by George Biro
WHAT KILLED
JANE
AUSTEN?
AND OTHER
MEDICAL MYSTERIES
WHAT KILLED
JANE
AUSTEN?
AND OTHER
MEDICAL MYSTERIES
GEORGE BIRO AND JIM LEAVESLEY
This book is dedicated to our wives, Kitty Biro and Margaret Leavesley, who have been our constant supporters, our sternest critics and invariably a source of ideas.
First published by Harper Collins, Australia in 1998
This edition published in 2011
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2011
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© George Biro and Jim Leavesley, 1998, 2007, 2011
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EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7206 5
MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7205 8
Original typesetting by The History Press
Contents
About the Authors
Preface
1 Kings and Queens
2 Eccentrics, Reformers and Pioneers
3 Quacks, Pseudologists and Other Phonies
4 Famous Patients
5 Warfare and Medicine
6 Discoveries and Diseases
7 Disasters
8 Addictions and Obsessions
9 Longevity
A Final Word: Can Immunisation Alone Save Third World Children?
Bibliography
About the Authors
George Biro was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1938, to an Italian mother and a Hungarian father. The family migrated to Australia in 1947. With such a cosmopolitan background and being good at languages, he harboured thoughts of becoming a journalist. His parents actively discouraged such folderols and recommended he find a more secure and socially acceptable job. So he became a medical student in Sydney; whether this fulfilled the parental criteria is a moot point.
After graduation George joined a group practice in Manly, New South Wales, as a GP/anaesthetist. Later he worked in Ryde Hospital in Sydney. In 1990, having acquired what he saw as the insisted-upon security and social acceptability, he reverted to his first love of writing to become a freelance medical journalist. His articles have appeared in various medical publications. This is his second book.
Jim Leavesley was born in Blackpool, the holiday resort in northwest England. He had early fantasies of becoming a Lancashire county cricketer, but again parental reproval—coupled with the obvious fact he was not good enough at cricket—soon put an end to that nonsense.
He entered Liverpool University Medical School, graduating in 1954. He migrated to Perth, Western Australia, in 1957. After having worked as a GP in the same medical practice for 33 years he retired to Margaret River, not to grow grapes but to pursue his lifelong ambition of studying and writing about medical history.
Between 1978 and 1986 he did a weekly medical talkback broadcast on local ABC radio, and from 1981 he has been a regular contributor to programs produced by the Science Unit of the ABC, mostly ‘Ockham’s Razor’. He lectures extensively on medical history and writes a fortnightly column called ‘Historically Speaking’ for Australian Doctor. In 1993 he was made a Member of the Order of Australia for ‘services to medicine in general and medical history in particular’. This is his sixth book.
Preface
Most of these essays saw the light of day in the ‘after hours’ section of the medical newspapers Australian Doctor and Medical Observer. Others have been adapted from broadcasts written for and presented on ABC radio.
Those in the medical newspapers were aimed at giving light, even comic, relief and soothing balm to doctors once they had ploughed through and wrestled to the ground the daunting and largely indigestible fare of attempting to resolve complicated medical cases or unravel the latest medico-political chicanery or come to terms with more stories of litigation against their colleagues.
Medical history was always regarded as a soft option or indulgence in medical schools; it never featured in examinations. Nonetheless, we are all curious about our roots and the fate of our forebears, and from the interest the stories generated it became obvious that their recounting held a compelling, perhaps morbid, fascination.
With this in mind, it was felt the anecdotes would appeal to a wider audience. So with the help of some judicious editing to cut out the most gory bits, a selection of bizarre, whimsical and ghoulish essays as well as off-beat, quirky clinical facts have been brought together in this book.
1
Kings and Queens
Mary I of England and Philip II of Spain
Mary Tudor, Queen Mary I of England, or Bloody Mary, had staunch religious convictions which made her unpopular in various parts of the country. But what nobody knew at the time was that while on the one hand she displayed energetic piety, on the other hand she had an enervating and disheartening medical condition. If it had been treated successfully the course of English history would have been changed. Mind you, she would have had to wait for over 400 years to be properly investigated.
Mary was born in 1516, the eldest child of Henry VIII by his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Her father treated her very cruelly as a child, used her in a game of political cat and mouse, and often expressed the wish in her hearing that she were dead. Not surprisingly, her health was always indifferent—although details are sketchy, as the royal archives from Windsor only date from the reign of George III (1760). It is known, however, that she suffered from bouts of fever (perhaps malaria), anorexia and depression. Even at her coronation in 1553 it was said she had fallen prey to melancholy to the point of illness.
At the time of her coronation she was unmarried. As queen, she became a glittering prize in the dynastic stakes of Europe. In the end her second cousin Philip, later Philip II of Spain, emerged as the frontrunner. Philip’s father—the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V and Charles I of Spain—negotiated the marriage (Philip’s second).
