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Full text of "Good Medicine: The First 150 Years of Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center"

GOOD MEDICINE 

The First 150 Years of 

Rush- Presbyterian- St, Luke^s 

Medical Center 




JIM BOWMAN 



$16.95 



This is a story of medicine as it 
moved from the pioneer care-giving 
era of the early 1800s to the 
sophisticated health settings of today. 
It is the story of the many colorful, 
caring physicians whose vision helped 
spawn new ways to educate caregivers 
and new methods to heal the sick 
. . . and of the generations of 
dedicated health professionals and 
civic leaders who, over the past 150 
years, shaped one of the nation's 
leading academic health centers. It is 
the story of Rush-Presbyterian-St. 
Luke's Medical Center. 

This informal history of the medi- 
cal center traces its development from 
the chartering of Rush Medical Col- 
lege in 1837 just two days before the 
City of Chicago obtained its charter, 
the early beginnings of St. Luke's 
Hospital on the city's near south side 
and of Presbyterian Hospital on the 
city's near west side, through the 
subsequent merger of these institu- 
tions. 

Along the way, the story presents a 
procession of Chicago's great medical 
names — Herrick, Fenger, Senn, 
Bevan, Billings, Hektoen — and in- 
stitutions — The University of 
Chicago, Cook County Hospi- 
tal — and the part each played in the 
growth of the medical center. The 
narrative proceeds against a back- 
ground of the great events that have 
occurred in the life of Chicago and 
the nation — the cholera epidemic of 
the 1850s, the Great Fire, two world 
wars and, in our own day, the dra- 
matic changes occurring in health 
care delivery. 
(continued on back flap) 



GOOD MEDICINE 



LIBRARY OF RUSH UNIVERSITY 

600 SOUTH PAULINA STREET 

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60612 




Benjamin Rush, M.D., 1746-1813. 

(Portrait attributed to Thomas Sully) 



GOOD MEDICINE 



The First 150 Years of 

Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's 

Medical Center 



Jim Bowman 



ChTSS^^^^'-'N'^ STREET 
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 60612 



CHICAGO REVIEW PRESS 



All photos, unless otherwise credited, courtesy of Rush- Presbyterian- St. Luke's 
Medical Center. 



ISBN: 1-55652-015-8 (cloth) 
1-55652-016-6 (paper) 

LC No. 87-10305 

Copyright © 1987 by Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical 

Center 
All rights reserved 

Printed in the United States of America • 
First Edition 

Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated, 
814 North Franklin, Chicago, IL 60610 



Like the institution it chronicles, this book is dedicated 
"To the Glory of God and the Service of Man." 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2011 with funding from 

CARL!: Consortium of Academic and Research Libraries in Illinois 



http://www.archive.org/details/goodmedicinefirsOObowm 



Contents 



Prologue ix 

Rush is Chartered & Opened, 1836-1857 1 

Ferment in Medical Education, 1836-1871 10 

Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 

in the Late Nineteenth Century, 1871-1898 18 

St Luke's Hospital is Established, 1864-1900 38 

A Marriage Made In Heaven: 

Rush & The University of Chicago, 1898-1924 66 

Rush & The University of Chicago 

Go Their Separate Ways, 1924-1941 76 

Clinical Observations, 1898-1946 86 

Postwar Revival, 1946-1955 121 

The Merger & Campbell's Accession 
to the Presidency, 1955-1965 137 

The Second Founding of 

Rush Medical College, 1963-1983 161 

New Leadership, New Directions 
Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's After Campbell 184 

Appendix I 195 

Appendix II 198 

Bibliography 205 

Index 211 



Prologue 



This essay is meant not to close the book on Rush- 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center but to open it. That is 
to say, it is an attempt at history by a writer who is not a 
historian in the hope that historians will have their interest 
piqued and others will find it a lively story. 

If that sounds as if meant to disarm, let it. My approach has 
been to tell a story, though at times I have been more a mapper 
of landscape. In neither case have I tried to break new ground. 
Rather, I have leaned on others who did so — historians and 
other chroniclers, including journalists, who write history by 
the day. 

It's a commemorative work in which I tried not to be too 
commemorative, lest readers feel called on more to praise 
famous men and women than to finish the book. I want readers 
to finish the book, though the table of contents and index will 
encourage browsing, which is all right too. 

What I don't want is for readers to feel they have to read it 
because it describes a worthy cause (which it does). Hence it 
tells a story and moves as quickly as possible without footnotes 



IX 



X GOOD MEDICINE 

and with a minimum of base-touching. The text itself has 
some footnote material. 

At the end is a bibliography which expands what I say here, 
namely that I have written while standing on others' shoul- 
ders. There is also a list of interviewees. Maybe in the inter- 
view material a historian will fmd something to use. I am 
grateful to the interviewees, who helped me write the book. 

I am also grateful to Bruce Rattenbury, who commissioned 
this book and shepherded it and me through the process of 
research, composition and approval. Pesky he wasn't, how- 
ever, and for that I am doubly grateful. His associate Nancy 
K. Gallagher contributed editing help. William Kona, the 
Rush archivist, was very helpful in providing materials and 
verifying dates, titles and a dozen other details. 

The advisory committee appointed by President Leo M. 
Henikoff, M.D., helped to flesh out my narrative. These are: 
Evan Barton, M.D., Doris Bolef M.L.S., Max Douglas 
Brown, J.D., Frederic de Peyster, M.D., Stanton A. 
Friedberg, M.D., the late Ruthjohnsen, R.N., Janet R. Kin- 
ney, M.D., C. Frederick Kittle, M.D., and again, William 
Kona. Erich E. Brueschke, M.D., provided helpful comment 
on the typescript, which was also read by Harold A. Kessler, 
M.D. 

The usual disclaimer is in order: what's good is mine, 
what's bad is mine. Whatever you do, don't blame the advisors. 
In any event, I trust the book will tell you less than you want to 
know about a marvelously health-abetting enterprise prepar- 
ing for its second 150 years. 

Jim Bowman 
February 1987 



Rush is Chartered & Opened 
1836-1857 



The young surgeon Daniel Brainard came to Chicago in 1836 
riding on a pony, one of many wise young men from the East 
who flooded into that village by the lake with streets of dust 
and mud and sidewalks made of wood. He was part of a human 
avalanche. 

"Strangers fill our public houses and streets," said a local 
newspaper. "Our wharves are covered with men, women and 
children." Warehouses were thrown open to hold them. It was 
not unusual for 50 new immigrants to arrive in one day. One 
day, 200 came on 12 ships. Not a day passed with fewer than 
10 arrivals. The village not yet a city numbered some 3,000 
people. 

Brainard himself was born in upstate New York, the fifth of 
nine children of a prosperous farmer. A tall, well built man, he 
was restless and ambitious. 

He had studied at the small but influential College of Physi- 
cians and Surgeons at Fairfield, New York, as did Nathan S. 
Davis, later his colleague and competitor in Chicago. His Doc- 
tor of Medicine degree was from the highly respected Jefferson 



1 



2 GOOD MEDICINE 

Medical College in Philadelphia. As an Easterner, he was a 
typical newcomer to Chicago, where all but one of the first 10 
mayors were Eastern-born. 

Arriving in the village, he was met by John Dean Caton, a 
lawyer, whom he had known three years earlier when they 
were students in Rome, New York. On Caton's advice 
Brainard sold the pony to nearby Indians and deposited his 
saddle bags in Caton's office, there to begin his practice. It 
would do for a start. 

He connected almost immediately with other physicians — 
movers and shakers of the community who shared his vision of 
a city served by well-educated doctors. The need was obvious. 
Sanitary, not to mention dietary, conditions were dismal. Peo- 
ple didn't know how to eat or how to clean up after themselves. 
Thousands were crammed into tight spaces. A typical great 
American city was being born. Medicine was a high priority. 
Decent medical education was a must. 

A medical school was in order, and no one knew it better 
than Brainard and these community leaders. In the fall of 
1836, he and one of them. Dr. Josiah Goodhue, the son of a 
medical school president in Massachusetts, drew up a charter 
for one. A few months later, in the winter of 1837, they had it 
presented to the legislature in Vandalia, then the state capital. 

They named the new school after Benjamin Rush, a Phila- 
delphia physician active in Revolutionary politics and a post- 
Revolutionary medical and humanitarian leader, who had 
died in 1813. Rush was the only formally trained physician 
who signed the Declaration of Independence. The first presi- 
dent, George Washington, was his patient. 

Rush pioneered in psychiatry and published papers and 
books about alcoholism. His theories about "excess excitability" 
of blood vessels led to a controversial emphasis by him on 
bleeding and purging of patients. In Philadelphia in 1786, he 
founded the nation's first free dispensary and later was pro- 
fessor of medicine at the newly founded University of Penn- 
sylvania. His family was well established in Philadelphia, and 
Brainard hoped to gain financial support from family 
members. 



Rush is Chartered & Opened 3 

Goodhue was a prominent civic figure and debater who 
pushed successfully for the city's first public school system. He 
died in 1847 when he fell into an open well while making a 
night house call. Another was Dr. John T. Temple, who like 
many physicians of the day, had wide business interests. His 
shipping firm was the first to ship mail out of Chicago. He 
operated a stagecoach line and built part of the Illinois- 
Michigan canal. Another of Brainard's contacts. Dr. Edmund 
S. Kimberley, was a commercial pharmacist who sold patent 
medicines. 

They and Brainard and other incorporators received their 
charter for Rush Medical College on March 2, 1837, two days 
before the city of Chicago received its charter. It was the first 
school of any kind chartered by Illinois, the first health care in- 
stitution in Chicago, one of the first medical schools west of the 
Alleghenies. The date was otherwise inauspicious. The year 
was one of financial panic and depression, and the school's 
opening had to be delayed. Neither did the Rush family see fit 
to contribute to its support, as Brainard had hoped. An in- 
terim began. 

Brainard became the city's first health officer and served for 
a year. He was appointed to the largely inactive Chicago 
Board of Health in 1838 and in that year did a difficult leg am- 
putation (for an injured canal worker) with medical colleagues 
watching. He performed with his usual boldness and coolness 
and made a reputation that attracted the first of his "aristo- 
cratic" clientele. 

As a frontier surgeon, he was no bumpkin. His polish set 
him apart. Indeed, some considered him cold and remote, ap- 
parently because of his seriousness and directness. Later, he 
was the first to use ether in the city, while amputating a finger 
at the dispensary in Tippecanoe Hall, at Wolcott and Kinzie 
streets on January 12, 1847. It was the same dispensary where 
chloroform was used 12 days later — either by Brainard or 
another surgeon — 10 days before it was used in New York. 

In 1839 Brainard went to Paris, where he observed and per- 
formed various studies, doing a number of surgical procedures 
on cadavers. He returned to Paris in the mid- 1850s and again 



4 GOOD MEDICINE 

in 1866, just before he died, each time to revel in the oppor- 
tunities for experimentation which he found there. He liked it 
there, and they liked him. The superintendent of the "garden 
of plants" in Paris, where experimental animals were kept, 
approved his work and gave him the help he needed. 

Brainard was a scientist, unlike most of his medical col- 
leagues in the U.S., where a sort of common sense empiricism 
was the order of the day. Furthermore, when he wrote about 
his work, either experimental or surgical, he did it in the con- 
text of what others were doing and recording. He weighed and 
balanced various procedures, carefully noting pros and cons. 
His article on un-united fractures won a prize. 

But he and his colleague James Van Zandt Blaney, whom 
he met during this interim, were exceptions to the rule. U.S. 
and especially Midwestern doctors were not systematic experi- 
menters, but rather tried things out at random, pretty much in 
isolation from each other. Brainard and Blaney were two of the 
few who pursued solutions with the systematic approach we 
call science. 

One of the factors that worked against experimentation was 
widespread Midwestern antipathy to dissection of cadavers, 
which in turn led to the "body-snatching" and grave-robbing 
problem immortalized by Mark Twain in his Adventures of Tom 
Sawyer. (Tom and Huckleberry Finn watched the murder of a 
young doctor by one of his grave-robbing accomplices, Injun 
Joe.) Indeed, medical schools were damned if they did and 
didn't equally: without cadavers they could not train students 
in anatomy, with them the public rose up to complain. 

A school in St. Charles, Illinois, west of Chicago, broke up 
when a mob invaded its quarters and shot the president. Years 
later, in 1857, a Rush student and the city sexton were charged 
with "resurrectionism" (student's term for body-snatching) 
and were vilified in the press as "hyenas" and "barbarians." 
Before 1859 the only bodies available were those of hanging 
victims, and not until 1885 did Illinois law give students access 
to paupers' bodies otherwise destined for burial at public 
expense. 

In 1842 Brainard taught at St. Louis University medical 



Rush is Chartered & Opened 5 

school. The Rush trustees had met at least once while 
Brainard had been in Paris. As would be the case a hundred 
years later, the Rush charter was there to be used, but the 
users had to await their opportunity. In St. Louis Brainard 
met the young and likable Dr. James Van Zandt Blaney, 
whom Brainard recruited as the school's first teacher. 

In 1843 Brainard finally opened his medical school. (He had 
given anatomy lessons in the interim, in his office.) In his in- 
augural address, he set forth noble goals. "The health, the 
happiness and the life of your dearest friends and your own," 
he told the students, "may and will some day depend on the 
skill of some member of the [medical] profession .... To 
elevate the standard of skill and knowledge in the profession, 
to excite an honorable emulation among its members, to dis- 
seminate for their successors in this new region the principles 
of medical science . . . such are the objects held in view by the 
founders of this institution." 

The institution's curriculum was standard: two 16-week lec- 
ture courses, held in the winter so the farm boys wouldn't miss 
planting or harvesting, of which the second simply repeated 
the first. There was a variation: the second 16 weeks could be 
dropped in favor of two years working with "a respectable 
physician." In any case, three more years were apparently re- 
quired with such a preceptor. The Doctor of Medicine degree 
recipient had to be 21 and of good character. He had to pre- 
sent a thesis in his own handwriting for faculty approval, in 
addition to passing examinations on lectures. Students were 
male. 

The sole female student during Rush's first 60 years or so, 
Emily Blackwell, was dismissed in 1852 after Rush was cen- 
sured by the Illinois State Medical Society for accepting her. 
Students were white except for David Jones Peck, whose Doc- 
tor of Medicine degree in 1847 was the first for a U.S. black 
from a U.S. medical school. 

Fees were $10 a course, or $60 a term, plus a $20 graduation 
fee and $5 to cover dissection costs if the student were so in- 
clined. Fees were payable by note in some cases, but these 
were not always collectible. When Austin Flint, one of the first 



6 GOOD MEDICINE 

Rush teachers, returned East, he took notes with him; they 
weren't worth much in Chicago and presumably dechned in 
value the farther east he traveled. Flint said he would not 
return to Chicago until they were paid. They apparently 
weren't; he certainly didn't. Board was $2 a week. 

Later, Rush teacher Nathan Davis, intent on opening medical 
education to as many as possible, insisted on reducing fees, 
which were dropped to $35 a term. Some 20 years later, in 
1879, the regular medical schools of Chicago and Cincinnati 
agreed to fix fees at $75; it was one more step in removing 
medical education from the category of "a competitive com- 
modity," to use historian Thomas Bonner's phrase. 

Twenty-two students matriculated in Rush's first class, in 
December of 1843. They met for lectures in a rented hall in the 
Saloon Building on Clark Street south of the river. Teachers 
and students waded through mud to the minimally furnished 
classrooms. 

Plans were already afoot to build. Civic leaders William B. 
Ogden, the city's first mayor and chairman of the Rush board, 
and Walter Newberry and others offered help if Rush moved 
north, across the Chicago River. This is where the first Rush 
building went up, at the corner of Dearborn Street and what is 
now Grand Avenue, in the summer of 1844, at a cost of 
$3,500, most of it from faculty pockets. The Chicago Democrat 
called it "an ornament to the city." Rush Medical College was 
showing people that Chicago could hold its head high not only 
commercially but intellectually and morally as well, the news- 
paper proclaimed. 

Operating expenses were financed in part by sale of stock 
certificates at $50 each. These were apparently donations or 
free loans, redeemable at face value but earning no interest for 
the buyer. Later, in 1855, another building was erected. The 
faculty again covered the cost. Indeed, Rush trustees (who 
held bonds that did earn interest) were mostly faculty through- 
out the century. Rush was not for profit, but it was run as if it 
were. 

This is not to say there was much money to be made from 
the venture. The problem with the proprietary schools (and 



Rush is Chartered & Opened 7 

most were proprietary) was not profit-taking but control. And 
in Rush's case, non-proprietary as it may have been, Brainard 
pretty much ran the show, as became clear when he successfully 
resisted a faculty majority in the late fifties. 

As for Rush's moneymaking potential, it could not have 
been much. Blaney may have decorated his cabin beyond 
frontier standards, and Rush professors bought their surgical 
instruments in Europe, but none of this pointed to their Rush 
connection as a source of wealth. Medical education in general 
at the time was a business, it is true, entered mostly for profit 
by entrepreneurs, including instructors. There was sharp com- 
petition for students and low standards, such as eight months 
"reading" with a practitioner for whom students "ground the 
powders and mixed the pills." That and four months of listen- 
ing to lectures, and one had his M.D. 

By the start of Rush's third year, in any event, the school 
enjoyed "increasing facilities," according to the Chicago 
Democrat. By 1848 it had produced 71 graduates, 30 in the class 
of '48. It had given five honorary degrees. 

Teachers were picked for their lecturing ability. Not until 
the 1880s did lecturing begin to give way in medical schools, 
and then to periodic student recitation as an aid to motivation, 
as Nathan Davis urged. These early lecturers were a young 
lot, as befitted their pivotal roles in a young city, not to men- 
tion profession, since medical education was in a pioneer state 
as well. In Rush's first 16 years, 12 of its 14 professors were 35 
or younger. Among the first were James Blaney, William Her- 
rick (no relation to the famous James Herrick, who came 
later), Austin Flint and Moses Knapp (who was older than 
35). 

