Doctor Henry Marsh

Tuesday nights on SBS at the moment are medical night, starting with "Blood and Guts: A History of Surgery", a very informative show.  But last night I caught the better part of a documentary called "The English Surgeon" which was screened later in the night.

The central subject is Dr. Henry Marsh, a British neurosurgeon who has been making trips, in his own spare time, to the Ukraine to assist an out-of-the-box doctor named Igor Kurilets.  I use the term more for his treatment setup than his personality.  He works in a country historically dogged by the Communist regime and its manifold ways and structures that have left it with a health system, among other systems, that many western nations would consider barely functioning.

Unfortunately I missed the beginning of the show, unaware that it was on.  I was hooked once I stumbled across it, even though it was a quarter done.  In one of the first scenes I caught it showed Dr. Marsh, annoyed at the bureaucratic tangle of the UK health system, leaving his computer and stalking off to cool down.  He explains to the camera once at home that he is taking medical equipment to the Ukraine on his next trip, displaying drill bits that the UK system disposes of after one use.  They have a plastic insert, so cant be re-sterilised, and at £80 for each one, he estimates that they use, in his hospital alone, 10 of them each week.  And then they throw them out.  £800 a week, £4000 a year, more or less.  He and Igor open one up after he arrives in the Ukraine, remove the plastic insert, sterilise it, and it is soon put to good use with a Ryobi cordless drill to remove a brain tumour from a young man suffering epileptic fits.

Dr. Marsh himself proved to be fascinating man of some depth.  Throughout the documentary, a young girl named Tanya is mentioned.  His face and speech seem to change whenever she is discussed.  Dr. Marsh had bought her to the UK a few years before the documentary was shown to remove a tumour that had paralysed the side of her face, after Moscow and Kiev surgeons said it was inoperable.  He looked and sounded genuinely haunted by the fact that Tanya had suffered as a result of what he had done.  Her quality of life suffered after two operations he performed on her, her death seemingly inevitable by Ukrainian standards, but possibly not by UK standards.  He visits her mother at her home at the end of the documentary, wholly welcomed by the family.

He sits in Dr. Kurilets office meeting with patients, honestly and rapidly assessing their chances, realistic that the majority of cases are inoperable or too far developed to render enough assistance because of the systems in place.  While a brain scan may only cost $50 to $100, many Ukrainians cannot spare that amount.  And when they do manage to, or are forced to through physical problems caused by the tumours, they often result in a dire prognosis.  We see a young girl who is already blind from her tumour growth.  The grandmother who is told her young granddaughter is inoperable and left with a year or so to live.  The 23 year old woman with the spreading tumour that no surgery anywhere could repair.  And Marian, the young man with the epileptic seizures who is operated on with the home handyman tools available.

I hope I can see all of this in the future. If you get a chance to watch it, it's well worth seeing.

Handy Henry Marsh at the Times Online

Henry Marsh interview at NPR.org (transcript and download at US National Public Radio)

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Not-so-passive agressive

I found this gem on a recent site visit.

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Nuffy-ism: Air Travel

What is it about airports and plane travel that brings out the inner idiot in a lot of people?

You always get the nuffy who forgot, or just didn't want to, remove the coins out of their pockets or take off their watch for the metal detector. And then get huffy when they've got to go back through. Let's call this person The Huffy Nuffy. Sure, I've had to go back and take off my belt, but only ever in Melbourne. No other scanner has been set off by my belt. Voyueristic Melbourne security staff, perhaps? Men in suits are never The Huffy Nuffy. They've done this too often to be that stupid. Watch them closely. Watch, phone, wallet, business card holder and bag on the conveyor, walk through, smile at the security staff, pick everything up and leave. Unlike the nouveau riche entrepreneur in his designer tee shirt and jeans. I'm surprised he remembered to put his bag down.

Then you get the nuffy who suddenly thinks queueing in an orderly fashion to board a plane is too much for them. They decide to break the line and skirt to the outside, angling in close to the head of a long bunch. Let's call this person The Tuffy Nuffy. Newsflash, hotshot: everyone is getting on the same plane. These people also unbuckle their seatbelt and leap to their feet the instant the plane stops at the gate, grabbing their bag from the overhead and standing around looking frustrated. Another newsflash, hotshot: everyone is getting off the same plane. Sure, you can get out before the skybridge is in place, but watch the first step. I wouldn't want you to do that, then you wont make me laugh next time I fly.

Most of them are probably smokers, keen to get outside and shorten their lives ASAP. Let's call this person The Puffy Nuffy. Many of them divert past the baggage collection to grab their first rapid half-cigarette, before returning inside to get their bags.

Once you get to the baggage collection, you always find some nuffy who stands right at the little door the conveyor emerges from, so they can have bag in hand and be off within seconds. Let's call this person The Stuffy Nuffy. These people do not want to stand around for even the extra thirty seconds their baggage might take to get to the far end. They do not want to imagine the technology within. They do not want to admire the conservative architecture of the airport. The Stuffy Nuffy wants to get out, get home, and complain about the quality of cheap flight they just left. Or get back out for a smoke.

You also see The Tuffy Nuffy waiting for the transfer bus, hanging back at the head of a line of fifty people. The bus pulls up and the Tuffy Nuffy makes a direct line for the door, ahead of 46 other patient, non-self-absorbed people. I'd rather wait for the next bus, knowing the Tuffy Nuffy on board will have to battle through the crowded bus, angering those non-nuffy's as they try to extract their one carry-on sized case from the bottom of a pile of enormously heavy family holiday suitcases. Incidentally, you rarely see The Tuffy Nuffy at the taxi queue, as these are now supervised, which voids their game plan quick-smart.

I'm sure there's more, but Huffy, Tuffy, Puffy and Stuffy were in abundance on the weekend.

I guess much of this is due to the fact that a lot of air travel is now seen as commuting, or short haul flying for quick trips. Its not a romantic ideal any more. Which is a shame.

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Bjork

I dont know what it is that intrigues me about this woman so much.

Whilst I find some of her songs annoying in the extreme, overall I find her work quite listenable. Maybe its her Icelandic appearance, and those cheekbones. She comes across as a bit of a scatterbrain in interviews, though maybe thats her english skills letting her down, because her singing is always clear.

I'd really like to meet her, maybe ask her a couple of questions. What they would be, I dont know. And I probably wouldn't know until I had the chance.

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