She
was a lovely little girl, six years old, exceptionally pretty, bright,
happy. But our studies showed a large
tumor in her brain. Operating, I found
the hemisphere markedly enlarged by giant cyst associated with the tumor. I started in after the fluid—filled mass
and. Disaster! Suddenly the hemisphere
collapsed and the large vessels on its surface ruptured, flooding my operating
field with blood.
My colleagues and I struggled to
stem the torrential flow, but we were losing the battle. Gloom settled on us. With my fingers, I held little pads of
cotton tight against the hemorrhaging vessels, striving desperately to control
the bleeding. At last I succeeded. I dared not to release my fingers; all I
could do was pray while the child was transfused.
As I waited, I felt terribly
inadequate, humble. Who was I to be
engaged in such awesome work, to think it was my responsibility, and mine
alone, to remove this ugly growth from this little girl’s brain—the tissue
substrate of her highest functions, her wonderful personality, her
intelligence, memory, emotions, free will?
This area where we were operating, that was where she was, it was who
she was.
Half an hour passed. The operating room was alive with a terribly
quiet tension. No one, including me,
believed I could lift my fingers from the pressure points without releasing
another river of blood. I kept applying
digital pressure and preying, praying to God to will the necessary strength
into my hands.
And then, quite suddenly, I felt
relaxed. I knew I had done all was in
my power to do, and I was full of comfortable certainty that I could
proceed. Somehow God was in the room
with us. Carefully, slowly, I released
my pressure on the vessels, one finger at a time. There was no bleeding until all my fingers were free. Then one vessel began to bleed, but it was
easily controlled.
It took 4 ½ hours to remove the
tumor. I stayed close to the little
girl’s bed for the next week. Her
wounds healed well; no re-hemorrhaging, no neurological deflect, no brain
damage. The result was all that had
been hoped for, and the girl today is normal, happy teen-ager.
In 1974 I operated on a young boy
who had suffered two massive brain hemorrhages—the result, studies showed, of a
small tumor at the very center of his brain.
The hemorrhaged areas were badly infected. The lad became comatose; he was dying. We placed tubes into both sides of the brain and literally washed
out the brain cavity with cold antibiotic solutions—a revolutionary new
technique of our own devising. Later we
placed the boy on a respirator, a breathing machine, and reduced his body
temperature.
For weeks the fight for life
continued. I kept praying, not only for
the boy and his parents but also for the strength to sustain the entire medical
team in the sad and exhausting case.
Then, almost imperceptibly and for reasons not yet clear, the boy began
to improve. After a fortnight we
removed the cooling blanket. Another
two weeks and we were able to remove him from respirator, then to remove the
drainage tubing from the brain. Now, in
my daily meetings with the distraught parents, I began suggesting the
possibility that their son might survive, even if incapable of anything
resembling a normal life. Yet,
unaccountably, he continued to improve.
By the time we discharged him, I was able to describe him as a spastic
with severe mental retardation—far better than we had dared hope.
Several months later, the parents
brought the boy back to me for an examination.
I am still astounded at what I found: he was in all respects completely,
utterly normal—happy, active child. The
tumor is still there, in the center of his brain—we continue to keep a close
watch on it—but it has caused no further trouble nor has grown.
If I seem to be saying that I have
witnessed miracles that is not what I believe.
To be sure, I have been in many extremely dangerous operating-room
situations—several of them apparently hopeless—in which to my amazement the
patient has survived and prospered. But
I see nothing “miraculous” about these successes. I don’t think they would have occurred without the combined hest
efforts of all the medical professionals in that, I believe; it would not have
been achieved without Divine help in making the decisions and in the actual
technical performance.
Many research scientists seem to
lose faith as their knowledge increases.
For me, the opposite has occurred.
My experiences with my patients, and in my neurological research trying
to unravel the mysteries of the brain, have put me more than ever I awe of the
brain. And I am left with no choice but
to acknowledge the existence of a Superior Intellect, responsible for the
design and development of the incredible brain-mind relationship—something far
beyond man’s capacity to understand.
Just think about this wondrous
organ, the human brain. The most
sophisticated computer man will ever build will not match the complexity,
efficiency and performance of this gelatinous mass of tissue weighing approximately
three pounds. With its topography of
small hills and narrow valleys crisscrossed with red and blue streams,
one-brain looks much laid any other.
But somewhere in there is what makes each of us unique. For the brain contains the mind, the relationship
between the container and its contains, science knows very little.
I am convinced that the brain is the
repository of the human spirit, the soul.
Therefore, to me the brain is a holy place. Still, it is subject to injury and illness, and sometimes it is
necessary for us to enter and search its depths for tumors, hemorrhages, and
infections. To work in this area
strikes me as an almost religious undertaking, and one demanding the highest of
human skills. I need a very solid set
of beliefs to sustain me in such work.
I recall a lovely, long-ago spring
day when I was called to a veteran’s hospital for consultation in the case of a
man in his early 30s who had a malignant brain tumor. His room was full of colorful, homemade get-well cards, several
with pictures on them of a beautiful little dark-haired girl, and her
repetitive plea; “Get well soon, Daddy”; “Come home soon”; “I miss you so much”
But as I studied the young man’s records and examined him, I knew he would not
be going home again.
My depression was profound. I would mot want to try to weather such
moments without the realization that understanding is beyond me, without faith
that the patient and all involved with him are moving ahead, that they happen
now to be center stage in a grand drama of time and space in which each of us
figures significantly.
For me, the practice of medicine and
religious faith are inextricably interwoven.
I prey a great deal, especially before and after surgery. I find prayer satisfying. I feel there are immense resources behind
me, resources I need and want.
I knew great and good men among my
colleagues who seem able satisfactorily to explain things to themselves in
terms of mathematics and chemical formulas, and are comfortable in assuming
that what is not explainable today will come clear as science continues to
progress. Yet the notion that human
life is nothing more than a chance confluence of complex molecular biology and
electrical activity strikes me as a defiance of logic.
From purely scientific standpoint,
it seems to me the human brain-mind is so far beyond anything science have ever
developed that a Superior Intellect-Creator is demanded to explain the
uniqueness and individually of the human being. No matter how much we learn about brain, we can never expect to
explain the mind completely. And I have
to believe all this had an intelligent beginning that someone made it
happen. I can’t accept the proposition
that at random points in time such substantial entities as intelligence,
personality, memory and the human body just sort of fell together.
I also find it unreasonable to
suppose that the brain death those powerful entities of intelligence,
personality and memory simply cease to exist.
Far more reasonable to believe that the essence of us escapes from a
container, the brain, which no longer is capable of supporting us, and finds
support in a new dimension.
As to what becomes of the essence of
us at brain death, I can’t presume even to speculate. I can only say that logic leads me inescapably to faith—faith
that the uniqueness, the individuality, of the human being lives on in this
concept we call the soul.