James Van Zandt Blaney was all of 23 when he became a 
charter member of the Rush faculty, teaching chemistry and 
pharmacy. An attractive young man of winning disposition, 
he was much liked by students and about everyone else, for 
that matter. Without fanfare, as was his style, he started the 
city's first medical dispensary in his office across the street 
from the Sherman House, reportedly in 1839. Later, Brainard 
began a surgical dispensary to go with it, to greater acclaim — 



8 GOOD MEDICINE 

testimony to Brainard's personality as much as the substance 
of the achievement. 

In 1843 the combined medical-surgical dispensary was moved 
to the newly occupied Rush Medical College building. Its 
attending physicians were largely Rush faculty. In 1845 it was 
moved to a large warehouse called Tippecanoe Hall, at 
Wolcott and Kinzie streets, where Brainard, Blaney and 
William Herrick established Chicago's first general hospital in 
1847. This was the first Cook County hospital, insofar as the 
county furnished most of its supplies. 

But it didn't last long, and dispensaries remained the near- 
est thing to a hospital. People went either to a doctor's office or 
a dispensary, which in essence provided outpatient care. At 
the latter they could pay or not, according to ability. Paying 
patients might use the dispensary, which was not much publi- 
cized; people just seemed to know it was there. It provided no 
place to keep trauma cases, of course. As such it was prelude to 
the hospital, which could lodge such patients. 

The Rush faculty was extensively involved in organizing 
hospitals. The first to survive was the Illinois General Hospital 
of the Lakes, which opened in 1850 in rooms rented at the 
Lake House Hotel at North Water and Rush streets. This 
hospital was largely the work of Nathan Davis. Brainard ran 
surgery. Dr. John Evans ran obstetrics, Davis and Dr. Levi 
Boone ran the medical department. Medical students did the 
nursing according to a vague arrangement that proved unsat- 
isfactory. The Sisters of Mercy took over the nursing and run- 
ning of the place in 1851. The Rush faculty reserved beds in 
return for its offer of free care to the needy. 

As for Blaney, who in a sense started it all with his dispen- 
sary, work at the dispensary wasn't enough in the way of 
extracurriculars. He also was founding editor of The Illinois 
Medical and Surgical Journal, the city's first such publication, in 
1844. In its first issue he explained, as does every editor in a 
maiden issue, that his publication was to meet needs not being 
met, in this case among Midwest physicians. 

It would carry local medical news, including epidemic statis- 
tics and descriptions of remedies both reliable and otherwise. 
The latter would be branded as "newfangled impostures," and 



Rush is Chartered & Opened 9 

Midwestern doctors and their patients would be suitably warned. 
The journal, later called the Chicago Medical Journal and edited by 
Rush professors Evans and Davis, ran mostly reprints from 
Eastern and European publications. Some Rush originals also 
were printed, including articles by Evans and others on the 
dreaded cholera. Later it served as a vehicle for one side of the 
Brainard-Davis feud of the 1860s. 

Blaney also lectured around the city to great effect and success, 
and later succeeded Brainard as president of Rush following 
Brainard's death in 1866. 

William B. Herrick, 31, a Dartmouth M.D., class of 1836, 
and an Illinoisan since 1839, was a popular anatomy lecturer. 
Promoted to professor in 1845 in recognition of his popularity 
with students, but over objections of some of his Rush col- 
leagues, he left not much later for service in the Mexican War. 
From Mexico he wrote letters to Blaney's journal about health 
conditions among U.S. troops and in Mexico in general. He 
returned to teach at Rush, where he remained until 1857. In 
1850, he became the first president of the Illinois State 
Medical Society. 

Another of the original faculty, Austin Flint, stayed three 
years at Rush and then returned east to build a distinguished 
career as author and professor at Bellevue Hospital Medical 
College in New York City. 

Brainard's evident keen ability to choose top performers 
stands out even more brightly when one considers the mistakes 
that were available to him as demonstrated in the case of 
Moses Knapp. Knapp was not liked by the students and was 
cashiered at the end of the first 16-week term. Once dismissed, 
he told stories about his former colleagues apparently to 
discredit them, leading Blaney to conclude they had been 
doubly right to fire the man. Then Knapp was caught seeking 
to lead a young girl astray on graduation night at the La Porte, 
Indiana, medical school, where he taught after Rush, and was 
dismissed from that institution as well. Nonetheless, he had in 
all an apparently distinguished career in and out of Chicago, 
including a stint as dean of the Rock Island (Illinois) Medical 
School, which eventually became part of the University of 
Iowa. 



Ferment in Medical Education 
1836-1871 



The second wave of Rush teachers brought with it the 
Nestor of Chicago medicine, Dr. Nathan S. Davis, already 
founder of the American Medical Association and founder-to- 
be of Northwestern University Medical School. He was also 
an evangelist and prophet for reform in medical education and 
was destined to be a thorn in the side of his counterpart at 
Rush, Daniel Brainard, who, it may be said, gave him his start 
in Chicago. 

Known for his activism in the cause of medicine and medi- 
cal education, Davis was recruited for Rush at the AM A con- 
vention in Boston in 1849 by John Evans, another trailblazer 
whom Brainard had already drawn to Chicago. 

Evans was a mental-health progressive from Indiana, praised 
by reformer Dorothea Dix for his work in that state on behalf 
of the mentally ill. A Cincinnati College medical graduate, 
class of 1838, who overcame his Quaker father's objections to 
studying medicine, Evans became also a railroad and real 
estate investor and philanthropist. He played a key role in 
founding Northwestern University (its location, Evanston, 



10 



Ferment in Medical Education 1 1 

bears his name), took an abolitionist position on slavery and 
spent the last 36 years of his long life in Colorado, where he 
began as territorial governor and among other things founded 
the University of Colorado. 

Evans was a gung-ho recruiter for Rush, which he joined in 
1844, enthusiastically pumping the hinterlands for students, 
going in fact beyond what Brainard thought suitable. Brainard 
didn't believe in pushing young men in the matter of medical 
careers. He thought Evans overdid it. 

Maybe Brainard came to think Evans overdid it when Evans 
brought the prophetic, reformist Davis into Chicago. Davis's 
first big splash was to call immediately for free medical educa- 
tion, something he said both community and students deserved, 
stating this as a Rush goal. On the spot he promised three free 
"tickets," as they were called, for Rush courses. Other schools 
naturally complained at the underpricing, but Davis was un- 
moved. Native ability alone should be the only requirement 
for medical school, he said. Indeed, he is better known for his 
insistence on higher requirements, of which more later. 

Another of this second wave of Rush teachers was Edmund 
Andrews, a paragon of the polymath physician. An expert in 
botany, zoology, ornithology and geology, he pioneered in 
antisepsis and in 1856 helped found the Chicago Academy of 
Natural Sciences (of which Blaney was the first president). His 
adding of oxygen to nitrous oxide made long-term anesthesia 
safe. 

These gentlemen were teaching and practicing medicine 
and surgery in virtually epidemic surroundings. The state was 
only decades removed from the "graveyard" category into 
which it had been lumped early in the century. One Illinois 
county in the 1820s had lost 80 percent of its population to 
malaria. In Chicago the chief problem, worse even than 
malaria and typhus, was cholera, which broke out in 1832 and 
1849, providing a number of scares in between. 

The city's bad reputation endured into the 1850s. In 1850 it 
had no sewerage system. Davis pushed for one and in addition 
lectured on alcoholism, infant care and other matters of per- 
sonal hygiene. Like Brainard, he stayed abreast of the latest. 



12 GOOD MEDICINE 

"Out of the hydrants came fish dinners. MilHons of rats lived 
under raised wooden walks," said one breezy chronicler years 
later, when it was too late to count the rats. In this frontier-like 
town, men far outnumbered women: by three to two in the 
20-50 age bracket. Over half the people were foreign-born: 52 
percent in contrast to New York's 45 percent. 

In the midst of it all stood Rush Medical College, already in 
1850 the 10th largest of the nation's 150 medical schools. And 
within its not yet hallowed walls, a first-class fight was brewing. 

Davis had brought with him strong ideas about the ideal 
availability of medical education. On the one hand he wanted 
it unrestricted by cost considerations, on the other more rigidly 
restricted according to ability. He also faced up to the anomaly 
of the curriculum: the bright students he wanted to attract 
were asked to sit through two identical 16-week lecture 
courses. 

He pushed immediately, therefore, for a "graded curricu- 
lum," that is, one in which the second year built on the first 
without repeating it, offering clinical matter as follow-up on 
basic science. Andrews the multifaceted scholar backed him 
up. They and others pressured the "imperious and auto- 
cratic" Brainard, who for various reasons resisted. 

Among them was the natural reluctance of the successful to 
change their ways. The Rush way was how everyone did it. 
Older students probably took some responsibility for teaching 
younger ones. The system seemed to be working, illogical as it 
was. Anyhow, wasn't repetition the mother of studies? 

Secondly, good teachers were hard to find. Nobody knew 
that better than Brainard, who had already put together 
several faculties. There was the serious question whether 
doubling the curriculum content might not put a strain on or 
even exhaust the available teacher-pool. It was the sort of thing 
a medical school founder who had been there might worry 
about. 

Nonetheless, Brainard found himself a minority of one on 
the graded-curriculum issue, if not at first, then at least by the 
summer of 1857, when in his absence the faculty voted in favor 
of it. The die being thus cast, they told Brainard on his return 



Ferment in Medical Education 13 

that they wanted to take it to the trustees. Brainard said no, he 
would take it. He did and returned with the answer no. Rush 
would not switch. 

If Rush wouldn't, Davis, Andrews and others would. In 
1859 they left Rush to form their own school, Chicago Medical 
College, which later became Northwestern University Medical 
School. The split was permanent and it was a blow to Rush. 
Davis and five allies — Hosmer Johnson, William Byford, 
David Rutter, Ralph Isham, and Andrews — took Mercy Hos- 
pital with them, leaving Rush without adequate clinical train- 
ing facilities. Brainard's students had to use their dispensary 
and later the U.S. Marine Hospital, neither of which appar- 
ently was a match for Mercy. 

Brainard, bitter, criticized Davis and the others, though not 
by name, as "incompetent, noisy individuals." Medical 
knowledge, he maintained, depended not on curriculum but 
on teacher. If you wanted to improve it, you got better 
teachers. Neither did you cut fees, as Davis wanted to do, 
since fee income paid for better libraries and led to better 
educated doctors. Brainard's approach was to multiply stu- 
dents, not requirements. 

When Davis said the country was full of "half-educated 
physicians," Brainard called him a traitor to the cause of the 
"regular" physicians, as opposed to homeopathic and other 
"irregular" physicians, calling Davis's comment "an unjust 
attack upon physicians and schools." Davis was no softy on 
the homeopathic question, however. In 1850, as secretary of 
Rush Medical College, he had refused admission to a homeo- 
path, that is, a doctor who cured with minute doses of what in 
large amounts would induce the symptoms. 

In drinker's parlance, homeopathy offers a hair of the dog 
that bit you. In those days it enjoyed considerable popular 
support, and the dispute between the two schools was a lively 
one. The allopath, one who sought directly to alleviate symp- 
toms, was classed as "regular," however. 

Davis's refusal of the homeopathic applicant had caused a 
protest over alleged violation of the man's rights. Again, in 
1857, he had refused to serve on the staff of the new city 



14 GOOD MEDICINE 

hospital because homeopaths would also be serving there. A 
typical man of principle, Davis was hard to live with at times. 

Brainard had his own prickliness. He also refused coopera- 
tion when he felt used, as when he led a boycott in 1850 of the 
newly formed Chicago Medical Society, which elected as 
president Dr. Levi D. Boone, who later won the Chicago 
mayoralty on the Know-Nothing ticket. Brainard, who looked 
on medical societies as "trade unions" concerned with fee 
standards or "punitive leagues" concerned with ethics en- 
forcement, didn't like Boone anyhow. So the decision was an 
easy one. His boycott killed the baby society, but Davis, a 
proven believer in group action, revived it two years later. 

Brainard instead gave his support to a rival organization 
with more professional and academic goals, the Chicago 
Academy of Medical Sciences, which was founded in 1859 and 
consisted largely of Rush teachers for its three years' existence. 

Meanwhile, Davis announced the program for his new 
school in an inaugural address at Market (later Wacker) and 
Randolph streets, in a building called Lind's Block. (His 
school began under the aegis of the short-lived Lind Univer- 
sity. Decades later. Northwestern University took it over.) 
The program included these changes (or reforms) from the ac- 
cepted way of doing things: a five-month term (versus 16 
weeks), fewer lectures per day, more professors, full recogni- 
tion of clinical chairs, daily clinical hospital experience for 
students, and the vaunted graded curriculum. Bonner notes 
that Harvard did not adopt these changes for 12 years. On the 
other hand, neither was all of it strange and new, notably the 
clinical training part, which was a Rush staple from the start. 

Rush resisted most of this, waiting nine years to add two 
weeks to its course length and 17, well after Brainard's death, 
to adopt the graded curriculum. The Brainard-Rush position 
was that graded curriculum forced students to cram basics in 
their first year while neglecting them in the second, clinical, 
year. In 1868, The Chicago Medical Journal, a Rush-allied 
publication, referred to Davis not complimentarily as "the 
apostle" and to his school as "the reform school." 

The competition did not hurt Rush enrollment, however. It 



Ferment in Medical Education 1 5 

rose from 119 in 1859, the year Chicago Medical College 
began, to 374 in 1866, the year of Brainard's death. Chicago 
Medical College on the other hand did not reach 100 students 
until 1865. Some of Rush's enrollment gains, it should be 
noted, came from courses offered in military surgery during 
the war. 

Davis later promoted another reform, higher entrance re- 
quirements. As early as 1867, he required English, mathe- 
matics, science, Latin and Greek of his incoming students. 
This sort of thing had no appeal to the Rush administration. 
Of 135 students in the Rush class of 1888, for instance, only 
seven had a college diploma of any kind, according to its 
distinguished alumnus James Herrick, a man of extensive 
liberal arts credentials in his own right. Only by 1891 did 
Rush ask applicants to prepare themselves in algebra, geom- 
etry, rhetoric, logic, Latin, English and physics — 20 years 
after the state first tried to raise entrance requirements in Il- 
linois medical schools. 

In all this Davis comes off the dreamer, Brainard the moss- 
back. But Brainard had his dreams too, in scientific medicine. 
He had been impressed in Paris with the French emphasis on 
student involvement in hospital work and experimentation 
and thought lecturing could be overdone. Davis wanted more 
lectures, though fewer per day. The problem was, as Brainard 
knew from experience, where to find the lecturers. Rush for its 
part had from the beginning offered classes in anatomy (with 
dissection) and clinics in surgery. Rush students from the start 
learned about medicine in the dispensary. 

Davis thought more in societal terms than Brainard and 
cared deeply about education, but he wasn't the scientist 
Brainard was. His articles do not refer to others' positions on 
the matter he was treating. Brainard's always did. So did those 
of his colleague (and protege?) Blaney. Judged in this light, 
Davis was the plunger, Brainard the thoughtful one who took 
others' opinions into consideration, but it's only one light, and 
neither profits from too much thumbnail-sketching. 

Brainard was arrogant but very good at some things, judg- 
ing men, for instance. He picked some top-drawer performers 



16 GOOD MEDICINE 

and never worried about the competition this would cause 
him. Witness the hall of fame he gathered around himself at 
Rush, including Davis. Then beginning all over when Davis 
and the others left, he put together another good team. 

Another difference between the two was that Brainard 
favored specialization while Davis didn't, even though his 
graded curriculum idea seemed to call for it. Brainard hired 
Edward Holmes, the eye doctor, at the first opportunity. He 
thought it was wonderful that this young man knew so much 
about the eye. As a result. Rush had its ophthalmology depart- 
ment (after Brainard 's death, in 1869) a year before Chicago 
Medical College. 

Finally, perhaps the crucial difference was that Brainard 
thought education depended on the teacher and patient con- 
tact, almost regardless of the curriculum. Davis, more the 
theoretician and logician in the matter, seemed to put curric- 
ulum first. 

In a sense these two giants of early Chicago medical educa- 
tion complemented each other. Their feud may be seen as fer- 
ment which led to progress, as another kind leads to wine. In 
any event, neither threw in his lot, in the final analysis, with a 
losing proposition. The professional heirs of each can be grate- 
ful for that. 

Brainard the politician and civic figure was a Chicago type. 
He tied in with the Democrats early in his Chicago experience. 
By May 1847, he was serving with William B. Ogden, the 
city's first mayor and president of the Rush board of trustees 
from 1843 to 1872, on a committee to help raise money for 
Irish relief during the potato famine. 

In 1858, with the slavery question dominant, he ran for 
mayor on a pro-choice platform, enjoying the support of 
"every pimp, every shyster, every blackleg, base men and 
lewd women," who expended "fiendish energy" on his 
behalf, according to the Daily Democratic Press, which obviously 
did not support his candidacy. 

He sided with national or mainstream Democrats in opposi- 
tion to the moderate position taken by U.S. Sen. Stephen A. 
Douglas of Illinois. National Democrats had supported the 



Ferment in Medical Education 1 7 

Dred Scott decision, but Douglas broke with the administra- 
tion on a related issue, whether the pro-choice Kansas consti- 
tution had been fairly presented to the Kansas electorate. In 
the ensuing political fallout, Brainard sided with the regulars. 

Then Douglas faced Lincoln in the 1858 senatorial election, 
in the midst of which a phony story surfaced that Douglas 
owned slaves in Louisiana. Brainard was in the middle of this 
one. He was the first to be told the story, by a visiting Louis- 
ianan named Slidell, and passed it on. Slidell and Brainard 
eventually denied the accuracy of the report but not until it 
had made the rounds and damaged the Douglas campaign. 
Douglas won the election, but Brainard lost his, for mayor. 

The war years passed, Brainard made what turned out his 
final trip to France, and then the end came. He died of gallop- 
ing cholera, on October 10, 1866, a few hours after he was 
stricken while working on a lecture about the disease to be 
given that night. An alderman and another doctor died the 
same day. Brainard was 54 years old. 

Two hundred Rush students panicked when they realized how 
close they were to the dread disease and voted to adjourn 
classes until December because of the danger. The faculty talked 
them out of it. "They of all men should not fly," added The 
Tribune editorially, and the students stayed. 

