Tales of a Flying Doctor: The Adventures of a Medical Student Turned Specialist Doctor

By Graham Hughes

Professor Graham Hughes is often known as "The Father of Lupus" in the United Kingdom. As well as his clinical and laboratory work in lupus, he taught generations of trainee doctors both at home and abroad. He was co-founder of the national charity Lupus UK, and the editor of the international journal 'Lupus'. Most famously, he reported a new syndrome 'Hughes Syndrome' - a blood clotting disorder, now recognised as the most common, treatable cause of recurrent miscarriage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brown Dog Books
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781839522857

Book preview

Christian

CHAPTER 1: CHICAGO

IS THERE A DOCTOR ON BOARD …?

It was that late stage in a transatlantic flight – the last hour, somewhere over the Canada/US border – several hours into the Heathrow-Chicago flight – the fairly aimless, bored, stretching, passing-time ritual we all know so well.

I was waiting my turn outside the economy class toilets when the rather faint Tannoy message came across. I told a passing air hostess that I was a doctor, could I help? She seemed quite underwhelmed, but thought there was a problem at the front end – not sure. At the ‘front end’ another hostess thought the problem was on the upper deck – up the spiral staircase of the early jumbos. At the top of the stairs, I was greeted by another doctor – John Verrier-Jones – an old friend also on his way to the medical meeting in Chicago and who had arrived at the first class upper deck a few seconds before me. No one else. No patient.

Then the cockpit door sprung open. From routine boredom to extreme drama. Reeling out, having been first on the scene – a male steward who had half-fainted. Hunched over the controls of the jumbo – unconscious and pulseless – the captain.

* * * *

A little background to the journey – as a keen young doctor, I had had one of my first research papers accepted for the prestigious ARA (American Rheumatism Association as it then was) meeting, held this year in Chicago. In those days (indeed much the same today) there was no funding from the universities or teaching hospitals for such visits. One’s best hopes were of support from friendly pharmaceutical companies. On this occasion, my begging letters had achieved £100 – enough to get me to Ireland, probably. But I was desperate to go – the ARA meeting was state-of-the-art, and to present a paper there was a triumph.

In those pre-Freddy Laker days, cheap flights were relatively unknown. However, members of bona-fide societies could get discount fares – usually for stays of 14 days or more. The son of our next door neighbour, who worked for a student travel company thought he could help.

To cut a long story short, I set sail for Heathrow and Chicago as a signed up member of the PTAH-HOTEB Society, on a cheap ticket only allowing return (from the three day meeting) after a fortnight. He assured me that all was legal and that I could (almost) certainly return before the expiry date. I wasn’t so sure …

* * * *

Into action – we pulled the unconscious captain through into the lounge area (luckily in those early jumbos, the upstairs cabins were often used as bars or lounges, and no passengers were there), and began cardiac massage and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The co-pilot – young, and clearly extremely shocked, suggested that we make for O’Hare Airport – some 30 minutes away – rather than attempt a landing at a nearer airfield. Helped later by a young medical student, we alternated in our roles of resuscitation.

The downside was that in those days, there were no drugs, instruments or defibrillators (clearly the most likely diagnosis was that the pilot had had a major heart attack) we wiped the mouth secretions with tissues and ice tongs. The upside was that two air hostesses, to be helpful, mopped our brows – it was never like that at the Hammersmith Hospital! Nevertheless, we kept a steady rhythm and a good pulse.

We made an emergency landing at O’Hare, with ambulances and fire engines racing alongside as we decelerated down the runway. In seconds the paramedics were on board, with defibrillators to kick-start the heart, with stretchers and drugs.

We helped the patient – whose heart thankfully restarted with the defibrillator – and the ambulance crew into the ambulance – and at their request joined them in the race to the hospital – through the airport gate, onto the beltway and into a nearby hospital.

We left the captain, alive but clearly having had a major heart attack, with the casualty doctors, and shirt-sleeved and sweaty, retreated to the washroom.

