Doctor on the Rock

By Christian Belcourt

DOCTOR ON THE ROCK recounts the experiences of Christian Belcourt, a doctor in Ferryland, Newfoundland, from 1959 to 1962, during the early days of outreach medicine. The book also covers the period of his childhood when he was inspired to do medicine as a career, future visits to the island as a radiologist, and his last visit as a tourist.

Christian grew up in a sub-tropical climate in Mauritius, surrounded by beautiful beaches, abundant fauna, and lush flora. French being his mother tongue, not only did he have to overcome the difficulties of language when he landed in Ferryland, he also had to apply his British training to the life of a doctor in an outport without a hospital and adapt to challenges of isolation and rigorous winters.

After further training in Radiology in Ottawa and Boston, he worked at the IWK Children’s Hospital. He later returned to Newfoundland for locums. After retirement, he visited again, when he met previous patients and documented fascinating changes that had occurred over the previous 50 years.
The book delivers many anecdotes unique to the Southern Shore of the Avalon Peninsula, where the Irish first settled two centuries ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine A. MacKenzie
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310786792

Christian Belcourt

Christian Belcourt was a doctor in Ferryland, Newfoundland, from 1959 to 1962, during the early days of outreach medicine. He grew up in a sub-tropical climate in Mauritius, surrounded by beautiful beaches, abundant fauna, and lush flora. French being his mother tongue, not only did he have to overcome the difficulties of language when he landed in Ferryland, he also had to apply his British training to the life of a doctor in an outport without a hospital and adapt to challenges of isolation and rigorous winters.After further training in Radiology in Ottawa and Boston, Christian worked at the IWK Children’s Hospital. He later returned to Newfoundland for locums. After retirement, he visited again, when he met previous patients and documented fascinating changes that had occurred over the previous 50 years. He now lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with his wife.

Book preview

A good friend of mine, the late Mike Cox, first encouraged me to write about my adventures in Ferryland. I often entertained him with stories of my life as a general practitioner there. He said, You tell me all those fascinating stories in bits and pieces. Put them in writing.

I received further encouragement from members of Probus, a club of retired professionals and businessmen and women, sponsored by the Rotary Club. The Probus Club holds monthly meetings where members socialize. An invited speaker gives a one-hour lecture on a subject of interest. At the end of the lecture, a member is allowed 10 minutes to tell his story. At a meeting where I gave my story, members of the group said I should write a book about it. I had already put on paper my adventures in Ferryland, and it was an incentive to continue writing. I produced a short manuscript, entitled Doctor in Ferryland, which the curator of the museum in Ferryland wished to include in the archives.

My first manuscript of 8,000 words was too short to appear in book form, which would require at least 35,000 words. Therefore, I have included here the period before and after my years of practice in Ferryland.

This story is authentic, except where factual details have sunk into oblivion in my memory. They were replaced by fictitious ones for the sake of completeness.

I apologise for any omissions, or for any allusion I might have made that proved offensive to the reader.

I include recent pictures of places at the suggestion of readers residing outside the area who would find it difficult to view the plaques, inscriptions, buildings, and scenery in person.

It only remains for me to appeal to the indulgence of the reader and hope I produced an enjoyable and readable account of a doctor's adventures on the famous Rock of Newfoundland.

Dr. Christian Belcourt

June 2014

[e-mail]

NEWFOUNDLAND

Chapter 1

On a summer day in 1982, my car rumbled along the gravel road that passed by the Kavanagh house in Ferryland, Newfoundland. I had travelled that particular road often in my practice as a doctor. When I spied the old wooden fence bordering a brightly coloured, square-shaped bungalow, I knew I had arrived. Despite the new paint, I recognized the shutter-less house. I turned right onto the dirt path, stopped alongside the side porch, and stared at the steps—steps I had climbed many times when on medical calls.

Little had changed in 20 years.

Just as a cow disappeared behind the shed, a woman’s voice roared from the house. Where is she?

She must have went around the other side, a young fellow shouted as he noticed me pull into the driveway. He approached my car.

Does Mrs. Kavanagh still live here? I asked.

Yes, me mother.

Is she home?

Yes, she dooo, he said before walking away.

