| Features | Spring 2008 |
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Inside Out Bones brought them together, the surgeon and the dentist– The surgeon rode the wave of early enthusiasm for the technology to construct a Christmas card that boasted an x-ray of his professor’s arm—and the Civil War bullet lodged in it for nearly three decades. He also used the technology to lay a foundation of anatomical knowledge that would forever inform his profession. The dentist–physician, a man for whom research was a part of life, devoted decades to characterizing the new imaging tool and to tweaking its design to improve its performance. He also sought to make the technology safer: An x-ray–induced injury to his hand led to a lifelong effort to convince others to proceed with care. We don’t know if the two men ever met. They did, however, debate one another in the pages of the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal. The exchange between these two—Ernest Amory Codman, Class of 1895, and William Herbert Rollins, Class of 1879 (and Harvard School of Dental Medicine Class of 1873)—was brief but feisty. It occurred in 1901, less than five years after a holiday card and an injury had affected each man’s life. Take a Letter It was in the winter of that year when letters exchanged between Rollins and Codman appeared in the weekly predecessor to the New England Journal of Medicine. The correspondence began with a note from Rollins, published on February 14, a day usually reserved for hearts and flowers. For Rollins, however, it was a day for directness and urgency: “X-light kills,” he began. Rollins then presented evidence of the dangers of x-light—a term he persisted in using when describing the x-ray—by detailing the fatal results At least one reader took an interest in Rollins’s letter. With a rapidity not found in printed journals today, the February 21 issue of the journal carried a response from Codman. In “No Practical Danger from the X-Ray,” Codman stated, with the occasional added emphasis, “practically, in careful hands, there is no danger from the use of the x-ray to the patient and very little to the operator.” He went on to describe thousands of exposures he had made of patients at Massachusetts General Hospital, Children’s Hospital, and in his private practice, “without a single case of dermatitis,” an outcome that stepped carefully around Rollins’s worry that cumulative and unprotected use caused death, albeit death to a laboratory animal. To ensure Rollins understood the breadth of his experience in the field, Codman signed himself, “Surgeon to Out Patients, Massachusetts General Hospital; Skiagrapher [an early term for radiologist] to the Children’s Hospital.” The journal’s next issue contained Rollins’s response. In it he provided a second example, this time involving a pregnant guinea pig. The fetal guinea pig had died, a lesson Rollins extrapolated to humans, cautioning that he was aware of one instance where the use of x-rays had caused a woman to abort. Empirical to his core, Rollins then gently upbraided his critic. With new agents, he said, it was important to determine their power so as to know how they could be controlled. “Nothing is gained by criticizing such experiments,” Rollins wrote, “for criticism is sterile, while experiment is fertile. An experiment can only be discredited by another experiment.” Catch Some Rays So who were these correspondents, and what was their interest in this new tool that could see to the bone? Rollins, age 48 at the time, is considered the Father of Health Physics. He was also the first to describe radiation-induced cataract. Codman, who had just turned 31, is celebrated as both the Father of Shoulder Surgery and as the founder of the End Result System, the outcomes movement that gave birth to today’s Joint Commission on Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations. Like many physicians in the late 1800s, Rollins and Codman were drawn by the promise and mystery of the wondrous light that had been In the darkened laboratory, the tube produced fluorescence on the cardboard screen. Satisfied with the test, Röntgen was about to turn off the tube when he glimpsed a light several feet from where he was working. To see what it was, he struck a match. Its glow fell upon a forgotten screen that had been coated with a fluorescing solution and left to rest on his workbench. His surprise turned to amazement when he realized the screen was being illuminated by a faint cloud of flickering light waves that moved in unison with the electrical discharges of the tube’s inner coil. Röntgen began feverishly testing the properties of the phenomenon. A month later chance again intervened, and one of the principal future uses of the ghostly glow was revealed. As Röntgen was placing an iron pipe between an electrified Crookes tube and a capture screen, he saw the bones of his fingers as they grasped the pipe. Röntgen quickly wrote up his findings for publication. They were immediately accepted and Röntgen’s paper, accompanied by an x-ray of his wife’s ring-bearing hand, was circulated among a select group of German physicists. By the end of January 1896, “On a New Kind of Rays” had been translated into English and published in a London-based engineering journal. Soon it was the talk of scientists and physicians on both sides of the Atlantic, and by year’s end, an incredible 1,044 papers on x-rays had been published in medical and scientific journals. In 1901 the discovery earned Röntgen