True love had nothing to do with this match. Both Philip and Mary were devout Catholics and opponents of Protestant heresy, but above all, Charles needed English support against the French.
To marry Philip, Mary defied the hostility of her people. Historian Hendrik Van Loon wrote: ‘Stout British hearts trembled at the prospect of the Spanish Inquisition establishing itself in their midst, and stout British fists were clenched in silent menace.’
Charles set down reams of instructions; Philip must be devout, never trust anyone, never show his emotions. Above all, beware the perils of the bedroom:
‘When you are with your wife … be careful and do not overstrain yourself … because intercourse … often … prevents the siring of children and may even kill you.’
At the age of 16 he had married the Princess of Po
rtugal, who died only days after giving birth to Don Carlos. This first son of Philip was physically and mentally deficient; Don Carlos was to die in prison under mysterious circumstances.
Mary and Philip were married in 1554, and the Venetian ambassador reported the bride to be of ‘low stature, had large white eyes, was very thin with a red and white complexion, had reddish hair, a low and wide nose, no eyebrows and were her age not on the decline, she might be called handsome’ (which leaves us to wonder what he would call ugly). Philip was 12 years younger than Mary.
Mary believed herself to be pregnant on two occasions. Four months after the nuptials her breasts swelled and discharged a fluid, and she had morning sickness. The following month she thought she felt movements. In April 1555 she withdrew from court in anticipation of a confinement on 9 May. The doctors assembled and a woman of similar age to Mary and who had recently been delivered of triplets was brought to see the queen by way of good luck.
In a flush of premature enthusiasm Philip was misinformed by the Princess Dowager of Portugal that a son had been safely delivered on 7 May. At Hampton Court, scene of the lying-in, Dr Calagila thought delivery might happen any day. That was on 22 May, but he covered himself by adding it may be as long away as 6 June.
On the strength of this, letters of announcement were prepared to send to Heads of State in Europe. The date was left blank. They are now in the Public Records Office, London, still waiting to be completed and posted; for nothing happened.
On 26 June Philip was informed that the calculation could be out by two months. On 29 June movements were said to be confirmed and milk expressed. Still nothing.
On 29 August Philip could wait no longer and left for Spain. He did not return until March 1557, some 18 months later. By this time Mary was 40 years old and her indifferent health was not improved by worrying about her barrenness. Philip stayed for four months then left England for good.
In his report home, the Venetian ambassador wrote, among other snippets, that besides bouts of melancholy, Mary suffered from ‘menstrual retention and suffocation of the matrix to which for many years she has been often subject’. Significantly, he also added that she was so short-sighted that, a book had to be held quite close to the face, and her voice was rough and loud like a man’s.
In the autumn of 1557 Mary again thought she was pregnant. Alas, she waited in vain; she was not pregnant at all. So desperate was she for a child that there was a plot to pass off a substitute male baby as her own.
Mary took her childlessness as divine vengeance for the heresies still being practised in England. So she executed eminent Protestant clerics like Thomas Cranmer, John Hooper, Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer. During her brief reign, Mary had over 300 of her own subjects burnt alive.
She also pushed England into joining Spain against the French. When England lost Calais, Mary bore much of the blame.
She remained well, until May 1558 when intermittent fever set in. No child was forthcoming, and by October she became febrile, confused and lost her vision. On 17 November 1558 Mary died—deserted by her husband and hated by her own people—aged 42 years and nine months. She was buried in Henry VII’s chapel, Westminster Abbey. Her half sister, Queen Elizabeth I, was later to be interred on top of her, and both are there still.
What did she have? Certainly two phantom pregnancies, and with the discharge from the nipple, what sounds like so-called ‘prolactinaemia’. The hormone prolactin is produced in the pituitary gland, which is situated in the base of the brain. Normally prolactin is released into the bloodstream after childbirth and stimulates lactation while at the same time suppressing ovulation, thus stopping pregnancy occurring during breastfeeding. If there is a tumour (or prolactinoma) of the secreting cells, then an excess of the hormone is produced; this condition is called prolactinaemia, and is nothing to do with childbearing and can occur anytime, but the effect is as though the woman has just been delivered of a child, hence the breasts secrete and she is infertile.
Apart from prolactinaemia, with her stressful, lonely and deprived childhood there must have been a psychological overlay.
In 1994 a research team in Lisbon found that the unusual conditions of a prolactin-producing tumour and excessive secretion of the hormone prolactin for no known reason are more common in women reared without a father, or at least one who is violent and alcoholic. It is a strange connection, but Mary could fit it on the score of paternal deprivation.