There the TWA official, who had followed in his car, and for the first of many joyous occasions, said the magic words … ‘on behalf of TWA … thank you …’. And we drove back to O’Hare, through the perimeter gates, into the terminal, where he led us through a small (green?) door into a new world – the VIP lounge. Here we were reunited with our bags, and John with his wife, who told us that back in the plane things had been quite tense, the young co-pilot – a hero – telling everyone on board that there was a major problem and to please remain seated for an emergency landing.

The wonders of the VIP lounge! In my imagination, a world of oil tycoons, film actresses, cold beer, relief. An immaculately dressed TWA official effusively thanking us, and ‘on behalf of TWA’ offering us a first class ticket home. When were we both flying home?

On the correct ticket a fortnight hence, or, as I had fondly hoped, in three days’ time, on the Friday evening at the end of the conference.

‘I’m not certain …’ The flabby reply. ‘Don’t worry – just present your ticket to the airline desk and … ‘on behalf of TWA …, we will be proud to offer you a first class return’.

The conference was marvellous. The paper seemed to go off reasonably, the learning curve of the Thursday and Friday was steep.

Friday afternoon. Home or stay? Explain all and hope for the best … at worst, it would mean paying for a full single ticket home – and repaying family over months.

Home won.

Friday rush hour to O’Hare. Join the queue. Adrenaline pumping as the desk got nearer. This is what it must feel like to be a drug carrier or an illegal immigrant!

Front of the queue.

‘Passport please’ …

A pause, then – ‘Sir, you don’t appear to have an appropriate entry stamp in your passport.’

‘I can explain – it’s a long story. The pilot of our plane had a heart attack and we joined the ambulance team taking him to hospital – we didn’t go through the immigration routine.’

A pause, then – ‘Sir, you are one of the two doctors who saved our pilot’s life. On behalf of TWA …’ and with that, he took my ‘PTAH HOTEB’ ticket, dropped it into a wonderfully deep basket, picked up a new ticket … First class home. ‘And Sir, you have an hour or so to spare, please take this – a VIP card to the lounge.’

So, past the queues, the crowds, through the little green door (I think it was little and green) into the VIP lounge – the oil tycoons, the actresses, the cold beer …

Somewhere over Greenland, eating our entrecôte steaks and sipping champagne in first class, I felt a mixture of pride – and of embarrassment. I felt the eyes of the oil moguls wondering who this whippersnapper, this Johnny-Come-Lately was. How dare he fill a seat in this heavenly paradise?

And then, down came the captain who knelt on the floor beside my seat, somewhere in mid-gateau.

‘Sir, on behalf of TWA, may I personally thank you for all you did for our pilot.’ Heaven!

CHAPTER 2: BOMBS ON LIVERPOOL

I was born in an air raid shelter. Not one of those communal ones on the street, but the reinforced basement on a nursing home in Bootle, Liverpool. The German bombing offensive on Britain’s major cities had, in late November 1940, begun in earnest. Liverpool, a major port, came in for particular scrutiny. The air raid sirens howled almost daily, and the city was peppered with craters.

On 26 November 1940, my mother Emily, known to all our friends as ‘Em’, began her labour pains just as the air raid sirens started. Staff and patients were rehoused in swift retreat to the basement.

My mother was ‘Liverpool born and bred’. My father, Robert, came from Welsh stock in Anglesey. His parents, like so many others moved from North Wales (as they did from Ireland) to earn a living. In fact both grandparents lived within a stone’s throw of each other. ‘Nana’ in Diana Road, Bootle (her husband had died some years before), and ‘Nain and Taid’ around the corner, running a grocers shop in Orrell Road. As might be expected, the grandparents spoiled my younger sister and I something rotten.

People are often asked about their earliest memories – I still remember standing in Nana’s backyard (I suppose I was three or four) hearing the eerie ‘winding up noise’ of the air raid sirens.

My father had joined the air force. He was a qualified valuer and was posted for much of the war to Malta, where his work involved the liaison between the Maltese and the British over vital airfield and other defences. On his return, we moved to our first house – 4 Fairlie Crescent, and I was started in the local primary school on Roberts Drive.

