Quality, Not Quantity
Needed
Lapius had warned me
that morning that Dean Cator would probably be at the house when I got home.
“You don’t mean Edward
Ullrich Cator the famous educator?” I
feigned awe.
“Of course. One
and the same, Harry. He is interested in my ideas about medical
education.”
“Really?”
“Not really,” said
Lapius. “That is merely his approach when he wants to solicit donations
to support his three year course for bright students at the medical school.”
“And you donate to that
folderol?” I asked with astonishment.
“Certainly. I
donate my ideas on medical education,” said S.Q. Lapius.
Dean Cator was indeed an
imposing man. When I entered he was half defrocked, and already under the
influence of some Lapius imbibe-ments. He sat in vest and shirtsleeves
with a gold chain strung in two neat catenary curves between pockets on either
side of his vest. His bald head shone even in the dim lighting, like the
skin of figures at was-works.
When I entered he
bestirred himself to grasp my hand in both of his, and fondle it gently.
“Harry, so good to see
you again. How well I remember you as one of my best students.”
Since I had graduated somewhere in the middle of the class, the dean’s memory
was mind-boggling and I figured he was trying to hit me up for a donation too.
“But why the three year
course in medical school?” Lapius inquired.
“Simple, Simon,” the
dean said, while Lapius shuddered at the juxtaposition of those words.
“The country needs more doctors. Therefore if we turn out a class every
three years instead of every four, ergo, about a 30 percent increase in the
number of doctors available.”
“But aren’t they a
little young, Dean?” Lapius asked. “I understand that the medical school
curriculum is combined with only two years of college.”
“Quite true,” said the
dean urbanely. “I spent a lot of time working out the curriculum.
The nation must be served, Simon, and I take pride in my role of creating the
number of doctors we are going to need.”
“Perhaps you will
increase the number of individuals who have M.D. degrees, dean, but you won’t
necessarily increase the number of doctors.”
“How so?” the dean
appeared bewildered.
“Because there is an
element of maturity required of those asked to assume the responsibility of a
physician. One purpose of four years in college and then four years in
medical school and then four or five years in training, is to allow time for
children to grow up. It seems to me you are pruning the youth before they
ripen enough to bear fruit.”
The dean didn’t care for
the turn in the conversation, and took the moment to refill his glass with the
tacky cherry liqueur that Lapius had served.
“But surely, Simon, they
will have plenty of time to grow up after they have finished medical school and
the prerequisite training, which, incidentally, I am trying to reduce to two
years.”
“Well, maybe you are
right, Dean. Perhaps three years is all that is needed. The kids
today are so bright. But I must say, that since I graduated, even since
Harry left school, the science of medicine has grown so fantastically that I
would, were I the dean, increase the requisite years to six instead of reducing
them to three. The basic sciences alone should take three years, which
would allow no time for clinical training.”
“Simply look at the
progress that has been made in the study of fluid balance, electrolytes, blood
gases, inhalation therapy, biochemistry; to say nothing of the literally
hundreds of new therapeutic regimens that have been introduced. Even the
expanded use of aspirin and the biochemical basis of its interactions is
probably worth a month of study alone. How can all that be compressed into
three years, and don’t forget kidney dialysis, the new advances in cardiology –
my goodness, I have had to spend a lifetime learning things I would have been
glad to have learned in medical school. I have often remarked to Harry
that I was sorry to have been born too early and to have missed the marvelous
educational opportunity offered to present day students, haven’t I Harry?”
“Yes indeed you have,
Simon,” I agreed hurriedly.
“So you see, Dean,”
Lapius continued, “there can be no way that the curriculum can be compressed to
three years and still turn out doctors.”
“Ah, Simon, but you are
wrong. We do that by simply cutting the fat out of the curriculum.”
“What fat,” Lapius
owl-eyed, asked incredulously?
“The specialties.
We exclude studies in ear, nose and throat, ophthalmology, urology and
dermatology, to list a few. That way the student doesn’t have to be encumbered
with information he won’t need unless he decides to go into one of those
specialties. Then he can pick up the information in his residency
training.”
“My God,” Lapius
exclaimed in horror, “You’ve dissected the human body before the student even
gets into the anatomy room--.”
“Oh yes we have excluded
that too. He can pick anatomy up in surgical residency.”
“The curriculum at the
school for practical nursing is more comprehensive, Dean. You are
graduating a generation of imposters, not doctors. Medical education
should not be degraded, but uplifted.”
“But the
under-privileged lack medical care, Lapius,” the dean said tartly.
“Perhaps, but that is a
condition that will hardly be corrected by your misguided educational values.”
“Then I take it you won’t
donate.”
“Of course not. I
shan’t participate in a plan that so diminishes a great profession.”
Cator flung his coat
over his shoulders like a cape and left in a Huff, (a small economy car).
“I think you made him
angry,” I remarked.
“I hope so,” said
Lapius. “If doctors won’t protect the great profession of medicine, who
will?”
“Maybe the public?”
“Perhaps,” said Lapius
morosely, “but a few generations will pass before they learn they have been
misled.”