The Rush-Chicago Medical College feud began to fade im- 
mediately. Davis even drew up a plan for merging the two 
schools according to which the Rush course would be expanded 
to five months and the Rush faculty's "proprietary relation- 
ship" to their school would be ended. (Rush operated on a 
not-for-profit charter, but faculty members held the bonds and 
were its trustees.) But Davis's reunion plan was never taken 
seriously. Excitement lay ahead but not yet a merger. 



% 



Presbyterian Hospital & 
Rush Medical College in the 
Late Nineteenth Century 
1871-1898 



The Chicago fire of 1871 left thousands homeless and devas- 
tated the city's medical facilities, including the four-year-old 
Rush Medical College building at Dearborn Street and Grand 
Avenue. Dr. Joseph W. Freer, Rush's new president-elect, 
found his half-melted microscope stand and various pieces of 
chemistry apparatus in the rubble. 

This was all that remained of Rush as a physical plant. 
Throughout the city, devastation reigned. Over 200 doctors, 
including most of the Rush faculty, were without home, office, 
library, entire practices. Moses Gunn, Brainard's successor as 
professor of surgery, lost books, office, instruments, anatom- 
ical specimens and a huge manuscript. Many students lost 
everything they owned, with no way to replace it. 

Ten-year-old James Herrick watched the flames from his 
home in Oak Park. After the fire his father with other Oak 
Parkers, including author Ernest Hemingway's grandfather, 
brought food and blankets to the homeless and hungry, return- 
ing shaken from the expedition. 

"They were starving," the senior Herrick reported on his 



18 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 19 

return. Men, women and children, huddled on the Lake 
Michigan shore, wept and kissed his hand as he distributed 
sandwiches, crackers, hard-boiled eggs, milk and coffee from 
his covered delivery wagon. He wept himself as he told of the 
scene, unable to continue his account. 

Later James Herrick rode with his father through the 
burned-out area, less impressed with the ruins than with the 
huge unpainted barracks hastily erected by General Phil 
Sheridan's soldiers to house the homeless during the coming 
winter. These and soldiers' tents stayed with the memory of 
the boy who decades later would make his own contribution to 
the relief of human suffering. 

Rush Medical College needed space. Its sole rival, Chicago 
Medical College (later the Northwestern University Medical 
School), had escaped the fire. Its leaders, the reformer Davis 
among them, invited Rush students to continue studies there, 
at 26th Street and Prairie Avenue, free of charge. Rush did use 
their dissecting laboratory. But for lecture purposes (and this 
was the heart of the curriculum). Rush reopened four days 
after the fire in the small amphitheater on the top floor of Cook 
County Hospital, at 18th and LaSalle (then Arnold) streets, 
also on the South Side. 

The institution was a "large brick building of a dirty red 
color ... in a badly kept lot," with nothing about it to "cheer 
the spirits of a sick man," according to a news account. Sur- 
rounded by a tilting "low, rickety fence," it was neighbor to 
shanties. The grounds were strewn with garbage. The street 
was muddy and full of holes. The building was terribly over- 
crowded. 

It was next to this less than salubrious institution and onto 
these garbage-strewn grounds that Rush moved after the fire. 
Rush was already almost umbilically tied to this now-County 
Hospital, which for 11 years had been where its students 
received the bulk of their clinical training. But Rush College 
itself had been on the other side of town, three miles north. So 
the move to the hospital, though forced by catastrophe, none- 
theless made sense. Once winter was past, therefore, Rush 
built on its grounds, partly below sidewalk level. The new 



20 GOOD MEDICINE 

building cost $3,500, which was all the trustees could afford. 

It was "a rude, brick affair" with a tar roof. On its first 
floor at one end was an amphitheatre, at the other was a labor- 
atory. Over the lab was a dissecting room. The whole was 
unplastered throughout and was "very rough and amazingly 
ugly," Rush historians Norman Bridge, M.D., and John Edwin 
Rhodes, M.D., tell us. But for under $4,000, Rush students 
and faculty couldn't complain. The "rude structure," known 
also as "the college under the sidewalk," served for four years, 
until both Rush and County Hospital moved to the West Side. 

Meanwhile, James V. Z. Blaney, whom Brainard had re- 
cruited to the first Rush faculty, retired as president not six 
years after succeeding the deceased founder. He was 52 and 
had been in Chicago for almost 30 years after graduating from 
Princeton and obtaining his M.D. in Philadelphia. He had 
served as surgeon with the rank of major of artillery during the 
"war of rebellion," as the Rush yearbook called it. Blaney 
died two years later. 

In 1876, both County Hospital and Rush built anew, this 
time on the West Side. Rush built on the northeast corner of 
Harrison and Wood, where a successor building remains; 
Cook County Hospital built on the southwest corner, where 
the 1876 structure remains today. 

The Rush building was a considerably grander affair than the 
"rude structure," though Bridge and Rhodes later found it sur- 
prising that its anatomy museum, which the students didn't even 
use, took up more than half its space. The building and lot cost 
$75,000, mostly contributed by several faculty members who 
purchased long-term bonds to finance construction. 

At cornerstone-laying on March 20, 1875, Grand Master 
(later Mayor) DeWitt C. Cregier led Masonic ceremonies 
after a procession of dignitaries, faculty and students, in that 
order, from the LaSalle Street site. "A great concourse of peo- 
ple" gathered to hear Dr. J. Adams Allen deliver "sonorous 
periods" which Bridge and Rhodes could compare only to 
Tennyson reading his own poetry. "Modern Rome is built 
upon the roofs of its ancient temples and palaces," began 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 21 

Allen, and took it from there with a historical overview of 
kingdoms rising and falling. 

Ten months later, in January of 1876, Allen gave the first 
lecture in the finished building, dipping frequently into his 
"fund of classical lore" to illustrate his remarks. 

The destinies of the two neighbor institutions, Rush and 
County Hospital, were intertwined. Rush had its need for 
clinical education which County seemed to fill; County had 
reason to welcome Rush, with its wealth of talent. The rela- 
tionship would have worked wonderfully if it hadn't depended 
on people. 

At stake was control of this publicly funded hospital, built 
by the city in 1857 but not opened until it was leased by Rush 
in 1859. Two doctors who joined the Rush faculty in 1860, Dr. 
Joseph Presley Ross and Dr. George K. Amerman, apparently 
had a vision of a public hospital that would meet the health 
care needs of poor people and the medical education needs of 
Rush students. 

This city-built public hospital was operated by Rush faculty 
on contract with city government from 1859 to 1862, when the 
Army took it over. After the war, the issue again lay before 
Ross and Amerman how to get this public hospital functioning 
in answer to community needs for health care and medical 
education. Their solution was to go political. Each got himself 
elected to the county board of supervisors, Amerman in 1865 
and Ross in 1866. Together, they persuaded Cook County 
authorities to take over. Thus was established Cook County 
Hospital as such. 

Medical politics had to be observed in its organization. Its 
medical board was to be one part Rush, one part Chicago 
Medical College (both equal parts), and one part independent 
(greater than the other two combined) — consisting of doctors 
connected with neither school. 

The arrangement respected medical politics but did not pro- 
tect against them. In 1867 Dr. Edwin Powell, a newly ap- 
pointed Rush professor who was also a nephew of the late 
Brainard, resigned from Rush long enough to be elected to the 



22 GOOD MEDICINE 

delicately balanced hospital medical board as an independent. 
He was then promptly re-elected to the Rush faculty, thus 
upsetting the delicate balance. 

His maneuverings somehow led, four years later, to the 
dismissal by the county board of the medical board and subse- 
quent increased involvement by politicians in the hospital's 
affairs. This ended hopes for a self-perpetuating, self- 
governing medical staff and created an opening for political 
interference and mismanagement. Control by politicians thus 
followed on doctors' inability to manage their own affairs. 

Rush's clinical education needs were being met in part by 
its own dispensary, the U.S. Marine Hospital and St. Joseph's 
Hospital. But County Hospital with its 130 beds (later 750) 
was the biggest in the city, and it was the basket into which 
Rush was prepared to put by far the majority of its clinical- 
training eggs. 

So much the more disappointing were developments of the 
early and middle 1870s, when the County Hospital situation 
unravelled and the Rush people saw their plans go awry. The 
culmination of this unravelling process was the mass dismissal 
by the county board of the medical staff in 1878, an episode 
shrouded in mystery as far as historical accounts go, its nar- 
rative reduced to laconic references to "disruption" and reap- 
pointment of a new staff. 

Whatever the specifics, it was clear to the Rush people that 
County Hospital would not meet their needs. In 1877 Ross 
and his allies had seen trouble coming and had already decided 
Rush should start its own hospital. It would not be the first 
time the college had done so. Mercy Hospital had begun as the 
Illinois General Hospital of the Lakes in 1850, largely a Rush 
faculty creation. Blaney and Brainard had started dispensaries 
and a short-lived city hospital even before that. 

The interest was there from the medical school point of 
view. As the Rush yearbook of 1895 says, "The value of 
clinical instruction can hardly be exaggerated. It far over- 
shadows didactic lectures and in some institutions has entirely 
supplanted them." Or in the words of the 1894 yearbook, 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 23 

"Medicine cannot be taught in the abstract; theory without 
practice is Hke swimming on dry land." Rush needed a 
hospital it could control, so that the hospital's service could 
keep pace with Rush's "didactics." 

In 1879, the Rush trustees bought land with the intent to 
finance and maintain a hospital on their own, but found the 
challenge more than they could handle. Ross, the faculty's 
"financial wheelhorse," devised a plan whereby a separate 
corporation would receive this land in return for Rush control 
over the planned hospital. 

An offer was made on the spot by "a religious body famed 
for its hospitals and amply able to redeem its pledges," the 
1894 yearbook tells us. (Moses Gunn was negotiating with 
several Catholic nuns' groups.) But Ross, a dedicated Presby- 
terian, saw no reason why the city's Presbyterian churches 
could not meet the challenge, as they had done in the case of 
New York City's Presbyterian Hospital. 

To his aid in this venture came several clergy and laymen, 
including his father-in-law, Tuthill King, who donated 
$10,000. Others who helped and with King became incor- 
porators of the new institution (on July 21 , 1883) were William 
Blair, Cyrus H. McCormick, Rev. Willis Craig, Henry Lyman 
and Dr. Robert C. Hamill, after whom was named the 40-bed 
"Hamill Wing," the hospital's first addition. 

The new hospital was chartered to offer "surgical and 
medical aid and nursing to sick and disabled persons of every 
creed, nationality and color." At the same time, it was to pro- 
vide care for the "hundreds of people of the better class" who 
each year were "stricken by disease or injury," according to 
an 1883 appeal for funds. The appeal noted that the city's only 
Protestant general hospital, St. Luke's, was "trying to meet 
this want" but could "accommodate only a small part of those 
who apply for hospital care and treatment." 

The new Presbyterian Hospital of Chicago opened in Sep- 
tember of 1884, with a nominal capacity of 80 beds, 35 of 
which were needed to house nurses and hospital staff. This 
first building was the "Ross Wing," named after its chief 



24 GOOD MEDICINE 

founder. The Hamill Wing was added a few years later, fol- 
lowed by the 300-bed Daniel A. Jones Memorial Building in 
1889. 

Jones was a meatpacker, banker, cable car line operator, in- 
surance executive and president of the Chamber of Commerce 
and the Board of Trade who died a millionaire in 1886. His 
widow and family gave $100,000 to the hospital, which with 
$50,000 given by the hospital's president. Dr. D. K. Pearsons, 
paid for the new building. Jones had already given $10,000 to 
the hospital, reportedly after reading about the first of Pear- 
sons' gifts, which were spread over several years. 

Later additions to the hospital included the Private Pavilion 
adjoining Jones to the east in 1908 and the Jane Murdock 
Memorial for women and children in 1912, which to a degree 
replaced the original Ross and Hamill wings. 

On hand for the Murdock building ribbon-cutting cere- 
monies was Elizabeth Douglass, who later as Mrs. Clyde E. 
Shorey was for many years to be a mainstay of the hospital's 
woman's auxiliary. Mrs. Shorey's father, William Angus 
Douglass, was a member of the founding board of managers 
and its secretary for more than fifty years. 

From the start this auxiliary, or Ladies Aid Society as it was 
known, gave the hospital crucial support. Consisting of 82 
women, including many of Chicago's "leading women," from 
17 Presbyterian churches, the society supplied the new hos- 
pital with bedding and other linen, kitchen ware, utensils and 
housekeeping appliances. The women supplied patients with 
various delicacies, books, papers, magazines, even pictures for 
the walls. They bought "screens, wheelchairs, complete din- 
ing room furniture, china, cases of dishes." They read to pa- 
tients, provided hymn books for Sunday afternoon services 
and did "much to make the stay of the sick pleasant," accord- 
ing to the second (May 1885) annual report of the hospital. 

The Ladies Aid Society became the Woman's Auxiliary 
Board in 1910. By 1913 it had 200 members. In 1915, mem- 
bership was opened to non-Presbyterians. In the mid-1920s 
the Woman's Auxiliary Board recognized "delegate mem- 
bers" whose task was to rally support in the local congrega- 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 25 

tions. In 1928 the name was shortened to Woman's Board, the 
present name. By the mid-1950s, at the time of the Presby- 
terian Hospital merger with St. Luke's Hospital, the 
Woman's Board numbered almost 400 members from 53 Pres- 
byterian churches. Pastors' wives were members ex officio. 

The churches for their part began in 1884 to endow annual 
free beds at $300 each per year, and individuals followed suit. 
Barbara Armour endowed one in perpetuity for $5,000, 
Henry Corwith's daughter endowed another for $10,000, and 
Mrs. William Armour endowed a 10 bed ward for $50,000. 
The young institution was off to a good start, having tapped an 
ample philanthropic lode. 

Meanwhile, Rush Medical College moved ahead with its 
clinical education, for which in part it now depended on the 
new Presbyterian Hospital. Among the early teachers in this 
new Rush-Presbyterian situation was Dr. Joseph P. Ross him- 
self. A professor of diseases of the chest, Ross was recalled by 
his student James Herrick as "a good family doctor" who 
relied heavily on his stethoscope, which he had learned to use 
from Austin Flint, one of the first Rush teachers (though Ross 
was not a Rush graduate). He was not highly regarded as a 
scientist or scholar, however. "Gentlemen," his students 
would say, mimicking him, "we will now discuss the pathol- 
ogy of tuberculosis. There are two kinds of tubercle, the gray 
and the yellow. We now pass on to the symptomology of the 
disease." 

Ross is one of those whom Herrick classes as "less 
scholarly" faculty members, along with William Byford, 
Moses Gunn, Charles Parkes and James Etheridge, who were 
nonetheless "earnest, forceful and always understandable," 
men trained largely by experience, with common sense and an 
understanding of the needs of undergraduates. 

Gunn's surgical clinic drew on his Civil War experience in 
emergency bone-setting and on his extensive private practice. 
Having begun his work in the days before anesthesia, he was 
used to working fast. Herrick saw him repair a child's harelip 
in five minutes without anesthetic. Gunn withheld judgment 
on the germ theory, referring to microbes as "little devils," 



26 GOOD MEDICINE 

but soaked sutures in carbolic acid solution because he knew it 
speeded healing. 

He was almost never late for lectures and clinics but was 
held up once by a Chicago River bridge-raising. "Damn the 
Chicago river bridges," he hurled at a student at the door as 
he arrived two minutes late. "They are no respecters of college 
teachers." To the class he apologized, saying he had lost not 
two minutes of his time but "two minutes' time of each one of 
you three hundred men," which made 600 minutes, or ten 
hours. "It was a new point of view," commented Herrick. 

A student passed a note to him asking how he kept his hair 
so curly and who was his barber. Gunn read it aloud and ex- 
plained how his wife curled his hair every morning, had done 
so since they were married, and "by the Eternal" would con- 
tinue to do it as long as she wished. The students loved it. 

But when they booed the appearance of a woman intern, 
Dr. Alta Mitchell, he excoriated them for acting like "Halsted 
Street hoodlums." Dr. Mitchell was the niece of a good friend 
of his, Gunn told them. She was competent "and a lady." He 
had appointed her intern, "and Gentlemen, she's going to 
stay," he told them. They, however, would leave, all 300 of 
them, if they booed her again. "Make your choice," he said. 
They kept quiet and stayed, and so did Dr. Mitchell, who as 
daughter of the late pastor of First Presbyterian Church had 
been admitted as an intern "out of respect to her father, 
though her qualifications eminently fitted her for the place," 
according to the 1894 yearbook. 

Gunn died of cancer in 1887. He was succeeded by Charles 
T. Parkes, another surgeon of the old school who nonetheless 
sought younger men's opinions to stay abreast of new dis- 
coveries. Parkes was criticized for operating in the clinic on 
abdominal cases because of the supposed danger of germs 
dropping into the exposed area — a view on its way to being 
discredited. He responded: "Gentlemen, I do not know much 
about these new germs, but I am convinced that what does the 
harm is not something that may float in the air and settle into 
the open abdomen. ... It is what I put into the abdomen that 
makes the trouble." Therefore he washed and scrubbed his 
hands and boiled the instruments, gauze and ligatures, going 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 27 

far beyond what his colleagues did in this matter. 

Parkes, the first surgeon in the Midwest to experiment in 
gunshot wounds of the small intestines, died of pneumonia in 
1891 at forty-nine. Herrick says he had "a majestic, magnetic 
personality" and would have been "one of America's out- 
standing surgeons." 

The germ question was central to medical controversies of 
the day. Antisepsis, the philosophy and procedures by which 
the surgeon and others fought germs as the cause of disease 
and infection, was resisted in the 1870s and 1880s even by 
some heroes of the '50s and '60s. The great Nathan Davis, for 
instance, in 1876 attacked the notion that specific germs caused 
specific diseases, arguing that not everyone exposed to them 
caught the disease in question. He wouldn't accept the argu- 
ment regarding natural immunity. In 1879 he opposed the im- 
position of quarantine during an epidemic, still resisting the 
germ theory. 