Within minutes, Mrs. Kavanagh appeared. Despite the fact she hadn’t seen me for almost 20 years, she recognized me immediately. Her face lit up with a huge smile.

Oh, my. Doctor Belcourt! What a surprise.

After I alighted from the car, she embraced me. Obviously, she harboured no bad recollections of the medical attention I had given her.

Gerard! Mrs. Kavanagh shouted before she turned back to me. You must remember Gerard? You born him.

She expected me to remember Gerard whom I had delivered in 1960?

Gerard, Mrs. Kavanagh yelled again. Come and see who is here. It’s Doctor Belcourt! He born you.

At that moment Gerard appeared from the house. He was a strapping figure twice my size. A little white lie slipped from my lips. Indeed, I do remember him. He is as handsome as when I delivered him.

She introduced me to Gerard and to Gerard's younger brother, the young fellow who had approached my car.

I accepted Mrs. Kavanagh’s gracious invitation for a cup of tea, offered with the usual hospitality of the people of the region.

While sitting at the kitchen table, Gerard, many times having heard his mother mention my name, asked where I came from and how I happened to be in Newfoundland practicing medicine. On a world map that he suddenly produced, I tried to satisfy his curiosity.

I pointed at Ferryland. From there I traced an imaginary line across the Atlantic Ocean to the west coast of England and France, then south to Spain through the Strait of Gibraltar. I continued the line eastward across the Mediterranean, through the Suez Canal and the Red Sea, into the Indian Ocean and across the Equator, then past the Horn of Africa. At the end, I pointed to a dot on the northeast coast of Madagascar, indicating Mauritius, the place of my birth.

Sensing Gerard's interest, I told him about Mauritius, an island smaller than the Avalon Peninsula where he lived. Mauritius, surrounded by coral reefs, is lined on the periphery by white beaches, pine trees, and coconut trees. Mountains overlook verdant fields, forests, and cities. Abundant fruit trees produce delicious exotic fruits such as mangoes, longanes, litches, avocadoes, guavas, and cherries.

I remembered the history of my birthplace. The Arabs first visited the island in the tenth century but did not stay. A Portuguese sailor, Diego Diaz, is said to have been the first European to set foot on the island at the beginning of the sixteenth century. He was followed by the Dutch who, at the end of the century, settled and established a small colony. They named it Mauritius and remained there on and off until 1710. They found a virgin island inhabited only by strange and beautiful birds. One of those birds was the dodo.

Gerard interrupted. What’s a dodo?

I explained that the dodo was a large bird the size of a swan. The dodo had short wings, a broad beak and rotund body, and squat legs. Since it was unable to fly, the bird became easy prey to the Dutch, who must have found it a tasty treat after long days at sea. Eventually, they killed the birds to extinction. Geologists discovered skeletons of the dodo. A stuffed and reconstructed dodo is displayed on a pedestal in the museum in Mauritius."

The dodo

When Gerard seemed satisfied, I continued. Abandoned by the Dutch in 1710, neighbouring French interests from Reunion led to Mauritius’ French occupation by 1715. A century later, in 1810, after an unsuccessful naval battle, the French surrendered the island to England, on the terms of allowing the settlers to keep their land and property, and to use the French language and laws of France. I grew up speaking French.

I figured Gerard would be interested in Scouting, so I relayed how, in 1939, when I was 13 years old, Claude Rochecouste, a family friend, asked my father if he would object if I joined a Scout group. Claude had already asked me and two others if we’d be willing to work with him to organize and start a group. He needed us to be patrol leaders.

"Knowing that my father, intent on his children studying for an education and a career, might refuse, my legs quivered with impatience while I waited for his reply. My father, in his wisdom, saw the benefit of Scouting and agreed.

The Scout movement, founded by Lord Baden Powell in England in 1908, aimed to develop character and responsibility. Our Scout leader, Claude, nicknamed ‘Skip’, sowed the seed that sprouted into a fruit-bearing tree, which led me to Newfoundland.

I remembered word for word what Claude had written in my introductory notebook and recited it for Gerard:

Dear Christian,

You have started scouting; stick to it through thick and thin and it will stand you in good stead when you come to the worst bits of the road of life.

I am trusting you to see me through, in the always difficult beginnings; just pull as hard as you can with the rest of the team and we’ll do it.

