Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (13 page)

The next day I began to worry about paying the telephone bill. In one letter I joked about having to make payments all through my medical career. I wondered what the telephone company could do to a poor medical student who had even less sense than money.

I kept waiting and dreading the day when I actually saw the bill. Strangely enough, the 6-hour call never came through. I couldn't have paid it anyway—certainly not the whole amount—so I confess I didn't investigate the reason. As Candy and I talked it over later, we theorized that the phone company looked at the charges, and some executive decided that no one could possibly talk that long.

The summer between college graduation and medical school found me back to my old routine of hunting a job. And, as I had experienced before, I couldn't find any employment. This time I had started making contacts in the spring, three months before graduation. But Detroit was in the middle of an economic depression, and many employers said, “Hire you? Right now we're laying off people.”

At that time my mother was caring for the children of the Sennet family—Mr. Sennet was the president of Sennet Steel. After hearing my sad tales, Mother told her employer about me. “He needs a job real bad,” she said. “Is there any way you could help him?”

“Sure,” he said. “I'd be happy to give your son a job. Send him over.”

He hired me. I was the only one at Sennet Steel with a summer job. To my surprise, my foreman taught me how to operate the crane, a very responsible job, for it involved picking up stacks of steel weighing several tons. Whether he realized it or not, the operator had to have an understanding of physics to be able to visualize what he was doing as he moved the boom over and down to the steel. The immense stacks of steel had to be picked up in a certain way to prevent the bundles from swinging. Then the operator worked the crane to carry the steel over and into trucks that were parked in an extremely narrow space.

Somewhere during that period of time I became acutely aware of an unusual ability—a divine gift, I believe—of extraordinary eye and hand coordination. It's my belief that God gives us all gifts, special abilities that we have the privilege of developing to help us serve Him and humanity. And the gift of eye and hand coordination has been an invaluable asset in surgery. This gift goes beyond eye-hand coordination, encompassing the ability to understand physical relationships, to think in three dimensions. Good surgeons must understand the consequences of each action, for they're often not able to see what's happening on the other side of the area in which they're actually working.

Some people have the gift of physical coordination. These are the people who become Olympic stars. Others can sing beautifully. Some people have a natural ear for languages or a special aptitude for math. I know individuals who seem to draw friends, who have a unique ability to make people feel welcome and part of the family.

For some reason, I am able to “see” in three dimensions. In fact, it seems incredibly simple. It's just something I happen to be able to do. However, many doctors don't have this natural ability, and some, including surgeons, never learn this skill. Those who don't pick this up just don't develop into outstanding surgeons, frequently encountering problems, constantly fighting complications.

I first became aware of this ability when a classmate pointed it out at Yale. He and I used to play table soccer (sometimes called foosball), and, although I had never played before, almost from the first lesson I did it with speed and ease. I didn't realize it then, but it was because of this ability. When I visited Yale in early 1988, I chatted with a former classmate who is on staff there. He laughingly told me that I had been so good at the game that afterward they named several plays “Carson shots.”

During my studies at medical school and the years afterward I realized the value of this skill. For me it is the most significant talent God has given me and the reason people sometimes say I have gifted hands.

A
fter my first year in med school, I had a summer job as a radiology technician taking X-rays—it was the only free summer I had from then on. I enjoyed it because I learned a lot about X-rays, how they worked, and how to use the equipment. I didn't realize it at the time but subsequently this would be useful to me in research.

The medical school administration offered selected seniors opportunities as instructors, and by my senior year I was doing extremely well, receiving academic honors as well as recommendations in my clinical rotations. At one point I taught physical diagnosis to first- and second-year students. In the evenings they came over, and we practiced on each other. We learned how to listen to the sounds of our hearts and lungs, for example, and how to test reflexes. It was an incredibly good experience, and the job forced me to work hard to be ready for my students.

I
didn't begin in the top of my class, however. In my first year of med school my work was only average. That's when I learned the importance of truly in-depth learning. I used to go to lectures without getting much from them, particularly when the speaker was boring. But I didn't learn much either.

For me, it paid to thoroughly study the textbooks for each course. During my second year I went to few lectures. Normally, I got out of bed around 6:00 a.m. and would go over and over the textbooks until I knew every concept and detail in them. Enterprising individuals took extremely good notes for the lectures and then, for a little cash, sold their notes. I was one of the purchasers, and I studied the notes as thoroughly as the texts.

All during my second year, I did little else but study from the time I awakened until 11:00 at night. By the time my third year rolled around, when I could work on the wards, I knew my material cold.