In 1947 our family made a very big move – to Welsh West Wales (but more of that later). The links with Liverpool and the grandparents were strong, and at least twice a year, we dutifully made the long journey in our Hillman Minx back to the smoke – and always for Christmas.

Liverpool, in those days, and probably today, cast its spell. Its sights and even its smells are firmly imprinted – the overhead railway, the ferry boats to Birkenhead and – oh the treat! – to New Brighton, the Tate and Lyle steam lorries down the old dock road, the smell of roast coffee beans.

Christmas had its own special ritual – the morning visit to maiden Aunty Mag down in Hornby Road near the gasworks, then the real fun, the trip through the Mersey Tunnel for Christmas Day with our cousins Gill and Robert in Greasby in the leafy Wirral. Their father, Uncle Eric, worked for Seagers, the gin and ‘eggnog’ company, and I remember we always had to call by his office on Christmas Eve for dad to pick up a gift bottle!

Other ‘smells and sounds’ of Liverpool were the aromas of the sacks of sultanas and other goodies in the backroom of the Taid’s grocery shop, and the Sunday morning tolling of the big bell of the local huge Catholic church, Robert Bellamine’s – ‘Paddy’s hammer’ as it was known locally.

In those days the docks were a hive of activity. I still remember the view from the bedroom window of the huge funnels of the Mauretania and the giant cranes. Sadly, the greed and militancy of the unions slowly strangled the once world-leading industries of Mersey.

But for my sister and I, the biggest treats were the visits to Southport. Our mother’s two younger brothers, then unmarried, loved to treat us to trips to Southport (as well as occasionally to New Brighton). Uncle Fred was a bus driver, and on our visits into town, we would always be on the lookout for his bus. The train ride to Southport was a journey into another world – out of the suburbs, into the country, past the sand dunes and Ainsdale golf links, and into the grand, flower decked ‘boulevards’ of Southport. To see the seafront and the fair. A ride on the miniature steam railway – the distant buzzing of old aeroplanes taking off from the infinity beach – £5 a time for those with the money.

WELSH WEST WALES

In 1947 my father accepted a post in Aberystwyth as County Valuer. We moved to the village of Taliesin, halfway between Aberystwyth and Machynlleth – a very Welsh speaking rural part of West Wales. For my mother, a born and bred Liverpudlian, this must have been tough indeed. Yet she never complained – she settled in and became a popular member of the village – even giving cooking demonstrations to the local Women’s Institute.

Taliesin is in a glorious part of Wales, looking westward over the marshes to Borth and Aberdovey and out over Cardigan Bay and the ‘hundred buried towns’ where the submerged church bells (‘the bells of Aberdovey’) can – it’s said – be heard.

Taliesin is named after the early Welsh bard, whose grave is marked by a large stone slab at the top of the mountain behind the village – a glorious spot with its 360° view from Plynlimon mountain behind, to Cader Idris to the northwest and Snowdonia in the distant north.

My sister and I enrolled in the local village school – Taliesin CP school – 40 pupils … and forever since, I have realised how lucky we were. The headmaster, Huw Evans and his assistant, Miss Owen were dedicated and respected teachers. Huw and his wife Megan became lifelong friends of Mum and Dad, and their son John (always known in those days as ‘John Schoolhouse’) became mine – sharing adventures, secret camps, and, later, travels abroad. John was to become my best man at my wedding and I was later to become the organist at John’s.

The language was Welsh – and in school, everything was in Welsh. We learnt Welsh with varying degrees of success – my sister Lesley so much so that years later she was to become an announcer on Welsh TV.

It was in Taliesin that I had my first piano lessons. Village life in Wales revolved around the chapel – and the rivalry between different chapels (and denominations) in neighbouring villages was intense. The eisteddfod was, of course, the showpiece of the rivalry. It was, and in some areas, still is, the spawning ground for Welsh singers, poets and performers. I had to play my part with piano ‘performances’ (some years later, I achieved one of life’s ‘highs’ by winning the piano prize – Debussy’s Golliwogg’s Cakewalk in the annual grammar school eisteddfod in