A doctor remember for his poetry, and an assistant surgeon that has saved countless young lives share a birthday. Poem by birthday poet.
The date is August 29th, Thursday, and today I’m coming to you from Portland, OR.
Today is the birthday of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr, American physician and writer.
Born in 1809, he had the good fortunate to attend small but good schools in Boston. From a young age, Holmes was noted as a very talkative lad. It was the only sticking point for his secondary school teachers, who admired his quick mind.
At sixteen Holmes enrolled at Harvard University. He carried on his love for reading and chatting by joining the “Puffmaniacs” a group of students who would sit around talking about all manner of things while smoking, presumably, pipes.
Struggling in his law studies some years later, Holmes occupied himself with writing poetry. He discovered he rather had a knack for it. By 1830 he had become a well-known and in-demand poet in a young America.
However, Holmes ultimately settled on a career in medicine and wrote in his free time. He was often called upon to compose poems for special occasions and so felt he was a “florist of verse.” He knew invitations came with the expectation that he would read a relevant poem of his own creation.
Along with Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, John Whittier, James Lowell, and William Bryant, Holmes is known as a Fireside Poet. His poems generally used conventional rhymes, a strong sense of rhythm, and wholesome “family-friendly” subjects.
And today is the birthday of Vivien Thomas, African American medical researcher and assistant surgeon.
The grandson of a slave, Vivien Thomas had dreams of becoming a doctor. However, the Great Depression in 1929 thwarted his plans of a medical degree. He stopped taking classes at what is now known as Tennessee State University and instead found work as a lab assistant to surgeon Alfred Blalock at Vanderbilt University. Although he was classified as and paid like a janitor, by the mid-1930s, Thomas was doing the work of a postdoc under the tutelage of Blalock.
When Blalock accepted a position at John Hopkins, he insisted that Thomas be hired along with him. At John Hopkins, Blalock and Thomas were approached by Helen Taussig to develop a procedure that would save newborns with blue baby syndrome. Blalock directed Thomas to begin experimenting with procedures on dogs.
After Thomas completed a number of successful surgeries on dogs, Blalock was confident that a similar procedure would work on affected babies. Of course, this is an oversimplification of what was a harrowing effort, but suffice it to say that Blalock, Thomas, and Taussig succeeded in understanding the problems of blue baby syndrome and finding the first surgical procedure to cure the condition.
A colleague of Dr. Blalock at John Hopkins, Dr. J. Alex Haller, remembered, “Dr. Blalock once said that Vivien Thomas’ hands were more important to him in the development of the blue-baby operation than his own — and he meant it.”
The Last Leaf
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
I saw him once before,
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o’er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
“They are gone.”
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said—
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago—
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow;
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff,
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.