Moses Gunn, Chicago's best-known surgeon in the 1870s, 
came around to the new view slowly if at all (opinions 
differed), holding long to the doctrine of "laudable pus" as a 
measure of surgical success. Even when he wavered from that 
view, he still saw suppuration as "a dangerous thorn, from 
which occasionally, at least, a fragrant flower was plucked." 

He had company in his footdragging. In 1883, most sur- 
geons at a meeting in Cincinnati of the American Surgical 
Association, Gunn among them, agreed with a speaker who 
deplored the "reckless abandonment" of bloodletting (leech- 
ing) in combating inflammation. 

Rush had all kinds. James Herrick mentions scholars and 
old-schoolers and makes it clear he benefited from both. 
Among the scholars was the immensely learned Dr. Henry M. 
Lyman, who held the chairs of both physiology, an elementary 
subject, and neurology, an advanced one. It was a situation 
that epitomized Rush academic disarray in the mid- 1880s. 
From September to Christmas, Lyman lectured on physiol- 
ogy, from Christmas to late February on neurology. The final 
examination was on both together. It was not the ultimate in 
academic good order. 

In February of 1887, Lyman, smarting from allegations of 



28 GOOD MEDICINE 

being an easy grader, threw his students two curve balls — two 
barely defined essay questions, including one about poliomye- 
litis, a term known to few. Herrick heard a fellow test-taker 
whisper "infantile paralysis"; so he caught the drift and was 
one of four who passed out of 200 or so. 

Lyman distinguished himself as a neurologist and in 1893 
was elected president of the American Neurological Associa- 
tion — the first Chicagoan to hold the position since pioneer 
neurologist James S. Jewell, of Chicago Medical College, held 
it in the 1870s. 

If the Rush system didn't always make sense, it must be 
viewed in the context of how little was expected of medical 
students at the time, and also with a look at the role of the 
clinics, where students sometimes seemingly through osmosis 
captured the essence of what had to be known from remarks by 
the professor. 

Not that the students as a rule were hankering for more. 
Herrick himself, later a major scientific medical figure of his 
day, had never heard of Rush but was sent there by an Oak 
Park physician alumnus. He had taught school and considered 
a career in literary scholarship. When he got to Rush, he found a 
mixed bag of fellow students. Many were born leaders, bound 
to succeed in anything they tried. Some of the older ones, 
veterans of careers as druggists or salesmen or even cowboys, 
seemed "crude and raw" but had the advantage of beginning 
with a good working knowledge of human nature. The faculty 
made the difference, thus confirming Brainard's position some 
decades earlier in the graded-curriculum controversy. 

The students could be a rowdy bunch when the spirit moved 
them. On one occasion they greeted Lyman with a stunning 
pre-lecture mess of thrown snowballs, spitballs, overshoes, apples 
and the like. Lyman entered, and the throwing stopped, but its 
evidence was there. The arena floor was a pigsty. Lyman turned 
and walked out, disgusted. There was no lecture that day. 

Sometimes the play was vocal, as when three or four hun- 
dred voices burst forth at intermission time with "Clemen- 
tine" or "My Old Kentucky Home." Sometimes it was 
physical, as in "passing up," when a front-row student was 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 29 

passed bodily up to the last (top) row, where, when he was 
dropped, the several hundred students stamped their feet as 
one. 

There were free-lance efforts as well. One student, acting as 
clinical assistant during an operation, took exception to being 
asked to step aside by another who wanted to see better and 
thereupon with surgical clamps pulled the other's mustache. 
The mustached student waited till the operation was over and 
then punched the other in the nose. "I got what was coming to 
me, Professor," the punched one explained to Dr. Parkes, the 
operating surgeon, who took him into the hospital to have his 
nose fixed. 

Other professors whom Herrick considered scholars were 
Walter S. Haines the chemistry professor, Edward L. Holmes 
the ophthalmologist, De Laskie Miller the obstetrician, and 
James Nevins Hyde the dermatologist and author in 1883 of 
the textbook. Diseases of the Skin. A dapper man, Hyde was 
widely known for his book and for his clinics. 

At County Hospital Norman Bridge was one of four attend- 
ing physicians whom a young doctor was lucky to work under; 
the others were Christian Fenger, John B. Murphy and P. J. 
Rowan. His lectures on pathology were considered sound and 
thorough, however much students chafed at their length. 

Compared to Dr. William Quine at the nearby College of 
Physicians and Surgeons, Bridge was maddeningly vague 
about the symptoms of typhoid fever. Quine's students got a 
picture clear as glass but, as students discovered later, some- 
what clearer than reality. Diagnosing typhoid was apparently 
not as easy as a student of Quine might have thought. 

Bridge's manner with a patient during clinic was respectful 
and courteous, even if the patient was poor and ignorant. His 
diagnosis, furthermore, respected the "natural tendency 
toward recovery" which called sometimes for "drugless man- 
agement" of an illness. 

One day Bridge informed Herrick that the tuberculosis 
bacilli he had been examining were Bridge's own — a flareup of 
an old problem. "In a few days I shall be leaving Chicago 
never to return," Bridge said matter-of-factly. And he did 



30 GOOD MEDICINE 

leave the Chicago medical scene, moving to California for his 
health. Eventually he made a great deal of money in oil and 
donated generous amounts to Rush and The University of 
Chicago. He died at a ripe 81 in 1925. 

A "learned and wise medical philosopher," though not a 
scientist, was Dr. J. Adams Allen, who came to Rush in 1859 
as professor of medicine and was Rush's president from 1877 
to 1891. Patriarchal in appearance, "Uncle Allen," as he was 
called, discussed general causes of disease, including tempera- 
ment or humors or even the weather, rather than symptoms, 
diagnosis or treatment. He rejected bacteriology and even 
mocked the stethoscope as just another appurtenance of the 
pompous diagnostician. 

His lectures were scholarly and witty, his anecdotes not 
always of "the parlor variety." Not surprisingly, he clung to 
the lecture method and to the large amphitheatre clinic — the 
sort Will Mayo called "windy (and) wordy" — and routinely 
recommended consideration of "condition of blood, of the 
nerve and the part," as students inscribed on a pedestal in his 
honor. It was not a bad short statement of what caused 
disease, Herrick noted. Allen died of cancer in 1899. 

Dr. De Laskie Miller, who held the Rush chair of obstetrics 
for many years, was a superb lecturer to whom students listened 
attentively, without the show of rowdyism that some lecturers 
inspired. Miller spoke without notes or props, "with excep- 
tional clarity," calling on his wide reading and extensive expe- 
rience in midwifery. 

His successor, J. Suydam Knox, on the other hand, lectured 
in "casual, rambling" fashion, drawing exclusively on his ex- 
perience, "of which he often boasted," rather than on scholar- 
ship bolstered by practice. In 1892, pediatrics was separated 
from obstetrics at Rush, with Alfred C. Cotton, a descendant 
of New England Cottons, its first professor. 

"Uncle" Allen's successor as Rush's president was Edward 
Lorenzo Holmes, the famed ophthalmologist, a Chicagoan 
since 1856 and principal founder, in 1858, of the Illinois 
Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary. As a young man he en- 
joyed the company of New England literary lights, including 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 31 

the poet Henry Wads worth Longfellow, and spent summers at 
the Utopian Brook Farm community in Massachusetts. A Har- 
vard College graduate before studying medicine in Vienna, 
Paris and Berlin, Holmes was a modest and retiring soul. He 
is said to have been so stunned by the (apparently normal) 
students' noise and uproar that greeted him when he arrived 
to give his first lecture at Rush that he turned around and left 
without lecturing. 

William H. By ford, one who had left Rush with Nathan 
Davis to start Chicago Medical College in 1859 and later had 
been founding president of Woman's Medical College, lec- 
tured in gynecology at Rush in the mid- 1880s, having rejoined 
Rush in 1879. Always on time for class, dignified, deliberate, 
he began each lecture session by quizzing students, calling 
names from a class list. He spoke without notes — "plain, 
straightforward talks" without repetition. When the bell rang, 
he stopped, bowed politely, took his hat and left. Byford died 
in 1890, apparently of angina pectoris. 

By the 1890s the Rush yearbook was claiming the biggest 
surgical clinic in the world, as to numbers of students and 
cases, thanks to the Presbyterian Hospital connection. On the 
minds of clinic students sometimes overflowing the 300-seat 
college amphitheatre were "photographed lasting impressions 
of great value." At Rush "the limited value of didactic work" 
was recognized. Indeed, the gynecological and medical clinics 
and the clinics in eye and ear, chest and throat, skin and 
venereal and children's diseases "afforded unsurpassed oppor- 
tunity" to graduate and undergraduate students. 

Professor Nicholas Senn's surgical clinic met on Tuesdays 
from 2 to 4 and Thursdays from 2 to 6. They were "the great- 
est in the world," said the yearbook. Cleanliness "in the strict 
modern sense" was "the watchword." In the first hour, recent 
patients were presented as sequel to preceding clinics and as 
sample of results achieved. A student "consulting staff" was 
subjected to the "ordeal" of Senn's cross-examination. Dur- 
ing operations Senn himself gave a running account. 

The Swiss-born Senn, raised in Wisconsin, was one of the 
Big Three in Chicago surgery in the late 19th and early 20th 



32 GOOD MEDICINE 

centuries, with Christian Fenger and John B. Murphy 
(Fenger's student). An 1868 Chicago Medical College gradu- 
ate who had studied in Munich, Senn joined the Rush faculty 
in 1878 as professor of surgery after practicing in Chicago at 
County Hospital and in Milwaukee. He combined American 
practicality with German analytical methods and was a top 
diagnostician though not as good a teacher as Fenger, accord- 
ing to a former student writing in 1896. 

Courageous, brilliant and original, he once planted cancer 
in his arm in an experiment which if successful would have 
ended his life. A hard worker with "a passion for authorship" 
and an encyclopedic memory, he was inclined to hasty judg- 
ments to which he clung tenaciously. "To be on good terms 
with him," wrote William Quine in 1908, "you could not 
question his supremacy." Those who managed to show proper 
respect, however, found him "a prodigy of generosity" and a 
delight to be with. 

One of Senn's research areas was gunshot wounds. Many 
years after his death. Dr. Francis Straus found a room in the 
basement of the old Rush building filled with guns, including a 
"Nadel Gewehr" from the German army of the 1850s. Senn 
worked with animals, shooting them in the abdomen which he 
then explored in order to find and close the bullet holes. His 
assistant would bubble hydrogen through a catheter into the 
animal's rear and then light matches (!) to find the leaks. Senn 
toured Europe demonstrating this technique. 

Senn's contemporary, who in some ways overshadowed him 
and like him had a Chicago high school named after him, was 
Christian Fenger, a Danish-born surgeon and pathologist who 
arrived in Chicago from Egypt in 1877. (Chicago elementary 
schools are also named after Rush teachers Norman Bridge, 
William Byford, Nathan Davis and John B. Murphy and after 
alumnus Frank Reilly.) Fenger had worked directly for the 
Khedive, or Egyptian ruler, who had rewarded him for research 
on trachoma in part by the gift of several mummy heads. The 
story is told that he brought an entire mummy with him and 
sold it to make ends meet in his first months in Chicago; but 
his daughter, Augusta Marie Fenger Nadler, of Winnetka, said 
there was no record of any such large baggage or transaction. 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 33 

His early days in Chicago were financially difficult, how- 
ever. Before going to Egypt, the young Fenger had studied in 
Copenhagen and served in two wars. Like Senn, he made gun- 
shot wounds a specialty. He then went off to Vienna to study 
surgery and pathology, returning to Copenhagen, where in 
one year he did 422 postmortems. Failing to win an important 
university appointment when a competitive examination was 
not given, he left for Egypt, whence he came to the U.S. after 
two years. 

Sick and almost out of money when he arrived in Chicago, 
he began a small practice and in the spring of 1878, with the 
help of a Danish-born merchant, bought himself an appoint- 
ment to the politically controlled County Hospital. He was a 
lecturer and demonstrator in pathology, which was unknown 
territory for his listeners, and filled in for other surgeons when 
they went on vacation. In 1879 he took a one-year appoint- 
ment at Rush as lecturer in pathological anatomy. In 1880 he 
was appointed to the regular surgical staff at County and at the 
same time became "curator" of the Rush "museum" of 
pathology specimens. 

He had arrived at County a "stammering Dutchman." (He 
could stammer in seven languages, it was said of him.) W. E. 
Quine asked him to do an autopsy and was given "one of the 
most astounding experiences" of his life as he watched Fenger 
at work. Later he told a student that this "Dutchman," the 
Danish Fenger, would be "Chicago's greatest surgeon." Stu- 
dents flocked to watch him. He was the best they had seen at 
translating autopsy findings into clinical terms and assumed 
legendary proportions as a diagnostician. 

For his clinics at County, he was at first given the second 
half of a two-hour lunch period. Among the few at the start 
who came to view and help were L. L. Mc Arthur and J. B. 
Murphy, who were smart enough to know what they would 
otherwise be missing. "Fascinated" by Fenger's technique 
and "thrilled" by his findings, the two were the vanguard of 
hundreds who learned pathology from Fenger, who came to be 
regarded by interns as a court of last resort in difficult cases. 

Before performing major surgery he would read on the sub- 
ject in several languages, summarizing it all the night before 



34 GOOD MEDICINE 

and outlining it the next day on a blackboard for his students, 
listing seventeen steps to the removal of a bronchial cyst, for 
instance. Sometimes he would stop in the middle of an opera- 
tion, cover the wound and go to the blackboard to sketch what 
was happening. Now and then, absorbed in his subject, he 
would forget to wash his hands as he returned to the patient, 
and students would intercept him on his way back to the oper- 
ating table. 

His operations took longer than normal for the time, up to 
six hours. Indeed, he was considered "too thorough for the 
abdomen" by his onetime clinical assistant, Dr. T. A. Davis, 
closing off every nook and cranny that might be host to sup- 
puration or bleeding. His student Murphy, on the other hand, 
"got in and out" as fast as he could. During one period Murphy 
performed twenty-three appendectomies without a fatality, 
while Fenger with his thoroughness and slowness considered 
50 percent a good record. 

He once performed a thyroidectomy with Gray's Anatomy on 
one easel and his own drawings from Swiss surgeon Emil 
Theodor Kocher on another, having an assistant turn the 
pages of each as various muscles and the like came into view. 
At one point he rather roughly handled (with forceps) a 
laryngeal nerve, picking off bits of thyroid or fat until it lay ex- 
posed, at which point he said, "There, now I know where it is 
and that I have not cut it." 

Next morning he checked with the patient, a 35-year-old 
woman, and asked her to sing, then to say "Ah." She did so, 
whispering hoarsely, and Fenger, knowing he had handled the 
nerve too roughly, said, "God damn it to hell" and walked 
out. It was his expression of guilt at being too thorough in 
handling and exposing the nerve. The woman did not suffer 
permanent damage to voice or health, however. 

On another occasion he cancelled a 9 A.M. operation at 7:30. 
He told his helper Herrick about it but not the patient, nurses, 
relatives and friends. At 10:30 Fenger walked in and explained 
briefly to the dozen or so waiting people why he had decided 
not to perform the operation. He left most of the explaining to 
Herrick, however, leaving abruptly with his bag of instru- 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 35 

ments. The autopsy later showed that Fenger was correct, the 
operation would have been useless. 

In this performance Fenger demonstrated his "childlike lack 
of tact" but also perhaps his shrewdness and understanding of 
human nature, Herrick says. In any event it was typical of 
both his thoroughness and his honesty. 

Fenger died of pneumonia in 1902, a few days after his last 
clinic, in which he performed a laryngectomy. The operation 
finished, he went behind a screen to change his clothes while 
his assistants dressed the wound. But in a minute he was back 
in front of his students, dressed only in long underdrawers, 
bare from the waist up, to make a small point he had missed. It 
was about 6:30 P.M., and all but a few students had left. That 
night at 2 A.M. he had a chill, developed lobar pneumonia, and 
several days later was dead. 

Fenger' s achievement was to draw the connection between 
pathology and surgery for Chicago doctors. Before him the 
paths of pathologist and surgeon did not cross, the surgeon be- 
ing more interested in results than in knowing why he got 
them. He introduced surgical pathology as a basis for surgical 
therapy. 

Another lecturer in pathology at Rush at this time was 
William T. Belfield, who promoted acceptance of the new 
science of bacteriology by showing lantern slides of micro- 
organisms. In 1883 Belfield did an autopsy on a tuberculosis 
victim, inviting his audience to come down from their Rush 
amphitheatre seats and look through the microscope at the 
bacillus he uncovered. But there was no systematic teaching of 
bacteriology at Rush until 1896, when Edwin C. Klebs, the 
famous German investigator of typhoid fever and diptheria, 
assumed the chair of bacteriology and Rush became the center 
of attention in this new field. 

Belfield endorsed the ideas of Robert Koch, the founder of 
bacteriology, calling them no mere theory but an "ocular 
demonstration" of germs as the cause of tuberculosis. His 
published lectures on the relationship between bacteria and 
disease at the College of Physicians & Surgeons in New York 
comprise one of the earliest U.S. sources on bacteriology. 



36 GOOD MEDICINE 

Another promoter of Koch's views was Frank BilHngs, who 
returned from Vienna in 1886 bringing urine tests, instru- 
ments and shdes which he explained to his students at the 
Northwestern University-affiliated Chicago Medical College 
(finally united with the university in 1891). Billings' distin- 
guished career at Rush was to begin some years later, in 1898. 

One of Fenger's prime successors in pathology in Chicago, 
Ludvig Hektoen, joined the Rush faculty in 1890 as curator of 
its "museum" of pathology specimens and lecturer in patho- 
logical anatomy and histology. He had interned in pathology 
under Fenger at County Hospital and may have participated 
in the Wednesday night sessions at Fenger's apartment on 
Ohio Street, to which came "students and doctors of all ages" 
to pore with him over slides viewed under microscope. 

In 1890 Hektoen also became Chicago's first coroner's 
physician. Later he was County Hospital pathologist and 
headed the McCormick Institute for Infectious Diseases, 
which was eventually renamed after him. 