the first Nobel Prize in Physics. Ray of Hope Following Röntgen’s announcement, hospitals throughout the world quickly opened x-ray rooms. By May 1896, Boston City Hospital had set up an x-ray department, overseen by the physician and early radiologist Francis Williams, Class of 1877. Williams’s fascination with x-rays was matched—perhaps surpassed—by that of his collaborator, Rollins, who also happened to be Williams’s brother-in-law. For nearly two decades, the two men took x-rays of hospital patients, amassing more than 150,000 images as well as an understanding of the technology that Rollins would use in his efforts to refine it. In his writings, Williams credits his brother-in-law with being one of the first to recognize the treatment potential the technology offered medicine. But perhaps each inspired the other. In the preface to his Notes on X-Light, Rollins attributes his dedication to the field to Williams: “In these notes are recorded some impressions derived from experiments made after the day’s work, as a recreation, yet with the hope of learning to design and construct apparatus for my friend, Dr. F. H. Williams, who has done most to show the importance of X-Lights in medical diagnosis.” This “recreation” was both kind and costly. Although Rollins had a thriving dental practice in Boston, his passion for research and invention continually challenged the household income. In the last volume of his personal journal, Rollins credits the mindfulness and thrift of his wife, Miriam, with the fact that his research, which may have cost upwards of $30,000 over the years, strained, but never broke, the Rollins’s bank. Rollins continually chronicled his observations and experiments in his Notes. By early 1898, he had begun jotting down reports of what would become just one of the dangers of the technology: skin burns, a problem he had learned of on the job. In January of that year, Rollins suffered a severe burn on one of his hands after it was exposed to an activated vacuum tube. For the next six years, Rollins devoted himself to determining the dangers of x-rays, devising precautions to protect against those dangers, and redesigning the vacuum tubes and apparatuses associated with the technology to improve the efficiency of the tubes and the resolution of the radiographic images. Some of his inventions—the Rollins box, a shielded housing that permitted rays to escape only through a single opening; the use of collimating diaphragms to narrow the beam; and the development of high-voltage tubes—ultimately served to limit the exposure of patients, physicians, and other workers who operated or produced x-ray equipment. In addition to hardware improvement, Rollins dispensed cautionary advice to those who applied the technology to medical purposes: wear radio-opaque glasses; enclose the tube in a leaded housing; and limit irradiation of patients to only those areas of interest, covering adjacent areas with radio-opaque material. Unfortunately, Rollins’s cautions were ignored, perhaps because of the blind enthusiasm of those working with the new technology. Or perhaps the neglect occurred because Rollins toiled alone in his home laboratory, published his findings quietly and in somewhat obscure engineering journals, and rarely ventured to professional meetings. His reluctance to participate in such meetings was so great that he had to be persuaded to attend an American Roentgen Ray Society gathering at which he was awarded an honorary membership. The citation he received may have only added to Rollins’s frustration; it did not mention his x-ray safety work. Brought to Light As with Williams and Rollins, Codman was mesmerized by the x-ray and its ghostly images. In 1895 Codman had just begun his surgical practice Codman’s excitement is palpable in his writings of this period. In the autobiographical preface to The Shoulder, a landmark treatise published in 1934, Codman wrote: “It would be impossible to give the reader an idea of the thrill experienced by those of us who did the early X-ray work. I remember that an early contribution of mine in the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal was to show that the X-ray was likely to help us in studying the epiphyseal lines! . . . We almost forgot that it was all because Röntgen had noticed something that many others might have observed.” For two of his years in Bowditch’s laboratory, Codman concentrated on taking images of the entire human skeleton, a body of work he gathered into a single bound edition that he donated in 1898 to the Rare Books Room at the School’s Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine, where it still resides. Codman also may have indirectly used the x-ray as a courtship tool. In his first year of work with Bowditch, Codman took an x-ray of the professor’s right arm. The image delighted Bowditch, for it clearly showed a rifle bullet lodged near his elbow, a relic he had been unaware of for 30 years but had likely acquired during his service in the Civil War. Codman, too, was pleased by the image, so much so that he turned it into a Christmas card for the professor. The careful surgeon and researcher made a mistake on the card, however. “Merry Christmas” became “Marry Christmas,” perhaps an inadvertent slip revealing Codman’s affections for the professor’s niece, Katherine Putnam Bowditch. The two were married in 1899. Codman continued to research the applications of x-ray for several more years, giving special attention to its uses in the practice