Good luck and good scouting.

Skip

[Copy of original letter at end of book]

"Skip’s inspiration and encouragement did stand me in good stead. With the rest of the team, we pulled together and formed a group of some 25 Scouts. I, along with three friends, Philippe Bazire, Marcel Rault, and Philippe Forget, were the first patrol leaders. We strove for excellence in Scouting while keeping our studies in mind.

"As a Scout, I developed a tendency to help the injured and the sick. I carried the first aid kit during our meetings, hikes, and camping trips. Scouting also kindled in me a spirit of adventure, and I enjoyed reading the adventures of the Scouts of North America. My favourite novel was The Last of the Mohicans. Later, when searching for a place to settle and practice medicine, evoking my childhood fancy, I turned to North America and the land of Uncas, the last of the Mohicans.

"Skip instructed the patrol leaders in the various skills required of a good Scout. One exercise that served me well later in my career was developing the power of observation and remembering what had been observed. The exercise, called King's Game from Kipling's The Jungle Book, consisted of a minute’s observation of 20 different objects on a board and then trying to remember them, a very useful exercise for a future radiologist. As a result, I developed a good visual memory. After seeing an X-ray once, I could recall the diagnosis when a similar X-ray was presented to me years later. With a good power of observation, a mistake made while learning is unlikely to be made again. I recall what one of my revered teachers once said: ‘I have made every single mistake in radiology once, and I learned from it every time.’

My only aspiration when I finished high school was to study medicine. My father agreed to finance my studies in London, England.

Gerard interrupted. What a great story. I'm sorry I have to run off, but I have to go to a wedding this afternoon. Stay to have a bite to eat, my mam says.

Mrs. Kavanagh, who had left the room for a minute, returned just in time to hear Gerard's words.

Ya, supper is on the stove. Something you like. Fish and brews, she said.

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Just before we sat down to eat, Jacqueline, Mrs. Kavanagh’s daughter, who lived on the other side of the road, entered.

I remember you. You gave me that awful needle at the school, she said after introductions.

Did I? It must have hurt.

I didn't mind, but my sister, Elizabeth, did. She cried when she saw the needle.

I chuckled at that comment.

Conversation during supper revolved around my practice and what I had done after I left the Ferryland area.

You did an awful good job here. The other doctors only stayed one year. Then we had to get used to a new doctor. Tell me how you liked it when you got here, Mrs. Kavanagh said. Ya went to St. Jahn's for a bit. Then ya left to do radio—

Radiology. X-rays, I interrupted. It's a long story. I tell you what. I'll write it all down and send it to you. I've always wanted to write my memoirs.

Jacqueline jumped with excitement. I would like to read it when my mom is done with it. And I know Gerard will want to read it, too.

When supper was over, we exchanged hugs and goodbyes. I promised to write my story and send them an account of my travels over the previous 20 years.

~~***~~

Chapter 2

On August 15, 1947, I left Mauritius for England to complete my studies to become a doctor. (Mauritius was then a British colony, situated in the Indian Ocean about 2,000 kilometres off the southeast coast of the African continent.)

I said goodbyes to my parents and to my four older brothers, Regis, Roland, Harold, and Stellio—goodbyes that brought mist to my eyes and to those who saw me off at the dock in Port Louis, the capital of the island. Besides my parents and brothers, my four cousins were also there to say goodbye: Annie, the eldest; her sisters, Ruby and Elsie; and her brother, Douglas. My cousins lived in Curepipe, about 15 miles from our home. I used to refer to the three girls as the flowers of Curepipe. They often stayed at our house, and I frequently spent time at theirs.

My sister, Helyette, had served as an officer in the armed forces. Like many young adults after the restrictions of the war, she wanted to visit Europe. She pleaded with my father, who bought her a passage on the same boat, the French steamship, the Champollion, as he had for me. My father could only obtain a cabin in first class for her.

Since there was no pier to accommodate big vessels, the ships anchored in the middle of the harbour, and the passengers were rowed to the ships. I jumped into a small boat, and a crew of three rowed me to the Champollion, which had carried troops during the Second World War. Helyette, being a first-class passenger, was taken to the ship in a special motorboat, which