The County Hospital internship was a prize won by a dis- 
proportionate number of Rush graduates between 1887 and 
1894 — 66 of 147. Rush, in fact, was one of four medical 
schools which prepped students for the competitive examina- 
tion. 

Herrick and Hektoen were interns together at County for 
eighteen months beginning in April of 1888. Herrick joined 
the Rush faculty in 1889 as assistant demonstrator of 
anatomy, a year later added a lecturing position on materia 
medica, and in 1891 became an adjunct professor of medicine. 
The two were to loom big in the life of Rush during its next 
phase, the years of its connection to The University of 
Chicago. 

Another affiliation preceded that one, however — with Lake 
Forest University from 1887 to 1898. The affiliation was 
nominal and existed for purposes that were vague on both 
sides. Lake Forest University, in the distant north suburb of 
that name, had all of 63 students and 13 teachers, compared to 
Rush's 392 students and 35 teachers. The university title was 
questionable at best. 



Presbyterian Hospital & Rush Medical College 37 

What was in it for Lake Forest was the possibihty of control 
of a major institution that dwarfed it. The Lake Forest endow- 
ments would accrue to Rush until Rush's debts were retired, 
at which time ownership of Rush would revert to Lake Forest. 
What was in it for Rush was the possibility of substantial 
financial aid without loss of academic autonomy, which the 
agreement guaranteed. 

The "curious" agreement was struck on June 21, 1887. But 
the affiliation in the end was advantageous to neither party. 
The hope on which it was based, that Lake Forest would gain a 
medical school while Rush gained financial independence, 
never materialized. By 1897 Rush was the biggest medical 
school in the U.S., with 848 students and 80 teachers, and 
money was no longer the problem it had been 10 years earlier, 
such were the student fees such a student body generated. 

Meanwhile, the two institutions functioned worlds apart. 
The Rush baseball team got probably as close as any Rush en- 
tity to Lake Forest, defeating its nominal affiliate 17-1 in 
1894. This was the year Rush footballers tied Notre Dame 
6-6. Few Lake Forest students moved on to Rush for the Doc- 
tor of Medicine degree, as the Lake Forest leadership hoped 
would happen. Rush was doing rather nicely in a money way. 
Late in 1897 the end of the affiliation drew near. 

Doctors De Laskie Miller and Henry Lyman and Trustee 
Nathan M. Freer were authorized to discuss the matter with 
the Lake Forest president and board. They discovered the two 
boards' feelings were mutual, and the relationship was dissolved 
in June of 1898. 



St. Luke^s Hospital 
is Established 
1864-1900 



Chicago was "a pretty crude place" when St. Luke's Hospital 
was founded in 1864 by the Reverend Clinton Locke, rector of 
Grace Episcopal Church at Peck Court (later 8th Street) and 
Wabash Avenue. Catholics operated "a small but excellent 
pay hospital," Locke notes in his memoirs. The only other was 
the City Free Hospital at 18th and Arnold (later La Salle) 
streets, "a small, dirty, ill-arranged place, devoid of all 
comfort." 

Locke's own church was nothing to write home about to the 
folks back in his native Sing Sing (later Ossining), N.Y. It was 
the same "hideous wooden building" he had discovered five 
years earlier when he had arrived from Joliet — "a wretchedly 
built, run-down wooden shell, scattered and peeled." 

Some of this was simply life in the big city. In due time 
Locke had a new church and lived in what he considered ease 
and comfort. But some of it, such as that City Free Hospital, 
was bad by any standard. One night he returned from visiting 
a patient there in a bug-infested room and decided to do some- 



38 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 39 

thing about it. He was inspired, he was "not afraid to say, by 
the spirit of God." 

A week or two later he preached about the need for "a 
clean, free. Christian place where the sick poor might be cared 
for." Among his listeners were women of the parish already 
committed to helping the sick — members of the Camp Douglas 
Ladies Aid Society, who cared for sick Confederate prisoners 
held at 33rd Street and Cottage Grove Avenue. 

They came to him after the service, his wife Adele at their 
head, and asked why there shouldn't be a "church hospital." 
And would he take the lead in starting one? It was an answer 
to Locke's sermon and to the "whisper" in his soul. 

On the next day, February 18, 1864, Locke met with the 
Douglas society women at the F. B. Hadduck house. They 
made him president of the new hospital. Dr. Walter Hay 
became its first doctor. Neither the women nor Locke knew 
anything about running a hospital, but they were willing to 
learn. They went to work not in "rising to a point of order," 
or "moving to adjourn," or "laying a motion on the table, as 
so many of their daughters and granddaughters" were doing 
30 years later, when Locke wrote his memoirs. "They just 
worked as hard as they could to get the hospital going." 

They raised $1,500 and "comfortably furnished" a small 
wooden house on State Street near Eldridge Court (later East 
Ninth Street), "a pleasant little place with grass and flowers 
and one or two poplar trees." Into it they crowded seven beds. 
Two nurses cared for patients. The first patient, a delirium 
tremens victim, left unguarded for a moment, jumped out a 
window, seized a knife from a butcher shop and stabbed a 
pedestrian, who presumably became the next patient. 

Another early patient, ostensibly paralyzed, recovered 
rapidly when the skeptical Hay instructed a nurse in the pa- 
tient's presence to prepare a hot poker for some cauterizing of 
the spine the next day. Two years later the same patient was 
reported in a Chicago newspaper as miraculously healed of yet 
another ailment. It was apparently another case of either the 
woman's extreme suggestibility or her shrewdness. 



40 GOOD MEDICINE 

In a few months Locke and his alUes moved the hospital 
three blocks south to a large, three-story brick house, until 
recently a well-known brothel. Its owner-proprietor had died. 
Locke officiated at her funeral, speaking "plainly and earnestly 
of the sinfulness of their lives" to parlorfuls of "abandoned 
women," some of them nearly hysterical with grief and worry. 
"It was a curious scene," he observed later. 

The house's new owner rented it to Locke for his hospital. 
This new place was no better adapted for hospital use than the 
first one, but it was bigger. Now there was room for eighteen 
beds. 

So far, Locke had not gone outside parish bounds for sup- 
port. If he had, he wouldn't have gotten any, since "nearly 
everybody," including the bishop, Henry J. Whitehouse, 
"threw cold water on the project." The rector of St. James, 
then the city's leading parish, a friend of Locke, warned him 
against the project. 

But Locke saw that it had to be more than a parish venture. 
Some well-known churchmen listened "good-naturedly" and 
agreed to be trustees when he laid his plan before them, 
though Locke was sure they thought he'd be better off attend- 
ing to his parish. 

One of them, Melville Fuller, a state legislator and later 
chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, shepherded a charter 
through the legislature. The trustees of the newly chartered 
hospital were the rector and a lay representative of each of the 
city's fourteen Episcopal parishes. 

Bishop Whitehouse "began to thaw" on the question and in 
September of 1865 spoke "tolerably well" to the diocesan con- 
vention of what Locke called his "baby hospital." Others 
began to lend a hand, including "good women from all the 
parishes," who solicited donations in kind: "jams, jellies, 
fruits, flowers, cakes, and barrels of oysters." 

But in 1868 Grace Church still bore most of the considerable 
expense. When things got tough, Locke would call the board 
together and threaten to close the place. The trustees "would 
hearten (him) up a little," and he would agree to go on. 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 41 

Dr. John E. Owens became medical director in 1865. He 
held the position to 1911. The early staff included a number of 
Rush professors, including Dr. Hay, who reorganized the 
Chicago Health Department in 1867. Hay lectured on the 
brain and nervous diseases at Rush beginning in 1873. Later 
he organized Rush's department of neurology and was editor 
of The Chicago Medical Journal. 

Dr. Moses Gunn, head of surgery at Rush, was a consulting 
surgeon at St. Luke's, as was Dr. William O. Heydock, a 
Chicago Medical College professor. Later staff members in- 
cluded Rush professors Dr. James H. Etheridge, a gynecol- 
ogist, and Dr. Isaac N, Danforth, an early user of the micro- 
scope who in his later years was a kidney specialist. 

The State Street house was almost comically inadequate. 
Autopsies were done on the dining room table. The staff found 
this unappetizing. Drugs were kept in the dining room. Ven- 
tilation was bad. A machine shop in the rear was dreadfully 
noisy. There was no good place to keep a corpse between 
expiration and burial. 

The dining room doubled as a free dispensary from 1869. 
This was no problem. All it took was an "airing out," and it 
was ready to be a dining room again. 

But "a great deal of earnest Christian work" was done at 
the State Street building, said Locke. Overseeing it all was the 
"matron" Sarah Miles. "How wise she was, how economical, 
how she hated whiskey and lies, and how far she could see 
through a stone wall!" Locke wrote in praise of this woman, 
the first superintendent of St. Luke's. 

In 1869 an eye and ear department was added, with Dr. 
Samuel J. Jones in charge. 

But Locke wanted out of the State Street place. The trustees 
were talking up a storm but no rain was falling, probably 
because six years after it was founded the hospital was operat- 
ing at a grand annual surplus of $25. Finally John de Koven 
made his move. 

De Koven, treasurer for the trustees and a warm friend of 
the young hospital, came to Locke with news that a big frame 



42 GOOD MEDICINE 

building was for sale on Indiana Avenue near 14th Street. The 
builder of a boarding house had gone broke and was looking 
for a buyer. De Koven urged Locke to buy the place. He put 
$2,000 of his own money where his advice was and promised 
fund-raising help besides. Others helped to raise more, in- 
cluding Mrs. John Tilden, who gave a concert, and Mrs. B. F. 
Hadduck, who held a fair. Millionaire lard manufacturer 
Nathaniel K. Fairbank, destined to be a major St. Luke's 
benefactor, gave $500. 

The new place opened May 15, 1871, at 1426-30 South In- 
diana Avenue, with 25 beds bought with proceeds from a 
charity ball. All but a few were for charity patients, St. Luke's 
being for "the relief of respectable poor people," in Locke's 
words. As in its previous location, the hospital existed to "fur- 
nish a Christian home" where "the chaplain daily directs (pa- 
tients') thoughts to God." The chaplaincy at this time was 
taken over by Reverend William Toll, Locke's assistant at 
Grace Church. 

In the following October came the fire. Locke was at the 
Episcopal general convention in Baltimore. Worried sick, he 
hurried back by train but found his family safe and Grace 
Church and rectory unharmed, though furniture was piled on 
drays in case the fire came near. His assistant, Mr. Toll, had 
taken Locke's children and his sermons to the far South Side. 
The fire had stopped two blocks north of the church and three 
north of the hospital. 

Locke thought the end had come for his "baby hospital," 
even if it had been spared, because he expected funds to dry up 
after the fire. But the fire was a mixed disaster. Two million 
dollars in relief money became available, and Mayor R. B. 
Mason assigned its management to the nine-year-old Chicago 
Relief & Aid Society — not to the city's aldermen, who were 
dying to get their hands on it. The society's members — includ- 
ing Grace parishioners N. K. Fairbank and Marshall Field 
— were citizens used to caring for the poor and sick. 

This group turned to St. Luke's Hospital as "just the place 
for the sick and poor of the more respectable class." (For 
Locke respectability did not depend on solvency.) The society 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 43 

took over most of the hospital's operating expenses and gave it 
an additional $28,000, of which $16,000 was to be used to buy 
land. 

St. Luke's in return was to hold 28 beds for use by the society 
when needed. (The society never used more than five at a 
time.) The $16,000 paid for a lot on State Street near 37th 
Street; the intention was to build a new hospital there. St. 
Luke's also received $4,000 from the Episcopal Church. 

The Relief & Aid Society later matched a $4,000 hospital 
building fund which had survived the financial panic of 1873. 
In the same year, 1876, a free dispensary was opened. Locke 
fed eight to ten panhandlers a day at the hospital door with 
food left over from patients' meals until the trustees told him to 
stop, because it encouraged street begging. 

"Of course, the wisdom of a Board of Trustees is unques- 
tionable," observed the irrepressible priest. There were 12 
trustees in all, a priest and two laymen from each side of the 
city. Locke called it "a curious arrangement, and very nar- 
row." It was expected to increase church interest, "but it 
never did." 

In 1878 E. K. Hubbard raised money for the long-awaited 
morgue, a nagging problem since the days on State Street. 
And George Chamberlain, a member of the St. Luke's medical 
board, did the same towards supplying hot water throughout 
the building. The first endowed bed, known as "the Church- 
man Cot for children," had been established with $3,000 raised 
by The Churchman, an Episcopal magazine in New York, which 
printed a "moving appeal" for small donations and listed con- 
tributors weekly. 

Another early fund raiser was Mrs. Locke's sale of Angora 
cats at $25 each. It may indeed have been the first money raised 
for the hospital. Locke memorialized the effort with riddle- 
<:Mm-doggerel: "How would you battle with sin and strife 
(precious wife)?" Answer: "With the simple Cat-echism." He 
called the women who helped his wife sell cats the "Cat club." 

But major early contributions were in kind — fruit, vege- 
tables, meat, linen supplies which flowed "without ceasing" 
into the St. Luke's storeroom. Not a cent was spent on hospital 



44 GOOD MEDICINE 

linen until the early 1890s. Locke's wife played a major role in 
keeping this philanthropic effort rolling, but others helped too. 

Among them was Mrs. Joseph T. Ryerson, of the iron and 
steel family. Her "counsel and energy" were "invaluable," 
said Locke. Mrs. Ryerson 's son Arthur was president of the 
St. Luke's trustees when she died in 1881, the same year Dr. 
M. O. Hey dock, one of the first of the medical staff, died. 
Arthur Ryerson later succeeded Locke as president of the 
hospital. 

Indeed, an era passed with Mrs. Ryerson 's death. Gifts in 
kind slowed to a trickle by the mid- 1890s, though the need was 
"ten times greater" because of the larger number of patients. 

The institution was chartered a second time, in 1880, as St. 
Luke's Free Hospital. This was to take advantage of new legis- 
lation allowing not-for-profit organizations to hold assets of 
more than the $100,000 to which it was limited by the first 
charter. The name represented no change of policy. St. Luke's 
had been free to the needy from the beginning. In 1894 it was 
chartered a third time, and the hospital was again called simply 
St. Luke's. 

Locke's "darling child," as he called St. Luke's, "took prodi- 
gious strides" in 1881. In that year N. K. Fairbank bought and 
gave to the hospital 100 feet of adjacent Indiana Avenue front- 
age, bringing this to 164 feet in all. Others at Fairbank's urging 
bought and donated 70 feet of Michigan Avenue frontage. Fair- 
bank also helped raise money for a permanent structure. 

The new building would be on the Indiana Avenue site, not 
farther south as had been planned. The advantages were its 
central location and proximity to lake and train stations. The 
trains' noise annoyed almost no patients but instead became 
"an unfailing source of entertainment" to the many railway 
employees who were patients at St. Luke's, Locke claimed. 

Indeed, the Illinois Central Railroad endowed a bed and 
kept it occupied for over ten years with a series of injured 
employees. The hospital took care of IC accident victims, and 
the railroad responded generously, "paying well" for patients 
not covered by the endowed bed and otherwise showing the 
hospital "many favors." 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 45 

When the cornerstone of the first "real hospital" was laid 
on All Saints Day, 1882, $57,000 was already subscribed, of 
which $25,000 was the gift of Dr. Tolman Wheeler. The rest 
had been solicited by Fairbank, much if not most of it from 
fellow Grace parishioners and civic leaders — meatpacker 
Philip D. Armour, retailer Marshall Field, wholesale grocer 
John W. Doane, and utilities investor Columbus R. Cummings. 
Mrs. Marshall Field raised $2,610 by holding a benefit concert 
at her home. 

Dr. Wheeler helped St. Luke's in other ways and willed it a 
substantial piece of property. But shortly before he died in 
1889, he sold the piece in question, having been "poisoned 
against" St. Luke's in his final days. "The hospital had a 
friendly visit with the heirs about this business, but lost the 
case," noted Locke. 

Another potential benefactor, Thomas Lowther, coupled 
"crankiness" with his generosity, as in specifying that no mar- 
ried priest could live in the cathedral parish house for which he 
donated the lot, "a thing which . . . much hampered the 
bishop in his management of the cathedral." Lowther, a 
prominent promoter of a public library for the city, once 
offered Locke "a fine site" for St. Luke's, but Locke declined 
because of conditions he attached which Locke left un- 
specified. 

A benefactor whom Locke called "peculiar" was George 
Armour, a Grace church member who built what in effect was 
a competitor church at 20th and State streets which eventually 
collapsed for lack of interest, including Armour's. Armour's 
eccentricity took a nice turn at the 1882 cornerstone 
ceremony, however, when he laid a $5,000 donation on the 
cornerstone. 

St. Luke's moved into the new building January 29, 1885, 
$25,000 in debt. But Locke appealed in the press for funds to 
cover it and in a week had thousands more in hand. The new 
building forced St. Luke's to make changes, the first of which 
was to develop a nursing department. Four nurses — two men 
and two women — had handled everything in the old place, 
under Sarah Miles' guidance. But now there were wards and 



46 GOOD MEDICINE 

more complicated work to be done. The solution was to form a 
nurse-training program much like the Illinois Training School 
for Nurses. Thus was begun the St. Luke's training school for 
nurses in 1885, the 35th nurses' school in the U.S., organized 
on the Florence Nightingale model — that is, run by nurses 
(mostly women), rather than by doctors (mostly men). 

Early candidates for the new school had to be high school 
graduates (though no proof was required for this) and had to 
be between 21 and 31 years old and of good family background 
and "upbringing." It was a period when nursing was coming 
into its own as work considered suitable for young women of 
' ' respectable ' ' background . 

Twelve of the first 29 students were graduates of Dearborn 
Seminary, a girls' private school. The rest were public school 
graduates. One of the early candidates came from Scotland, 
recommended by a galaxy of acquaintances that included the 
archbishop of Canterbury, a dozen nobles, several physicians, 
a veterinarian and the village blacksmith. Students came as in- 
dividuals when openings occurred, as was typical of nursing 
schools of the day, not as groups or classes. The first six 
graduated in 1887, nine more in 1888. 