of surgery. Before long, though, the pull of surgery won Codman over and he set aside x-ray work. As his autobiographical preface shows, this return to surgery may also have allowed him to express his change of heart about the dangers of x-ray exposure: “for we all had burns and some of us gave them. Many of my old friends are dead from x-ray cancer. It was fortunate for me that my interest in surgery was greater than in Röntgen’s discovery.” Indeed, evidence of the dangers of unprotected exposure to x-rays was mounting. Radiologists offered the best—or worst—proof. Their ranks were being thinned by early deaths. And those who lived had the evidence written in their hands: scarred, distorted, and often lacking digits. Such disfigurement was so prevalent that banquet planners for radiology meetings in the 1920s avoided serving roast beef; the gloves most radiologists wore to hide their hands made cutting such food difficult. Service for Two Before he died of metastatic cutaneous melanoma in 1940, Codman had built a considerable legacy. His “End Result Idea” or “End Result System of Hospital Organization” would lead to the establishment of standards for the measurement of the outcomes of medical care. And in addition to his contributions to the field of surgery, Codman had developed the Registry of Bone Sarcomas. Spurred by the development of a bone tumor in “one of my best patients,” Codman had contacted physicians throughout Massachusetts, polled them on their bone sarcoma cases, and compiled the treatments and outcomes they had achieved. After a book on bone sarcoma and five years of work—done without compensation—Codman’s data engendered the first cancer registry in the United States. Rollins, too, left a legacy, one that mandated discovery in generations to follow. In addition to his research and inventions in radiology—as well as in dentistry, photography, radio, and mechanical pianos and organs—Rollins sought to ensure there would always be an opportunity to tinker and dream. In his will, he bequeathed $58,000 to the Smithsonian Institution for the establishment of a fund “for exploration beyond the boundaries of knowledge.” The fund was formalized in 1935, six years after his death. Rollins’s warnings of the dangers of x-rays lay quietly through decades that brought war and mass destruction until those of a new age, the atomic era, rediscovered—and began to heed—them. Absent a record of a meeting or even of other letters personally exchanged between these physician–researchers, it is impossible to know if they ever had the chance to discuss face-to-face the difference of opinion they had inked for public airing. It is tempting, however, to think they did. After all, both were members of Boston’s professional class and had affiliations, either direct or indirect, with Boston’s social register. Both were avid outdoorsmen, each arranging their professional schedules to include blocks of days out of the city on hunting and hiking getaways. And both enjoyed walking along the streets of the city’s Back Bay neighborhood, where they lived just a few blocks apart. Had they talked, they likely would have discovered that aside from this single professional dustup, they approached life with much the same vision. They would have found that each held as a core value the importance of a life devoted to humanity. John W. Gittinger, Jr. ’71 is a professor of ophthalmology and neurology at Boston University School of Medicine. Photo captions: William Herbert Rollins, Class of 1879 (second from top); Wilhelm Röntgen (third from top); Ernest Amory Codman, Class of 1895 (bottom) Photos: Jim Wehtje/Photodisc/Getty Images; Harvard Medical Library at the Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine (Rollins and Codman); Wellcome Library, London (Röntgen) |
flesh to reveal them. That magic was the x-ray. During the latter half of the 1890s, both men would use this newfound light in ways that would prove pivotal to future generations. 
that two-hour exposures on each of eleven days had produced on two robust male guinea pigs. Rollins was convinced his experimental design showed x-rays were the deadly force. The experiment was hardly Rollins’s first or last with these energetic waves. It would become one of nearly 180 investigations, observations, and comments he united in his book Notes on X-Light, published in 1904 by The University Press in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The findings he was reporting to readers of this medical journal had been introduced three years earlier in an engineering journal. Rollins elected to restate them for physicians; without proper precautions, he worried, x-rays posed significant dangers to both patients and doctors. 
introduced to the world by a quiet German physics professor. In November 1895, Wilhelm Röntgen had been experimenting with cathode ray tubes when he made one of those experimental mistakes that history christens serendipitous. During a test, Röntgen placed a cardboard screen that had been treated with a fluorescent substance, barium platinocyanide, in front of an electrified vacuum tube known as a Hittorf–Crookes tube. 
and his position as an assistant in anatomy at Harvard Medical School when he began exploring Röntgen’s rays. Like many who were probing the new technology, Codman sought out the needed equipment. The proper ingredients were found right in the laboratory of his mentor, Henry Pickering Bowditch, Class of 1868. 
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