark brown colour; the iron part is very black and
smooth, but not rusty.
The young man was reluctant to explain how he had managed to get himself
in this predicament; at least, not until he was threatened with the withdrawal
of his allowance.
A fact that does not alter the moral of this cautionary tale: If you’re
constipated, it’s better not to stick a fork up your fundament.
Not a particularly wise boast, and his comrades lost no time in challenging
him to prove it. Eager not to disappoint them, he put his penknife in his
mouth and swallowed it, washing it down with yet more booze.
The spectators, however, were not satisfied with one experiment, and
asked the operator “whether he could swallow more?”; his answer
was, “all the knives on board the ship”, upon which three knives were
immediately produced, which were swallowed in the same way as the
former; and “by this bold attempt of a drunken man”, (to use his own
expressions) “the company was well entertained for that night.”
Actions have consequences, as every sailor should know, and when foreign
objects are ingested, the “consequences” usually come within twelve hours.
And lo, it came to pass.*
So no problem, right?
After this great performance, he thought no more of swallowing knives
for the space of six years. In the month of March 1805, being then at
Boston, in America, he was one day tempted, while drinking with a
party of sailors, to boast of his former exploits, adding that he was the
same man still, and ready to repeat his performance; upon which a
small knife was produced, which he instantly swallowed. In the course
of that evening he swallowed five more. The next morning crowds of
visitors came to see him; and in the course of that day he was induced
to swallow eight knives more, making in all fourteen.
It seems safe to assume at this point that Mr. Cummings was not—ahem—
the sharpest knife in the drawer.
This time, however, he paid dearly for his frolic; for he was seized the
next morning with constant vomiting and pain at his stomach, which
made it necessary to carry him to Charleston hospital, where, as he
expresses it, “betwixt that period and the 28th of the following month,
he was safely delivered of his cargo.”
No doubt this was a common naval euphemism of the time rather than an
original bon mot; but it made me laugh. Having “emptied the hold,”
Cummings boarded a vessel traveling to France. But on the return journey,
his ship was intercepted by HMS Isis, and he was press-ganged into service
with the Royal Navy.
One day while at Spithead, where the ship lay some time, having got
drunk and, as usual, renewed the topic of his former follies, he was
once more challenged to repeat the experiment, and again complied,
“disdaining,” as he says, “to be worse than his word.”
An honorable person may keep their word, but a sensible one does not
consume five knives, as the misguided American did that night. And he still
wasn’t finished; far from it.
The stick had lodged in the right side of the heart, the side that propels
deoxygenated blood toward the lungs. The right auricle (known today as the
right atrium) is the chamber by which blood enters the heart, before passing
through the tricuspid (auriculo-ventricular) valve into the pumping chamber
of the right ventricle. The columnae carneae (from the Latin, literally
“meaty ridges”) are a series of muscular columns that project into the
ventricle. The stick had somehow become wedged underneath them, and a
large clot had formed around it—as one would expect when a foreign body
spends any length of time in the bloodstream.
We searched, in vain, for any wound, either in the heart itself, or in the
pericardium, by which the stick could have found its way into the
ventricle.
Highly significant. If the stick had simply pierced the wall of the heart, two
things are likely to have happened. First, the boy would almost certainly
have died within minutes: A wound big enough to admit such a large object
would have caused catastrophic bleeding. Second, in the unlikely event that
he had survived, it would have left a significant scar on the heart muscle.
Edmund Bullock, S. H. R.
John Campbell, S. P. T.
Attest, B. Thurston, C. S.
By the Governor,
Attest, B. Thurston, C. S.
Washington’s Farewell Address to the People
of the United States, Sept. 17, 1796.
Accepted as a Platform for the People of the Nation, regardless of
party.