The school's superintendent from 1888 to 1893 was Miss 
Catherine L. Lett. She died in office, mourned as "a devout 
daughter of the church" who left her life work "in the hearts 
and lives of others." Among other things, she set up a pay 
scale for graduate nurses of three dollars a day or $20 a week 
for general and surgical nursing, $25 a week for contagious 
disease work. 

Life for the students was religious and disciplined. In fact, 
the acting chaplain, the Rev. George Todd, wanted to make of 
them a full fledged religious society, but Locke couldn't see it. 
They prayed before meals and sang in choir, even those con- 
nected to no church. None of these ever objected but were 
"thankful for the privilege," said Locke. A student was expelled 
for staying overnight in Waukegan without permission. Lett 
scolded another for going to hear a sermon by a dissenting 
clergyman. 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 47 

A lighter side prevailed as well. When student and other 
nurses felt the need, they unburdened themselves to Mr. 
"Canary," as they called the owner of Carnegie's drug store, 
at 16th Street and Indiana Avenue. The English-born Maria, 
matron in charge of the nurses' residence, warned them that 
"ladies don't whistle." The now retired Sarah Miles in her 
wheelchair, Old John the baker and Ike the newsboy were 
other fixtures of hospital life. 

In 1889, nurse alumnae formed the Blue Cross Society, to 
care for sick nurses and to strive for higher nursing standards 
and mutual encouragement. A room was set aside for sick 
nurses called the Blue Room. The blue cross, the society's 
emblem, was to be worn on the left arm "as a badge and token 
of service to the sick and suffering." 

In 1896 this blue cross became part of the uniform, 38 years 
before a blue cross was first used by an office of the hospital in- 
surance association of that name and 43 years before it was 
copyrighted by the American Hospital Association. 

The uniform for street wear included a long gray cloak, little 
gray stringless bonnet edged with black velvet, and veil. The 
bonnet gave "a becoming look" and was said to "soften the 
face." It was worn until 1912. 

The working uniform included an apron and an organdy 
hat that couldn't be flattened once it was assembled for wear- 
ing. The hat was carried in a hatbox to and from one's assign- 
ment, which was usually in a private home. (Nurses at 
Presbyterian Hospital, on the other hand, wore washable hats 
that could be carried flat.) 

In 1939 white shoes and stockings were prescribed for St. 
Luke's nurses. The uniform came to mean much for students 
and alumnae. A St. Luke's graduate of the 1940s pleaded, 
"Don't let anyone change our caps — ever!" The plea was to 
take meaning during the sometimes difficult merger in the 
1950s of the Presbyterian and St. Luke's schools of nursing. 

The head of the St. Luke's medical staff. Dr. John E. 
Owens, took great pride in the new nursing school. The tall, 
bearded Owens made his late afternoon rounds with a red car- 



48 GOOD MEDICINE 

nation in the buttonhole of his white coat and a friendly word 
for everyone. He became a much appreciated source of en- 
couragement to nurses. 

Housing the student nurses was a problem. Trustee Byron 
L. Smith, president of the Northern Trust Company, built a 
two-story addition on the West Pavilion (facing Michigan 
Avenue) for $13,000. 

St. Luke's meanwhile was demonstrating a "quality of mercy 
not strained" to people of "all sects and nationalities," 
according to Rush Medical College Professor J. Adams Allen, 
a member of the St. Luke's consulting board, in remarks at the 
hospital's annual meeting. 

This consulting board was dispensed with in 1887, notwith- 
standing Allen's kind remarks. Indeed, the whole medical 
board was reorganized, including the obstetrical and gynecol- 
ogical department, which was divided into two separate entities. 
Also that year. Dr. Moses Gunn died. He'd been senior attend- 
ing surgeon, a Grace Church parishioner and a good friend of 
Locke, in addition to being for years the chairman of surgery 
at Rush. 

The year also was marked by "large donations in kind," in- 
cluding "no small quantity of beer" from the Seipp Brewing 
Company and all the ice the hospital needed from the J. P. 
Smith Ice Company. In addition, Mrs. John Tilden solicited 
for the hospital "a very large amount of groceries." 

But unspecified "petty squabbles" among members of the 
new medical board drove Locke "nearly frantic" in 1888. He 
"devoutly wished" to get a whole new medical staff at the 
time, as unwise as he knew that would be. Difficulties were 
ironed out, however; and "peace and harmony" reigned 
thenceforward. 

To make matters worse, some "unknown person in our 
midst" was passing "garbled and childish information" to the 
press about internal matters, Locke wrote. He claimed he was 
stopped on the street in the midst of this and asked if St. 
Luke's burned babies in its furnace. "Yes we do. Madam," 
he said. "We find them cheaper than coal." The woman re- 
mained staring after Locke as he strode away. 

Also in 1888 the State Street property (the former brothel) 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 49 

was sold and the $25,000 proceeds were deposited in the en- 
dowment fund. The property would have been sold earlier for 
much less if N. K. Fairbank hadn't persuaded them to hold on 
to it. In the same year, an addition was begun in honor of the 
late Samuel Johnston, a landowner and traction executive who 
had left the hospital $55,000. This was finished in 1890, and a 
"noble pile" it was in Locke's estimation, "built with great 
economy." Its top story, he noted, was "beautifully fitted for 
pay patients," who, it should be added, had to be paying more 
than their share for St. Luke's to afford giving so much free 
care. 

The addition doubled capacity, raising it to 152 beds, which 
in turn called for an increase in nurses. Housing them was 
again a challenge. The solution was to raise the training school 
department roof and add a floor. Mrs. E. H. Stickney footed 
this expense. Later, she willed St. Luke's its biggest gift so far, 
a $75,000 bequest which the hospital received in 1897. This 
went to build the Stickney House for nurses in 1898. 

In fiscal 1889 the hospital cared for 1,050 patients, 611 of 
whom paid nothing. This total was well over the previous 
year's 817 and many times the 124 cared for in fiscal 1865, the 
first year. But there were still waiting lists; and people com- 
plained when they couldn't get in, exhibiting an "unreason- 
ableness" which "much tried" Locke and the staff. It was a 
wonderful year nonetheless. Railroad car magnate George M. 
Pullman and his daughter contributed to the children's ward 
and helped make it "the most beautiful and complete home for 
sick children in this country." In the hospital as a whole, 
Locke reported, "harmony reigned in every department." 

The operating deficit rose to $30,000, however. A partial solu- 
tion was to use invested endowment funds to build an apartment 
building on Michigan Avenue in back of the hospital, in the hope 
of earning a greater return. The new building was called "The 
Clinton" in honor of Locke. For a year or so, it gave a better 
return, perhaps because of increased demand for housing during 
the world's fair. In 1899 it was rebuilt after a fire and renamed 
"The Saranac," possibly after the vacation and health resort in 
the Adirondacks. 

Meanwhile, in fiscal 1892, 59 percent of St. Luke's efforts 



50 GOOD MEDICINE 

went for charity patients and much of the rest was only "part 
pay." On the poorest patients as on the rich, the medical staff 
"lavished every attention" at a per-patient per year cost of 
$47.66, which did not reflect the "great quantities" of linen 
and bedding supplied by members of Grace and another 
Episcopal church, Trinity. 

Fund raising by individuals remained a major advantage. 
Helen K. Fairbank, wife of Nathaniel, worked especially hard 
soliciting funds for endowed beds, sometimes in amounts as 
low as $5 and $10. At her death a ward was named in her 
honor. 

The 1893 world's fair gave St. Luke's a chance to shine. 
The hospital was full "almost constantly," Locke reported, 
and nurse Grace Critchell Tracy walked 25 miles a night 
covering the wards. She knew this thanks to a pedometer she 
wore to track her perambulations. 

At the fairgrounds several miles to the south, 12,000 lived. 
Dr. Owens ran an emergency hospital there for fairgoers and 
workers. Three of its four nurses were from St. Luke's. 

Another emergency that engaged the St. Luke's staff was 
the 1903 Iroquois theatre fire which killed 571 and loaded St. 
Luke's morgue beyond capacity. People lined up to identify 
their dead. St. Luke's was also called on after the capsizing of 
the excursion steamer Eastland at its docking place in the 
Chicago River in 1915, when 812 drowned. 

Two turn-of-the-century St. Luke's physicians of note were 
Dr. Henry Baird Favill, of Rush, and Dr. Robert B. Preble. 
Favill could stand in a ward and "smell measles" among the 
patients, the story goes. "Let me see that case of bronchitis 
you admitted this morning," he once asked, and discovered a 
measles rash. 

Favill, a Rush alumnus and longtime Rush faculty member, 
succeeded Owens as president of the St. Luke's medical staff. 
He was the son of a physician of English ancestry but a descen- 
dent on his mother's side of an Ottawa Indian chief and proud 
of it. When his wife was inducted into the Colonial Dames, he 
was asked if he qualified for the Society of Mayflower 
Descendents. "No," he answered, "my people were on the 



St. Luke's Hospital is Established 51 

reception committee." 

Preble, an internist who later joined Herrick, Billings and 
others in forming the Society of Internal Medicine in Chicago, 
was also a canny diagnostician. Faced on one occasion with a 
presumed case of gastric hemorrhage, he expressed immediate 
doubt, lifted the sheet and discovered what he suspected, the 
dilated veins that showed cirrhosis of the liver. 

Surgery in the late 19th century was sometimes performed 
in people's homes. Not always, however. St. Luke's may have 
been the scene of an historic first in 1894, when Daniel Hale 
Williams, a black surgeon on the St. Luke's staff, is said to 
have performed heart surgery. Some question this, saying the 
first such operation was performed in St. Louis. 

The medical historian Thomas N. Bonner doesn't even 
mention it in relation to Williams, whom he does credit with a 
similar first, not at St. Luke's but at Chicago's Provident 
Hospital, which Williams helped to found. This operation, an 
emptying and suturing of the pericardial sac in the chest of a 
stabbing victim in 1893, was noteworthy in any event, heart 
surgery or not and the first of its kind or not. 

St. Luke's was the scene in 1898 of what may have been the 
first Caesarean section in the Midwest. Nurses watched it 
from "the long windows" of what in 1946 was known as the 
"old building," shrieking in subdued fashion when the baby 
appeared. The director of the nurses' school was "victorianly 
shocked" at her nurses witnessing the event, says Marie Mer- 
rill in her history of the nursing school. The baby's parents 
wrote the trustees to thank them, noting, "Being poor, we 
have nothing to give you, but will give small things whenever 
we can afford to." 

Money problems abounded. Like the reputedly wealthy 
English hospitals, St. Luke's had to operate regularly at a deficit, 
trusting donations to keep it in what was essentially a catch-up 
ball game. One problem was lack of sufficient endowment. 

Another was how to afford the latest in medical 
equipment — special splints or braces for patients suffering 
from hunchback, curvature of the spine, club feet and the like. 
Most were able to pay little or nothing toward the cost of such 



52 GOOD MEDICINE 

apparatus. The problem presaged huge expenditures of a com- 
ing age, when new equipment was to cost far more than spUnt 
and braces. 

A related problem was what to do about nonpaying pa- 
tients, who usually stayed longer than paying ones because the 
hospital was more comfortable than anywhere else they had to 
go. Locke does not say how he solved this problem. 

In 1885 Locke resigned as president of St. Luke's and was 
succeeded by Arthur Ryerson. The end of an era came with 
the end of Locke's involvement. As its first president and 
chaplain, he was a beloved figure and a genuine human being. 
In 1895 his vocal organs gave way, and he had to call a halt to 
his pastoral work. At first he couldn't preach, then he couldn't 
talk at all. An "awful silence" ensued. Bishop McLaren 
wrote. "The charm of life vanished," and he "longed for the 
death he did not fear." 

Locke took to playing cribbage at the hospital, where he 
went apparently as much for companionship as anything else. 
Locke died in 1904 on the Mississippi gulf coast, where he and 
his wife were vacationing. He was 74 years old, the oldest 
priest in the diocese. Adele Locke, his helpmate in pastoral 
labors, spent her final years at the Grace Church rectory on 
Indiana Avenue. She died in 1919 at 79. 




Daniel Brainard, M.D., 1812-1866. 




"Wolf's Point in 1833." 

(Photo courtesy Chicago Historical Society) 




James Van Zandt Blaney, 
M.D., 1820-1874. 




Rush Medical College, 1844. 





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1817-1904. (Photo courtesy of 
Chicago Historical Society) 









Rush Medical College building of 1867. 

(Photo courtesy of Chicago Historical Society) 







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Moses Gunn, M.D., 
1822-1887: "A surgeon must 
have the eye of a hawk, the 
heart of a lion, the hand of a 
woman." 



Christian Fenger, M.D., 
1840-1902. 




Rush Medical College, 1875 building, and 
Senn Building (right), added in 1902. 




Nicholas Senn, M.D., 
1844-1908. 



Joseph P. Ross, M.D., 

1828-1890. 







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1895. 




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Rush baseball team, 1894. 




Rush football team, 1894. 



DATE OPFONEXTS 

Sept. 22. West Division High School, 
Sept. 29. Prairie Club, Oak Park, Hi., - 
Oct. 13. University of Chicago, - - - 
Oct. 20. Chicago Athletic Association, - 
Oct. 27. Beloit College, at Beloit, Wis., 
Nov. 3. Lake Forest Universitv, - - - 
Nov. 22. Notre Dame University, at Soutli Bend. Ind., 6 to 6 

Nov. 25. Iowa College, at Grinnell, Iowa, - - - 6 to 28 
Nov. 29. Monmouth College, at IMonmoutii, Hi., - 18 to 6 

The 1894 football season. 



RUSH 




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Jones Building of Presbyterian Hospital with Ross-Hamill Wing 
at right, late 1880s. 




The Reverend James 
De Witt Clinton Locke, 
1829-1904, pastor of 
Grace Episcopal Church 
and founder of 
St. Luke's Hospital. 




The first St. Luke's Hospital, 1864. 

(Photo courtesy of Chicago Historical Society) 




St. Luke's Hospital old main building, 1882. 



A Marriage Made In Heaven: 
Rush & The University Of Chicago 
1898-1924 



The final split of Rush Medical College from Lake Forest 
University set the stage for a "final union" with The Univer- 
sity of Chicago. It was a marriage made in heaven by most 
standards, but nevertheless destined to end on the rocks. 

The matchmakers were Doctors E. Fletcher Ingals and 
Frank Billings on the Rush side (though Billings was then at 
Northwestern University Medical School) and University of 
Chicago President William Rainey Harper on the other. 

Ingals was a Rush teacher (since 1871), trustee and its con- 
troller. He realized the Lake Forest connection was worth little 
to either party, partly because Lake Forest would never attract 
endowment funds sufficient to help Rush achieve its potential. 
In the dealings with Harper, Ingals played a crucial role. 

At one point he alone among Rush trustees voted for affilia- 
tion. Deputed to inform Harper of the deal-killing vote, he 
persuaded the others to wait a while. It was that close to not 
happening. 

Billings, a distinguished medical practitioner and researcher 
with an itch to promote medical education, was winning a 



66 



A Marriage Made in Heaven 67 

reputation for getting things done. As secretary of the facuhy 
at Northwestern, he had helped build Wesley Hospital and a 
new classroom structure. He was later to resign over what he 
considered Northwestern trustees' failure to support the 
medical school adequately. 

Ingals saw possibilities in the new university and went to 
work on Harper immediately with his Rush affiliation idea. 
Billings joined him in the effort in a year or two, so that by 
1893 or 1894, they both were after Harper. It took a few years 
more, but by December of 1897, Harper liked the idea, under 
four nonnegotiable conditions: 

1 . The Rush trustees would resign in favor of new ones with 
"no pecuniary interest" in Rush's earnings, named by the 
University trustees. Gone were the days when Rush was 
"what would now be termed a proprietary medical school," to 
use Rush alumni president Dr. H. Gideon Wells' 1922 expres- 
sion. Proprietors or not, Wells hastened to add, they were 
dedicated, idealistic men. 

2. Rush entrance requirements would be raised to two years 
of college by 1902. This drastically cut the number of eligible 
students, since only 10 or 12% of high-school graduates entered 
college at the time. Later enrollment dropped accordingly. 

3. Rush would retire its debt. 

4. The Rush faculty would resign and await reappointment 
by the university. 

A Rush man asked how they knew Harper would reappoint 
Rush men. They didn't, a colleague replied. But either 
Harper knew what he was doing or didn't. If he didn't, they 
shouldn't affiliate. If he did, they shouldn't tie his hands. 

The affiliation was neither a union of the two schools nor a 
commitment to one. Harper emphasized. It left both parties' 
options open. But University of Chicago founder John D. 
Rockefeller was still not pleased. He and his advisor Frederick 
T. Gates felt the university lowered itself by the union partly 
because Rush trained practitioners, not researchers. 

Harper, on the other hand, saw that Rush and University of 



68 GOOD MEDICINE 

Chicago goals might be joined to make something new and 
grand in U.S. medical history. He saw Rush as something he 
could mold into the medical school with everything: it would 
educate both scientifically trained practitioners and researchers. 

Harper went at the molding process with vigor, beginning 
with an 18-point agreement he produced for Rush signatures, 
a document that included the four basic conditions and added 
other details: 

The university would examine and approve applicants at 
Rush's expense. It would furnish "at cost" teachers, books 
and supplies and would lend books and apparatus "at net cost 
of transit and handling." Rush would do nothing academic 
without university approval, including hiring and firing facul- 
ty. Rush would raise student requirements "as rapidly as the 
university may require." 

On top of all this. Harper put it in writing (and Rush gladly 
signed) that (a) nothing in the above implied encouragement 
that Rush would ever become the university's medical school, 
and (b) the university intended to establish such a school of its 
own as soon as money was available. 

The whole deal was, on its face, no bargain for Rush. But if 
the Rush people were bargain-hunting, they wouldn't have 
dealt with Harper, whom they revered as a medical-education 
Moses who would lead them to glory. On January 5, 1898, the 
seven Rush trustees — Professors Holmes, Lyman, Etheridge, 
Ingals, Hyde, Haines and Bridge — resigned, and eight univer- 
sity trustees, including food-wholesaler A. A. Sprague, were 
appointed in their places. 