CHAPTER 11

Another Step Forward

T
here ought to he an easier way
, I thought as I watched my instructor. A skilled neurosurgeon, he knew what he was doing, but he had difficulty locating the foramen ovale (the hole at the base of the skull). The woman on whom he was operating had a condition called trigeminal neuralgia, a painful condition of the face. “This is the hardest part,” the man said as he probed with a long, thin needle. “Just locating the foramen ovale.”

Then I started to argue with myself.
You're new at
neurosurgery, but already
you think you know everything, huh? Remember, Ben, these guys have been doing this kind of surgery for years
.

Yeah
, answered another inner voice,
but that doesn't mean they know everything
.

Just leave it alone. One day you'll get your chance to change the world
.

I would have stopped arguing with myself except I couldn't get away from thinking that there must be an easier way. Having to probe for the foramen ovale wasted precious surgery time and didn't help the patient either.

OK, smart man. Find it then
.

And that's just what I decided to do.

I was doing my clinical year at the University of Michigan's School of Medicine and was in my neurosurgery rotation. Each of the rotations lasted a month, and it was during this period that the surgeon commented on the difficulty of finding the little hole at the base of the skull.

After arguing with myself for some time, I took advantage of the friends I had made the previous summer when I worked as a radiology technician. I went to them and explained what was worrying me. They were interested and gave me permission to come into their department and practice with the equipment.

After several days of thinking and trying different things, I hit upon a simple technique of placing two tiny metal rings on the back and front of the skull, and then aligning the rings so that the foramen ovale fell exactly between them. Using this technique, doctors could save a lot of time and energy instead of poking around inside the skull.

I had reasoned it this way: Since two points determine a line, I could put one ring on the outside surface of the skull behind the area where the foramen ovale should be. I then would put the other one on the front of the skull. By passing an X-ray beam through the skull, I could turn the head until the rings lined up. At that point, the foramen falls in between.

The procedure seemed simple and obvious—once I'd reasoned it out—but apparently no one had thought of it before. Fact is, I didn't tell anyone either. I was thinking of how to do a better job and wasn't concerned with impressing anybody or showing my instructors a new technique.

For a short time I tormented myself by asking,
Am I getting into a new realm of things that others haven't yet discovered? Or am I just thinking I've figured out a technique no one else has considered before?
Finally I decided that I had developed a method that worked for me and that was the important thing.

I started doing this procedure and, from actual surgery, saw how much easier it was. After two such surgeries, I told my neurosurgeon professors how I was doing it and then demonstrated for them. The head professor watched, shook his head slowly, and smiled. “That's fabulous, Carson.”

Fortunately, the neurosurgery professors didn't resent my idea.
*

From just having an interest in neurosurgery, the field soon intrigued me so much it became a compulsion. You may have noticed that I'd had that happen before.
I have to know more
, I'd find myself thinking. Everything available in print on the subject became an article I had to read. Because of my intense concentration and my driving desire to know more, without intending to I began to outshine the interns.

It was during my second rotation—my fourth year of med school—that I became aware that I knew more about neurosurgery than the interns and junior residents. While we were making our rounds, as part of the teaching procedure the professors questioned us as we examined patients. If none of the residents knew the answer, the professor would invariably turn to me. “Carson, suppose you tell them.”

Fortunately, I always could, although I was still a medical student. And, quite naturally, knowing I excelled in this area produced a real emotional high. I had worked hard and pursued an in-depth knowledge, and it was paying off. And why not? If I was going to be a doctor, I was going to be the best, most-informed doctor I could possibly be!

About this time several of the interns and residents started turning over a few of their responsibilities to me. I don't think I'll ever forget the first time a resident said, “Carson, you know so much, why don't you carry the beeper and answer the calls? If you get into something you can't handle, just holler. I'll be in the lounge catching a little sleep.”

He wasn't supposed to do that, of course, but he was exhausted, and I was so delighted to have the opportunity to practice and learn that I enthusiastically agreed. Before long the other residents were handing me their beepers or turning cases over to me.

Perhaps they were taking advantage of me—and in a sense they were—because the added responsibility meant longer hours and more work for me. But I loved neurosurgery and the excitement of being involved in actually performing the operations so much that I would have taken on even more if they had asked.

I'm sure the professors knew what was going on but they never mentioned it, and I certainly wasn't going to tell. I loved being a medical student. I was the first man on the line taking care of problems, and I was having the most fun I'd ever had in my life. No problems ever arose over my workload, and I maintained a good relationship with the interns and residents. Through all of these extra opportunities, I became convinced that I enjoyed this specialty more than anything else I tried.

Often as I walked through the wards I'd think,
If this is so great now while I'm still a student, it's going to be even better when I finish my residency
. Each day I went on rounds or to the lectures or operating theater. An attitude of excitement and adventure filled my thoughts because I knew I was gaining experience and information while sharpening my skills—all the things that would enable me to be a first-rate neurosurgeon.