But from what has been positively observed, she had lack of menses, no eyebrows, a dry skin, a hoarse voice and ever-diminishing vision. The conglomerate of signs and symptoms together with her mode of death would seem to indicate a pituitary disorder, probably a tumour (possibly a prolactinoma) in that small but important gland in the brain.
The status of prolactin in the scheme of things medical and its place in a successful pregnancy was not elucidated until the 1970s, so Mary never stood a chance as far as a successful pregnancy was concerned.
What we need is a peek at the skull, especially the bony cavity or fossa wherein lies the pituitary gland. If our theory is correct, this would still show the erosion of the bony walls from an expanding tumour, even though the pituitary itself has long since rotted away.
The tomb was opened about 100 years ago, but the attendant Dean of Westminster was no pathologist, so the type of conclusion we are after did not emerge. The Queen is the custodian of the Abbey and decides such things as who opens tombs. Her permission to settle our idle curiosity is unlikely.
We are left to speculate—if Mary had received treatment for her condition, perhaps she would have had an heir and Elizabeth I would not have ascended the English throne.
What about Philip?
‘Workaholic’ is what today’s critics would label him. Hendrik van Loon just calls him ‘obnoxious’. According to The Larousse Encyclopedia of Modern History, Philip was ‘Lacking tact and intuition, he ruled his empire through a vast intelligence network and was a slave to paper-work.’ Still other critics considered him dull.
But such dismissals do not do Philip justice; as historian J.H. Plumb writes:
… a distorted picture of Philip has been created … Protestant historians … have portrayed him as a dedicated fanatic, sitting like a black spider in his bleak cell at the Escorial, working endlessly day and night to crush the Dutch, to reimpose Catholicism on England … For these ends he was prepared to imprison his own children, to assassinate opponents, and to rack and torture all who thwarted him.
… but he was far more complex and much more human than the ‘ogre’ of Protestant historians would allow us to believe.
Indeed Philip enjoyed fishing and hunting, and appreciated gardens, buildings, music, and birds and other animals. He had the largest private library in the Western world, and also collected coins, medals, musical instruments, jewellery and paintings. He also received respect and even love from many of his Spanish subjects.
He was a devoutly religious man, leading a serious, purposeful life. As well as God, Philip had to contend with the figure of his father, forever watching over his shoulder.
1558, the year of Mary’s death, was a watershed for both Spain and England. Charles’s death from gout finally ended Philip’s apprenticeship. The same year, Elizabeth I succeeded her half-sister, Mary Tudor, as England’s ruler.
The English alliance was as short-lived as the marriage of Philip and Mary.
The rivalry of Catholic Spain under Philip II and Protestant England under Elizabeth I dominated European politics for the rest of the 16th century.
Protestantism for Philip II meant rebellion and chaos, while Catholicism meant unity and devotion.
Elizabeth always tried to avoid open conflict. According to the historian S.T. Bindoff, ‘She would cheerfully have fought Spain to the last drop of French blood.’
The struggle ran for decades—a subtle, shifting game that Elizabeth played so well.
At times Philip worked to overthrow Elizabeth. But he also
negotiated to marry her, and she led him on. While he lived in hope, he appeased her. So when he was not plotting against her, Philip the Catholic monarch protected Elizabeth (an arch-heretic) from the Pope’s plan to depose her by force!
But Elizabeth showed little gratitude. She kept supporting his rebellious Dutch Protestant subjects and encouraged Sir Francis Drake to plunder and destroy Spanish ships not only in the New World, but even in Spain itself.
Finally, in 1587, Elizabeth reluctantly executed her cousin, the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, who had been plotting to kill Elizabeth and seize the throne.
All this was too much for Philip. After 30 years of struggling with Elizabeth, he finally sent the ‘Invincible Armada’ against England. Its failure was a bitter blow to him.
According to J.H. Plumb:
The problems that faced Philip were as great as his empire. He was constantly at war … The Turks were an unending menace … the Dutch and the English were officially or unofficially at war with him for decades Philip could never be sure whether the English pirates might not appear—burning, ravishing and robbing …
Apart from Spain itself, he ruled an empire of 50 million subjects. From Madrid, it took two weeks to send a letter to Milan or Brussels; two months to Mexico, and a year to the Philippines, which Spain was annexing.
Philip distrusted people, and did not like to delegate. No wonder that he dealt with up to 400 documents a day.
And his health? Philip’s pallor and fair hair had always made him look sickly. His diet was neither healthy nor varied. There were only two meals a day, both offering the same choice: soup, white bread, chicken, partridge, pigeon, venison or other game, beef and fish (on Fridays). Fruit and vegetables were not popular.
For his constipation, Philip received turpentine, emetics and enemas. He reputedly had piles, asthma, gallstones and bouts of malaria (some have also said syphilis).