The faculty retired the debt as stipulated — $73,000 incurred 
six years earlier to build the Rush laboratory building. Dr. 
Nicholas Senn, the surgeon, and Ingals each came up with 
$25,000, and others supplied the rest. 

In June the affiliation became official, and the Rush faculty 
asked Harper to be president. He declined the title but assumed 
the responsibility, presiding at faculty meetings and appointing 
committees. He also persuaded the faculty to democratize itself 
by giving the vote, previously the preserve of an 11 -man ex- 
ecutive committee, to all above assistant professor. He argued 



A Marriage Made in Heaven 69 

that this would balance conservative and progressive influence. 
Faculty meetings weren't for voting anyhow, he explained, but 
for mutual education. 

Education was necessary, since radical changes were in 
store. Whatever the 1894 Rush yearbook had said in favor of 
practical experience, lectures were still the norm. Students sat 
on amphitheatre benches eight or nine hours a day, listening 
or watching. The course was rigid and inflexible and the same 
for all. The university was trying other methods, and so would 
Rush. 

Rush, which operated eight months a year, became a year- 
round school. The earliest Rush students had gone only four 
months a year. Later an optional spring session had been add- 
ed. Now the year was divided into quarters, and students 
could attend all four quarters and still have seven weeks' vaca- 
tion. Faculty could teach two or three four-quarter years and 
then take a year or 18 months off for study. The student need- 
ed 12 quarters to graduate but had to take 45 months to do it, 
because of state requirements. 

Furthermore, the curriculum was reorganized to reflect 
what students could do, rather than what teachers thought 
necessary to cover the subject. Thus eight or nine hours a day 
for five or five and a half days the first two years and six days 
the second two years would be realistic goals. Another change, 
a medical school first, was the institution of electives. The pur- 
pose was pedagogical. Choosing courses was an event in itself. 
On at least one occasion, students stood in line from a little 
after midnight to be sure they got the course of their choice. 

Another change was the admission of women, again to con- 
form to University of Chicago practice. The first, in 1901, 
were received with no more "altered demeanor" among male 
students "than if an equal number of men had been added to 
the student body," according to Dean of Students John 
Milton Dodson. By 1917, 68 women had graduated. 

Another momentous change occurred in 1901, one for 
which Ingals and Billings argued at length: Rush freshmen 
and sophomores moved to the South Side university campus 
for basic science classes — the first two years of the curriculum. 



70 GOOD MEDICINE 

Rush Medical College on the West Side at this point became a 
two-year school, educating only third- and fourth-year 
medical students in their clinical or "clerkship" studies. In- 
coming Rush freshman took classes on the South Side and 
enrolled as students of both Rush and the university. 

The move not only pleased the Rush leadership but also fit- 
ted into Harper's plans for a medical school whose first two 
years were "almost entirely courses in pure science." Rush 
students had to be sold, however. Horse-drawn coaches were 
hired one day in May, and the freshmen were driven out south 
to view their new surroundings, eat lunch and hear from 
Harper and others the advantages of a University of Chicago 
education. 

Harper was as persuasive with them as he had been with the 
faculty, and all but a few continued their studies on the Mid- 
way the following September as students in the university's 
Ogden Graduate School of Science. Third- and fourth-year 
students continued on the West Side, where Billings became 
dean of faculty and Dr. John Milton Dodson became dean of 
students. 

Other medical schools followed suit and offered pure science 
in the first two years. Third- and fourth-year students from 
many of these schools transferred to Rush for clinical studies. 
In fact, during the next 15 years, up to half the Rush enroll- 
ment hailed from elsewhere than The University of Chicago 
and never less than 20 percent. 

A year after Ingals and Billings argued successfully for the 
move to the university campus for basic science, they went for 
even closer "organic union" with the university. This organic 
union would make Rush an integral part of the university, 
rather than a mere affiliate or working partner. Harper favored 
it, notwithstanding his proviso four years before, when he cau- 
tioned Rush not to get its hopes up. On the contrary, by 1903 
he was convinced the university's medical school future lay with 
Rush. 

What he wanted was something he could call the "Rush 
School of Medicine of The University of Chicago." So apt a 
partner had Rush already proven and such was its rich history, 



A Marriage Made in Heaven 7 1 

that the name alone was worth a milHon dollars, he said. Full 
of enthusiasm, he persuaded the university trustees and went 
off to New York to persuade the founder. Rockefeller. 

He did so, but not completely. In any event, in order to be 
finally united with the university, Rush had to raise a million 
to qualify for the needed $5 million from the man who so far 
had made everything possible. Billings went to work with his 
usual energy, and the million was raised almost immediately. 

But more than a third of it was a donation in kind, namely 
the McCormick Institute for Infectious Diseases, which Bill- 
ings persuaded the Harold Fowler McCormicks to give to 
Rush. It wasn't unfettered cash with which to endow research, 
which is what Rockefeller had in mind. 

No deal, said the philanthropist, and Harper was ready to 
tear his hair out. "I shall resign," he threatened, pacing back 
and forth in front of his deans at the Chicago Club. Indeed, he 
was looking at a tempting offer from the St. Louis world's fair 
to be director of its scientific and educational section. He 
would have taken it, but Rockefeller and the trustees talked 
him out of it. 

His frustration lay in seeing a medical school so near and yet 
so far. Everything was ready for his grand plan: 

• A five-pavilion, 250-bed research hospital on the South 
Side that would take patients of its choice from its outpatient 
department and other hospitals, based on the disease to be 
studied. 

• The Rush complex on the West Side for undergraduate 
clinical work. 

• A postgraduate school on the Near North Side. Chicago 
Policlinic School, at Chicago Avenue and LaSalle Street, was 
ready to become Rush's postgraduate school and bring its 
Henrotin Hospital as part of the bargain. 

Research would be pursued at all three of these centers, and 
the staffs of each would use facilities of the others. 

None of it happened in 1904. Harper entered Presbyterian 
Hospital early in the year for an appendectomy. Cancer was 



72 GOOD MEDICINE 

suspected but not found. A year later, exploratory surgery 
found it. A year after that, in February of 1906, he was dead. 
So was his dream of organic union — the absorption or integra- 
tion of Rush — at least in its particulars and at least for another 
20 years. 

Meanwhile, as Rush's admission standards rose, its enroll- 
ment declined. Only 65 freshmen entered in 1905 — a steep 
drop from 250 a few years earlier. It could have been worse. 
Rush raised its standards over a five-year period. Some 
schools raised theirs all at once and sank to as few as six 
freshmen, not even a baseball team. 

Rush had enough for several baseball teams but still not 
enough to pay the bills. Many of the faculty were asked to 
forego their small stipends. Those who had pledged to give 
toward the million required by Rockefeller were asked to give 
to help meet current expenses. As dean of faculty, Billings 
solicited from potential donors. As controller, Ingals managed 
astutely. In a few years, the students began to return, even 
with the higher standards limiting the pool. By 1910 Rush 
enrollment topped 360, up from 253 in 1905, and the crisis 
had passed. 

The question remained abut organic union. Harper's suc- 
cessor, Harry Pratt Judson, assured Billings, Dodson, and In- 
gals of his interest but said the matter should remain on hold. 
He took up where Harper had left off as a Rush trustee and de 
facto president but not as its champion in the halls of the 
mighty. Four years later, even the mighty took his leave. 
Rockefeller pulled out in 1910, promising the university a final 
$10 million over the next 10 years, including $1.5 million for a 
chapel. 

Rush's big three — Billings, Dodson and Ingals — again ap- 
proached the university, this time with the American Medical 
Association stalwart and Rush professor. Dr. Arthur Dean 
Bevan, at their side. Billings put it to Martin Ryerson, presi- 
dent of the university trustees: would they rather Rush went 
its own way while the university formed its medical school? 
Ryerson 's answer was that they would not. They wanted Rush 



A Marriage Made in Heaven 73 

to remain in affiliation, just as it was, until something stronger 
might develop. 

A strain was developing nonetheless. Rush had no money to 
speak of. Billings was again given the task of raising some. But 
no big plans were there to inspire giving, and Rush's future 
was unclear. 

To complicate matters further, other institutions were look- 
ing around, including the University of Illinois, which had 
taken over the College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1913. Il- 
linois proposed organic union with Rush, but with the smell 
about it of annexation. Rush would surrender its charter, dis- 
band its trustees and give up its name. Furthermore, while the 
(tax) money was there, legislators controlled it year by year, 
and Rush shied away from that dependency. The Rush faculty 
said no to Illinois in April of 1914. Northwestern University 
Medical School also approached Rush with a view to union. 
This didn't happen either. 

Then in the summer of 1916, Billings, ever the planner and 
promoter, presented Rockefeller interests with three options 
for the university's medical education: move it all to the South 
Side, move it all to the West Side, or move only Rush's 
undergraduate clinical education south and make Rush a 
postgraduate medical school. 

The Rockefeller organization, in the person of medical 
education expert Abraham Flexner, liked the third option, 
which was a variation of Harper's plan for research south, 
undergraduate education west and postgraduate education 
north. 

Money again was the problem, but this time it was solved in 
rapid fashion. Billings raised in record time (a matter of months) 
the $3.3 million required by the Rockefeller Foundation and the 
General Education Board, each of which promised $1 million. 
His family gave $1 million, including $400,000 from his cousin 
Cornelius K. G. Billings, former president of People's Gas, and 
$100,000 from himself. He solicited the rest almost entirely from 
Rosenwald, Ryerson, Armour, Swift and other philanthropic 
sources. 



74 GOOD MEDICINE 

Banker Frederick H. Rawson and his wife gave $300,000 for a 
laboratory on the West Side, where Presbyterian Hospital and 
Rush were to form a European-style "university college" (post- 
graduate school of medicine) for M.D. practitioners. 

Albert Merritt Billings Hospital on the South Side — named 
after an uncle of Frank, also a former head of People's 
Gas — was to be fully endowed and run on a "strictly scientific 
basis," without "any element of commercial medical 
practice," said university president Judson. It was to be con- 
trolled by staff, who would have no duties but to teach and do 
research and research-related clinical work. 

The Rockefeller grant and accompanying plans made page 
one around the country. The Chicago Tribune called the idea "one 
of the most important events in the history of Chicago." The 
Boston Transcript said the grant gave the university its opportunity 
to form the nation's premier medical school. The Nation said the 
"new move at Chicago" would greatly help U.S. medical educa- 
tion meet the best European standards. 

Congratulations were premature, however. It was wartime, 
and the grand plans had to be delayed. Not until several years 
after the war were they realized, in 1924. According to agree- 
ment Rush kept its name, and construction was begun on the 
new building on which were carved the words "Rawson Lab- 
oratory, Rush Postgraduate School of Medicine. A.D. 1924. 
The University of Chicago." On the South Side, Billings 
Hospital was begun. 

The Rawson building held offices, library, classrooms and 
laboratories, including the fifth-floor pathology labs named 
after Dr. Norman Bridge, who with his wife had given 
$100,000 for their construction. In the basement was occupa- 
tional therapy and on the second floor the Central Free Dispen- 
sary — moved there from Senn Hall, the 1902 five-story 
laboratory building next to it, named after the famous surgeon, 
Dr. Nicholas Senn, who gave $50,000 to help build it. 

The affiliated institutions which gave Rush its strong 
clinical-education base were adjacent or nearby: the 440-bed 
Presbyterian Hospital, the McCormick Institute for Infectious 



A Marriage Made in Heaven 75 

Diseases, the Home for Destitute Crippled Children, County 
Hospital was on the opposite corner. 

On the South Side, Doctors Franklin McLean and Dean 
Lewis set to work organizing the undergraduate clinical pro- 
gram meant some day to replace Rush's clinical program. 

In May of 1924, Rush and the university signed the agree- 
ment which joined them in marriage-like union. On June 7, 
the day after the Rush graduation, the Rush faculty and 
students became University of Chicago faculty and students. 

In August the old Rush building was torn down to make 
way for Rawson. A cornerstone removal ceremony on August 
28 was presided over by A. E. Wood, grand master of the 
lodge which had performed the cornerstone-laying ceremony 
not quite 50 years earlier. 



Rush & The University of Chicago 
Go Their Separate Ways 
1924-1941 



Their marriage consummated in 1924, Rush Medical College 
and The University of Chicago upgraded requirements. A 
bachelor's degree was made compulsory. (Ten years earlier, 
Rush had been the first U.S. medical college to enforce the in- 
tern year requirement.) The new postgraduate school of 
medicine (for M.D. practitioners) was begun as the presumed 
justification of Rush as a university appendage. The M.D. 
undergraduate program was to be moved south as soon as 
possible. 

On the West Side, Dr. Ernest E. Irons was the new dean. 
Here Rush continued to offer the third and fourth (cHnical- 
education) years leading to the M.D. degree. These were the 
years of learning applied medicine, after years one and two 
spent on basic science courses on the South Side. Most 
clinical-education students, or "clerks" as they were called, 
came to Rush from the university's South Side campus. But 
quite a few came after taking basic science courses at some 
other medical school. 

The mid- 1920s to early 1930s were a sort of extended 



76 



Separate Ways 11 

honeymoon period for Rush and the university. The univer- 
sity contributed to Rush's new postgraduate school, and Rush 
alumni pledged $250,000 as their share of $3 million being 
raised by university alumni. 

Identification was legally complete between the two institu- 
tions. It seems to have been morally complete as well. In addi- 
tion to giving substantial help to university fund raising, Rush 
professors attended university functions such as the trustees' 
dinner for faculty at the South Shore Country Club and per- 
formed university duties such as serving on the university 
senate. 

Rush's role in postgraduate medicine was to be 
"dominant," according to a university spokesman. The 
Rawson building which undergirded this role was dedicated in 
December of 1925, a five-story, all-steel structure connected 
by walkways to Senn Memorial on one side and Presbyterian 
Hospital on the other. 

Rush's laboratory and classroom facilities put even North- 
western to shame, not to mention its principal claim to medical 
educational excellence — its proximity and working relationship 
with Presbyterian Hospital and the Central Free Dispensary. 

The postgraduate program proceeded sluggishly, however. 
The offerings were generous: one to three years in otolaryn- 
gology, dermatology, ophthalmology or radiology. But only 20 
enrolled in its first year. Dean Irons suggested a harder sell. He 
reported optimistically that a "week of clinics" during Rush 
Homecoming Week in June of 1926 had been well attended. 

Rush's undergraduate (clinical) program, on the other 
hand, became increasingly attractive. Of 141 M.D. recipients 
in 1926, only 78 had done their first two (basic science) years 
at The University of Chicago. The rest had transferred from 
other medical schools. The university was becoming for Rush 
one of many feeder schools offering basic science (preclinical) 
courses. 

At the same time the university was well on its way to the 
goal of offering a full four-year undergraduate program (basic 
science and clinical) on the South Side. The 1924 plan to 
which Rush had agreed was essentially what the Rockefeller 



78 GOOD MEDICINE 

organization's Abraham Flexner had worked out in 1916 with 
Frank Billings. Undergraduate medical education was to be on 
the South Side campus, postgraduate on the West Side. 
According to agreement, Rush was providing undergraduate 
clinical study only until the university could do it on the South 
Side. 

But the Rush faculty thought or hoped it wouldn't turn out 
that way. They looked instead for a continuance of the status 
quo, apparently ignoring signs to the contrary, such as the 
Billings Hospital development with its promise of taking over 
Rush's clinical education role. 

Rush graduated 142 M.D.s in 1927, of whom 98 had done 
preclinical work on the South Side. Rush's clinical and 
laboratory capacities were at a peak, with the new Rawson 
building in use for a year or so and increased cooperation 
reported with Presbyterian, The Central Free Dispensary 
cared for over 107,000 patients. 

The death knell was sounding nonetheless. On October 10, 
1927, the university opened for business on the South Side a 
full-service, four-year medical school. Rush faculty who cher- 
ished hopes of continuing to give undergraduate education 
must have found that unsettling. 

The university now had two medical schools, one on the 
South Side staffed mainly by "so-called 'full-time' men," as 
acting President Frederic Woodward called them, the other on 
the West Side staffed by part-timers. 

This was an important distinction. These "full-time men" 
were new for Chicago. They represented a system promoted 
by the Rockefeller organization, which had gotten the idea 
from the John Hopkins School of Medicine in Baltimore. The 
idea was that medical school teachers were to be free of the 
distraction of patient work except as it contributed directly to 
research. This freedom from the requirements of patient care 
cost money, of course; these men were on salary and responsi- 
ble only to the medical school. Thus they were "full-timers." 

From its start the university's South Side medical school 
program of the 1920s was based on full-time or "whole-time" 
salaried faculty. In charge of it was Rush alumnus and 



Separate Ways 79 

Rockefeller-group protege Dr. Franklin C. McLean. The pat- 
tern here was of the professional teacher as opposed to the 
teacher who is primarily a practitioner. It made sense in view 
of the university's commitment to medical research. It did not 
make sense where money was a concern. 

At Rush, on the West Side, for instance, the full-timer was 
nonexistent. Nor, apparently, did the Rush teacher feel 
distracted from teaching by his practice, which he clearly felt 
contributed to his teaching while it paid the bills. Thirty years 
later, the full-timer issue was to rise at Presbyterian Hospital, 
during its postwar revival period. 

The new South Side clinical undergraduate program ran 
into trouble at first, apparently because of its research orienta- 
tion. Students who came to learn medicine were apparently 
put off by the number of electives, for instance — one out of 
three courses. Only those of "exceptionally clear vision and 
research ability" were expected to like the new program, said 
Dean Basil C. H. Harvey. 

Each student was encouraged to pursue his or her interests; 
such was the belief in the educational value of research. The 
emphasis was on nurturing habits, rather than on transmitting 
information required by state licensing boards. Not all saw the 
value of this approach, lamented Harvey, who expected the 
program to be "relatively unpopular" for a few years. 

Rush's future was being discussed. The university trustees 
announced it was to remain one of the university's two 
medical schools. Acting President Woodward acknowledged 
"differences in organization, method and emphasis" and said 
he hoped experience would show the way to reconciling them. 
The two schools "should complement each other with valuable 
results," he said. The Rush faculty was free to take what com- 
fort they might from this oracular comment. 

