On April 6, 1911, the Fellows of the New York Academy of Medicine met to
honour his memory and to give reverent tribute to the sum of his
accomplishments as Pathologist, Sanitarian and Physician.
Some
Personal Recollections of
Dr. Janeway
I
What it is that has kept urging me to write down these recollections of
Edward Gamaliel Janeway, the physician, would indeed be rather hard to
define, but the desire to record a little something of what I had
personally come to know of this unusual man made itself felt very
shortly after his death, now over five years ago. Since that time this
feeling--steadily growing--seems irresistibly to have drawn me on to
this endeavour to add some little part to the perpetuation of his
memory--this man, who without pretence held the reputation of--one stops
to take a breath before writing it--the reputation of being the best
diagnostician in the world.
If by some happy chance these pen-pictured glimpses should bear some
likeness to the man--if they should bring out here and there a line or
colour which will recall some characteristic, show some quality, reveal
some trait which, for those who knew him, will help to keep his memory
fresh, they will have earned for themselves a very good reward. But
beyond this, if they should fall to the notice of a younger generation
and, more especially, to those choosing the profession of the physician,
and the reader can discern therein something of the man himself, can get
some glimpse of his life and its meaning, can gain some sense of the
sincerity, the simplicity, the self-sacrifice and singleness of purpose
which guided him and finally lifted him so far out of and above the
ordinary, then will the pleasant task of recalling fully justify this
venturesome effort.
* * * * *
It was in the midst of my medical schooldays and in the unrestraint of
Adirondack holidays twenty years ago that I first met Dr. Janeway. As I
look back at this first memory I can see a vigorous, well-built man a
little way on in the fifties, dressed for a mountain climb or a game of
golf. His fine, firm-featured face would have struck one as rather stern
if one happened to miss that blessed kindliness which always lighted his
steady eyes. Though dressed for outing, it was not difficult to see by a
brief study of his face that his choice of exercise was intellectual
rather than physical, yet he went to his game or his walk with the same
directness of purpose with which he went to his work.
Ordinary social intercourse was an effort for him. It seemed as if he
had to focus his mind down to the mental horizon of the everyday world
of everyday people around him, yet he did not appear impatient of the
small talk going on about him so long as it was plain he was not to take
part in it himself.
One characteristic which never failed to impress those who met him was
his reserve. It was the quality of it which was so striking. It was not
a reserve which was raised of aloofness; there was no particle of that,
no self-esteem, no egoism--common builders of reserve--yet on the other
hand it was not the retreat of shyness as many might have thought,
though out of it a certain constraint was undoubtedly born. One might
almost say it was a result rather than a reserve; the result of a
something hard at work within; a preoccupying something; a gestating
something, the offspring of which was--well--what _he_ was.
Another quality which leaves itself deep carved in the memory of these
early days of acquaintance was the quiet, unconscious respect he seemed,
with equal unconsciousness, to inspire in all about him; and more, even
in those who in kinship and friendship were closest to him, and with a
constancy which never wavered. In those days only the more evident
traits of his character came home to me. It was rather by feeling, by
intuition, that he impressed me. I had no measure of my own with which
to estimate his mental attainments. I had a kind of awe, of hero-worship
in knowing him, which left me reticent in the discussion of any medical
matters with him--so I usually stuck in those days to safer subjects.
It was not until two or three years later, after I was graduated, that I
had any association of a professional nature with him. It was near the
end of the summer, up in the mountains. An elderly lady, a member of a
well-known family, was suddenly taken ill. I was hurriedly called to see
her, and on arriving at her cottage was told that Dr. Janeway had been
sent for also and would be there soon; but they were anxious to have me
go to the patient at once. The state of excitement into which this, my
first professional call, threw me, was in itself enough without the
crushing thought of what the great man might think of me, a then
full-fledged M.D. I was ushered into the bedroom where she lay, totally
unconscious and breathing heavily. As I hastened to the house, I had
been formulating in my mind just the questions I should put to her--for
I had learned in the medical school how to take a careful history--and
there she lay without speech, without hearing, and without response. As
I stood looking at her I could feel, rather than see, the family
anxiously crowding about the doorway, waiting for me to tell them just
what the trouble was, how serious it was, what were the chances of her
recovery. At that moment I wondered why I had ever thought of studying
medicine. I sat down by the bedside and felt her pulse. Why was she
unconscious? I tried to think of all the things which caused a state of
unconsciousness. Suppose she should die before I could think of what the
trouble was, and before I could do anything to save her life! The
thought was staggering! And then as I looked down at the patient again
I realized, alas, that my chance of making a diagnosis to give to the
family and then to proudly repeat it to Dr. Janeway, had vanished--for
at that moment the doctor's voice could be heard outside the door and
the next he was quietly stepping into the room. As he came forward, I
stood aside to give him my place at the bedside. He asked one or two
simple questions which I was fortunately able to answer. As I look back,
I feel sure he did this to put me at my ease. This was the first time I
had ever seen Dr. Janeway in the sick-room. It would be hard to describe
the difference between this man I now saw examining the sick woman and
the Dr. Janeway I had known before. There was a light in his eyes and an
alertness in his voice, entirely new to me, as he deftly built up his
diagnosis, pointing out this physical sign and that, until the complete
pathological picture seemed to stand out as on the page of a book.
A little later as we came out from a talk with the family, he turned to
them and said: "Now the doctor and I wish to have a little consultation
together." How well I remember my feelings at that moment as he led me
into a room apart and closed the door. Anticipating what seemed to me
inevitable I said: "Of course, Dr. Janeway, they will want someone who
is older, someone with more--" He cut me short with, "You are going to
take care of her." "But--but--" I said. As if reading my thoughts he
smiled as he remarked: "That's what we are going to talk over now. Get a
pencil and paper and we will outline the necessary treatment." I wrote
down what he suggested, we arranged about getting the trained nurses,
and then, somehow, as the Doctor rose to go, the feeling came over me
that after all this was more of a job than, perhaps, I had any right to
undertake alone. I stood for a moment with these thoughts in my mind
when the Doctor put his hand on my shoulder and said: "If things don't
go just right come up any time and see me and we'll have a little talk;
or if you need me here, let me know. I am going now to tell the family
you will take charge of this case."
And thus it was that the old lady was guided back to consciousness and
comfort by the steady head and generous hand in the background; while
the fledgeling physician reaped praise for her progress.