| Departments — Endnotes | Autumn 2008 |
The Good Doctor After getting Schweitzer’s approval—and the appropriate vaccinations—I landed in this West African country for a two-month stay. Schweitzer greeted me enthusiastically. I was still in awe from meeting him as I breathlessly trailed him up a steep hill to the hospital. At 85, Schweitzer was nearly three times my age, but his capacity for hard work was astonishing. His typical day began early at his piano–organ, a gift from the Bach Society of Paris in 1915. Surrounded by books and papers, he deftly reproduced the mood of Bach, Franck, or Widor. Then it was off to work, assigning chores to members of patients’ families, who paid for part of the hospitalization by helping with the daily tasks. As Schweitzer gave orders, his pelican, Parsifal, perched near him. Schweitzer’s next stop was the pharmacie, a sturdy building that housed drugs, the outpatient department, a nursery, and the operating room. Oblivious to the cacophony of patients, doctors, nurses, and the ubiquitous animals, Schweitzer worked at his desk, where he personally answered about 200 letters weekly in a careful, clear longhand. By then, Schweitzer saw few patients, but his wise medical advice was still often sought. Occasionally a goat would dash in the room to nuzzle Schweitzer’s pocket, where he kept a small sack of food scraps for the animals. As the local veterinarian, he often nursed wounded and orphaned animals. He once raised a wild piglet to which he played and sang Brahms’ Lullaby. Visitors would begin arriving at his hospital each day at noon; about a thousand came each year. Schweitzer would graciously talk to each newcomer, pose for photos, sign books, conduct tours, and adroitly elude journalists’ questions. Each evening the striking of a gong suspended from a pair of old railroad ties would announce dinner. Inside the dining hall, we stood as Schweitzer said grace and then began a relaxed, jovial meal. When the dishes were cleared, he would select a hymn and play the accompaniment on his ancient piano. Only a virtuoso of Schweitzer’s stature could have gracefully negotiated the missing keys. He would then read a few Bible passages and, in German and with obvious pleasure, explain their historical significance. Later, Schweitzer remained available to hear any problems: medical, social, or spiritual. He was the head not simply of a hospital but of a village of a thousand patients and their family members, and of a staff of about 30, all of whom were far from home. For us, he was both counselor and mediator. After visitors left, his oil lamp continued to burn until midnight. When asked why he avoided electric lights, radios, and modern appliances, Schweitzer replied that to be simple is to be natural. He felt that man had become a prisoner of his own luxuries and, unfettered, would be more creative. Throughout his life, Schweitzer avoided complexity in his daily activities. Appropriately, he received news of his Nobel Peace Prize while doing carpentry in a hospital storeroom. When he died in 1965 at the age of 90, he had lived and worked in Lambaréné for more than 55 years. Each person who met Schweitzer painted his portrait in a particular way. I recall the white hair and moustache, the still-youthful hands on an old piano keyboard, the passion in his eyes and voice as he discussed the Bible, and an oil lamp shining into a black jungle night. As my portrait emerges, he becomes a symbol of man’s best efforts. He becomes the conscience of an age whose problems may begin to achieve resolution through inner peace. Robert M. Goldwyn ’56, a former chief of the Division of Plastic Surgery at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center and an HMS clinical professor of surgery, has retired from surgical practice. He has been a member of the Harvard Medical Alumni Bulletin’s editorial board for more than 40 years. Photo caption: “Dr. Goldwyn very efficient, very sweet,” Schweitzer wrote in a cable in 1961. “We are deeply grateful to Boston for sending him to us.” Photo: courtesy of Robert M. Goldwyn |
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