They were also free to judge as they might the next major 
announcement from the university — the appointment, effec- 
tive July 1, 1929, of the young dean of the Yale law school, 
Robert Maynard Hutchins, as its fifth president. Hutchins 
was installed in November. One of his early pronouncements 
was to acclaim Rush Medical College as "a jewel in the 



80 GOOD MEDICINE 

crown" of the university. The Rush faculty was to have time 
to meditate on this encomium and to wonder what the new 
president had in mind when he bestowed it. 

On the South Side, McLean as professor of medicine and 
Dr. Dallas B. Phemister as his counterpart in surgery were 
encountering "enormous" difficulties in organizing depart- 
ments from scratch. As we have seen, McLean had overall 
responsibility for the new school, which he was creating on the 
approved Johns Hopkins model with an entirely full-time staff. 
He had organized the Rockefeller-sponsored Peking Union 
Medical College along the same lines. An apparently selfless 
individual, he put the whole South Side operation together but 
apparently stepped on some toes in the process and had to 
resign his supervisory position in December of 1932. 

McLean and Phemister were joined in 1927 by Dr. Emmett 
B. Bay, also from Rush, who headed a cardiology section in the 
department of medicine. The new program was competing with 
Rush for faculty. It began also to compete for students. Students 
now had their choice of finishing on the South Side or at Rush. 
At first, they all took Rush, which was the proven commodity 
and offered superb clinical-education opportunities. But as Bill- 
ings Hospital and the other university "clinics" became 
established, more chose the South Side. 

The presence of highly respected former Rush teachers add- 
ed to the appeal of the South Side campus. Phemister in 1925 
had set up the first "full-time" surgery department in the 
world, leaving a lucrative private practice to do so. Bay had 
become the first physician to practice on the university's cam- 
pus. Researcher George F. Dick became chairman of medicine 
in 1933. Neurologist Richard B. Richter came in 1936. 
Department of medicine members Doctors Walter L. Palmer, 
C Philip Miller, Louis Leiter and Russell M. Wilder were 
Rush-University of Chicago alumni who also joined the South 
Side school. Wilder chaired medicine from 1929 to 1931, 
before Dick took over. All in all, the situation had a distinctly 
Rush-University of Chicago flavor to it. 

The university "clinics" (the term covered the hospitals as 
well as the Max Epstein clinic) reached a bed capacity of over 



Separate Ways 81 

500 by the early thirties, with a 500-a-day outpatient capacity. 
To medicine and surgery had been added obstetrics-cum- 
gynecology, pediatrics, and orthopedics. Billings Hospital had 
216 beds, Bobs Roberts Memorial Hospital for Children (now 
part of the Wyler's Children's Hospital) had 80, Chicago Lying- 
in had 140 and the McElwee and Hicks hospitals provided a 
100-bed orthopedic unit — all on the university campus. 

In addition to these, the affiliated Children's Memorial 
Hospital, in the North Side's Lincoln Park area, accounted for 
250 beds. The formidable West Side clinical-education com- 
plex was not overshadowed by all this, but like the long- 
distance runner in a hard race, it was hearing footsteps. 

Not that Rush was standing still. Frank Billings gave 
$100,000 for four fellowships in 1930. Nancy Adele McElwee, 
a prominent benefactress of the South Side program, gave 
$500,000 for a surgical pavilion. Both gifts were part of what 
Rush and Presbyterian Hospital were presenting as a "com- 
prehensive plan" for their joint development. 

But it was time for the Hutchins factor to assert itself. In 
June of 1931, the "boy wonder" president told Rush grad- 
uates, alumni and friends that the university still didn't know 
what to do with Rush. "We must have either one school or 
two on a different basis," he said. Costs prohibited develop- 
ment of two "first-class" institutions. 

This was waving a distress signal in front of Frank Billings, 
who stood up and told the audience he could raise the money 
they needed. "I'm 77 years old now," said the old cam- 
paigner. "But if I live to the time when we campaign for 
funds . . . I'll do as big a job as [I did] in 1917, when I raised 
two and a half million." 

About this time Billings went to Alfred T. Carton, Sr., 
president of the Presbyterian Hospital's board of managers, 
with tears in his eyes to ask Carton to move the hospital to the 
South Side. Billings saw this as the move that would preserve 
the Rush-University of Chicago connection, and he desper- 
ately wanted to see it happen. He never did, of course. 

In a few years, rumors flying. Rush students met to protest 
their coming "affiliation" with the university, according to a 



82 GOOD MEDICINE 

news account. But affiliation was hardly the issue. Rush was 
already part of the university. The issue was whether remain- 
ing a part of it would require a closing down of Rush under- 
graduate medical education or even of Rush itself on the West 
Side. Dean Irons told the students nothing "immediate" was 
being considered. University Vice President Woodward told 
the press that merger had been discussed. 

This merger discussion had included an offer to the senior 
attending staff of Presbyterian Hospital to come to the South 
Side campus. The university would give land on which 
Presbyterian could be built anew. But the Presbyterian's 
bylaws required it to stay whre it was, to care for the indigent, 
among other purposes. 

Suspicions abounded anyhow: Hutchins would take the 
whole thing over, he didn't like doctors anyway, he was a dic- 
tator. Faculty members without tenure would be on their toes, 
the formidable A. J. (Ajax) Carlson, professor and chairman 
of physiology, was told by one of his colleagues supporting 
Hutchins. "You mean on their knees," he responded, mean- 
ing to the incumbent president. 

The rumored merger, or "complete consolidation," as the 
Chicago Times reported in June of 1936, would be physical, in 
contrast to the mostly legal ties which made no day-to-day dif- 
ference in students' lives. Up to half of them in any given year 
had no University of Chicago experience or loyalty anyhow. 

By 1936 the university was ready to go it alone on the South 
Side. Rush submitted plans for a graduate program. But it was 
clear from these plans that Rush still wanted primarily to train 
practitioners. The university, on the other hand, wanted to 
advance medical science. This continued philosophical dif- 
ference between the two institutions at least cooled university 
enthusiasm for a Rush graduate program. 

In October of 1937, the university in effect gave Rush and 
Presbyterian five more years, at which point it would call a halt 
to its undergraduate involvement on the West Side. In June of 
1938, what The Chicago Herald- Examiner called the "secession" 
question was discussed by both sides. Moving south ("Rush 
removal") was still a possibility. The advantages would be 



Separate Ways 83 

"closer association of scientific minds, elimination of overlapping 
departments and greater economy," according to Dr. Robert H. 
Herbst, retiring head of the Rush alumni association. Hutch- 
ins was "eager" for the move, some unidentified proponents 
said. Rush faculty and Presbyterian trustees were split on the 
question. 

The faculty wanted to move. A faculty committee headed by 
Dr. Horace W. Armstrong reminded trustees that Presby- 
terian was "essentially a teaching hospital." Hutchins had 
already implied that the move to the South Side was the only 
solution, and the faculty committee understood that. Stay on 
the West Side, Armstrong said, and Rush had better look to 
Northwestern or the University of Illinois for a university 
affiliation. 

Almost a year later, on June 1, 1939, 102 Rush faculty voted 
overwhelmingly to stay with the university, as opposed to shifting 
Rush affiliation to Northwestern for the sake of continued 
undergraduate teaching. They were split almost evenly in a 
subsequent mail ballot in the matter of "Rush removal" to the 
South Side. Eighty-five preferred to continue the connection by 
way of a West Side graduate program; 76 were willing to move 
south to keep the undergraduate program. 

An alumnus who caught a reporter's ear cited familiar ob- 
jections to moving: old-school ties and the complaint that on 
the South Side patient care was second to medical research. 
The university clinic patient, said the anonymous alumnus, 
was "just another experiment ... a guinea pig." At "tradi- 
tional schools like Rush," on the other hand, doctors were 
taught to feel "personal responsibility for their patients." 

Reporting eight days later to the Presbyterian trustees, 
faculty spokesman Dr. George E. Shambaugh, Jr., argued for 
the graduate school solution. But Dr. Wilber Post, the Rush 
dean, argued for the move south. The proposed 300-bed South 
Side Presbyterian Hospital would cost only $3 million, he said, 
not the $4 million then projected, if the hospital would 
eliminate free beds and free outpatient service. This would 
make sense, he said, in view of coming national health and 
hospitalization insurance and expected loss of private dona- 



84 GOOD MEDICINE 

tions. The Presbyterian endowment would subsidize research 
while patient care and clinical teaching paid for themselves, 
Post argued. 

The Presbyterian trustees (more precisely, board of managers) 
were not convinced. The move south would cost too much and 
they were committed to the West Side. Three months later they 
voted to stay where they were and cooperate with the university 
in a graduate program. 

In October of 1939, Hutchins, having been informed of their 
position, announced that the university would close Rush as an 
undergraduate school in 1942 and reopen it as a graduate school. 
Presbyterian board president John McKinlay announced at the 
same time that the hospital would stay where it was. 

The Chicago Tribune reported the decision was made mostly 
because of expenses involved but also because of West Side 
clinical opportunities, which were considered more ample than 
those on the South Side. 

At this point the university and Rush were still joined. But 
their union was headed for dissolution. In June of 1940, eight 
months after announcement of the decision to close the Rush 
undergraduate program, the divorce was also announced. 
Rush and the university would go their separate ways. 
Presbyterian Hospital (with Rush as a sort of alter ego) would 
affiliate with the University of Illinois. 

This parting was friendly enough. The university returned 
everything it had acquired in the 'Tinal union" of 1924 — even 
what had been added to the Rush endowment since then. 
Classes would be held for undergraduates during the coming 
year, after which no new students would be enrolled. 

Hutchins said the problem had been the Rush faculty's in- 
sistence on continuing to do undergraduate teaching, followed 
by Presbyterian Hospital's refusal to come to the South Side. 
It had been agreed since 1916 that two undergraduate schools 
were out of the question and that Rush was to be a graduate 
school. Rush's decision to affiliate with the University of Il- 
linois had finally ended the matter. 

Some in the Rush camp, however, laid the problem at 
Hutchins' feet. He had wanted to close Rush down in any 



Separate Ways 85 

event, they claimed. He was not comfortable with privately 
practicing physicians as faculty members, referring to them as 
"quasi-faculty." He wanted everything on the South Side 
where he could control it. 

Hutchins wore horns in the eyes of any number of people. 
But as Dwight Ingle observed in his sketch of Ajax Carlson, a 
critic of Hutchins, "In general, science flourished during his 
administration." So did Rush, up to a point. 



Clinical Observations 
1898-1946 



THE GIANTS 

When antimedicine evangelist John Alexander Dowie boldly 
invited Rush Medical College students to hear him lecture on 
"Drugs, Devils and Doctors" in the late 1890s, the students 
came in force, stank up the hall with a foul-smelling chemical 
and threw eggs at the man who had thrown down the gauntlet 
to them. It was not Rush's finest hour, though it did show 
school spirit of a sort. 

Throwing eggs at Dowie was a bad idea. The students had 
better arguments against him in the persons of their teachers. 
There were giants in those days at Rush — Ludvig Hektoen, 
James B. Herrick, Frank Billings, Howard Taylor Ricketts, 
Arthur Bevan and Frederick Tice, to name a few. And there 
were giants yet to come — Bertram W. Sippy, Rollin Woodyatt, 
George and Gladys Dick and Dallas Phemister, all clinicians and 
researchers who strode the Rush, University of Chicago and 
Presbyterian and St. Luke's hospital corridors like colossi. 

Hektoen, a pathologist, was Chicago's first medical scien- 
tist. A precise, charming man with a slight Norwegian accent, 



86 



Clinical Observations 87 

he was the first to say it mattered who gave blood to whom in 
the new field of blood transfusion and the first in Chicago, if 
not in the U.S., to make blood cultures from living patients. 
He helped produce measles in monkeys and discovered opsonin, 
a blood substance that helps leukocytes kill infection. He pro- 
moted autopsy as a research and teaching tool and performed 
the one in 1912 which James Herrick used as basis for his 
pioneering report on coronary thrombosis. 

He and Herrick interned together at Cook County Hospital 
for 18 months beginning in April of 1888. Hektoen had been 
valedictorian of his class at the College of Physicians and 
Surgeons (later University of Illinois Medical School), Herrick 
of his at Rush. They had won their internships at County in 
competitive examinations, as was the rule in those days. Their 
friendship lasted 63 years, to Hektoen 's death in 1951. 

At County they had the good and bad experiences that went 
with working in that busy, beleaguered institution. Hektoen 
complained about rain leaking "in torrents" into the 
obstetrics ward, but he also worked under Senn and Fenger 
and finally chose pathology for his life work. In all, it was a 
heady experience. 

He and Herrick left County after 18 months feeling they 
knew more than their peers who had interned elsewhere, more 
even than veterans — "old fogies" — who knew so little about 
bacteria, asepsis and the like. "Bright young men of promise" 
in their own eyes, Herrick wrote, in the eyes of others they 
may have been "conceited upstarts." 

Hektoen joined Rush for a year as curator of its anatomy 
museum and lecturer in pathological anatomy and histology. 
In 1890 he became Chicago's first coroner's physician, lend- 
ing credibility to that essentially political office. During the 
1890s, he served also at his alma mater, the College of Physi- 
cians and Surgeons, and at Presbyterian, St. Luke's and 
County hospitals. In 10 years he published 30 papers. In the 
next 40 years, he published 270, winning for himself dozens of 
followers. 

In 1902 he rejoined Rush and was, in addition, made head 
of the Memorial (later McCormick and yet later Hektoen) In- 



88 GOOD MEDICINE 

stitute for Infectious Diseases, and in 1904 became founding 
editor of The Journal of Infectious Diseases. In this capacity he 
became an expert, said Herrick, "at eUminating unnecessary 
words." 

He held the Rush and McCormick Institute positions for 
more than 30 years. It almost was far less than that. Not long 
after he took them, he had an offer to teach at the University of 
Pennsylvania, at one of the nation's premier medical schools, 
but turned it down out of loyalty to Chicago. 

The son of Norwegian Lutheran immigrants who became 
Wisconsin farmers, Hektoen had chosen medicine over 
theology. In his own life he combined intensity that sometimes 
flared into harshness with humility and a prankster's wit. "As 
a rule he was calm," Herrick wrote. But at least once he did 
not hold back and coauthored a book review that offended a 
Rush or university personage and almost cost him his job. The 
day and his job were saved when he apologized and showed 
that he hadn't written the offensive part. 

Medical writer and Rush alumnus Dr. Morris Fishbein said 
Hektoen never showed pride except during a golf game when 
he sank a long putt. His pranksterism reportedly extended to 
the overnight feminization of a billboard bull across Harrison 
Street from County Hospital. Once he stationed an organ 
grinder on the sidewalk outside fellow pathologist Dr. E. R. 
LeCount's laboratory, where the man performed until paid to 
leave. To a prim colleague, he gave as a present a book dating 
from Elizabethan times using earthy Elizabethan language for 
body parts. 

These were apparently part of his campaign against an over- 
hostile response to life's problems. Eventually, he learned to 
face life "with astonishing stoicism" and used his gift of 
humor to help others over hard spots. "But you don't itch!" 
he wrote Herrick in 1950, after Herrick had listed his many 
physical complaints in a note. The remark, like the man, was 
"laconic," noted Herrick the classicist — and yet "not only 
Spartan but Scandinavian" in its essence. 

James Bryan Herrick was a suitable companion for Hek- 
toen. He is known for two of the most famous achievements by 



Clinical Observations 89 

the Rush-Presbyterian-University of Chicago staff in these 
years, the descriptions of coronary disease and of sickle-cell 
anemia — two otherwise unrelated pathologies. 

He presented his sickle-cell discoveries in an article in 
November of 1910 in The Archives of Internal Medicine, where he 
described a patient of his and of Dr. Ernest Irons — a 20-year- 
old black man from Grenada, West Indies, who had been in 
the U.S. only three months. He had a chill, fever and head- 
ache and suffered from weakness and dizziness. His tongue 
was coated. He bore syphilis-like scars and had an enlarged 
heart with a "soft systolic murmur." The Wasserman test, for 
diagnosing syphilis, was negative. In the patient's blood, Her- 
rick made "unusual findings." 

Red corpuscles viewed under the microscope were of very 
irregular shape; many were thin, elongated, sickle-shaped and 
crescent-shaped. No parasites were found to account for any of 
this. The treatment was rest, good food and doses of syrup of 
iodide of iron. After four weeks the patient felt much better; 
some "sickling" remained, but it was not as noticeable. The 
ailment described here for the first time is what is now called 
sickle-cell anemia. 

Others later identified the disease as inherited and chronic, 
chiefly among blacks. Pauling and others described the 
hemoglobin responsible for the condition. But Herrick's was 
the original description. 

Herrick foreshadowed his second great discovery, a nuanced 
description of coronary artery thrombosis, in 1910 and 1911. But 
his 1912 article in The Journal of the American Medical Association is 
considered the first recognition of the disabling blockage of blood 
to the heart muscles known as myocardial infarction, or coronary 
thrombosis. 

The coronary thrombosis had been, described in the 1840s; 
most doctors thought it was inevitably fatal. But Herrick 
distinguished among occlusions (artery blockages) and thus ar- 
rived at a more hopeful outlook. Manifestations vary greatly, 
he said. He identified sufferers in whom the pain is great and 
symptoms recognizable, for whom the attack is usually fatal 
but not always and not immediately. 



90 GOOD MEDICINE 

He warned against mistaking thrombosis for gall bladder 
disease, pancreatitis, hernia or other diseases and expressed 
his hope for development of a procedure of achieving adequate 
blood supply "through friendly neighboring vessels," which 
sounds a lot like bypass surgery. He showed that many victims 
can survive a heart attack and live useful lives if treated. 

When Herrick read the 1912 paper before The Association 
of American Physicians, it "fell like a dud." But he "ham- 
mered away" at the topic in various forums for six years, until 
in 1918 he read another paper on the subject to the same 
group, and "the scales fell away from their eyes. . . . Physi- 
cians in America and later in Europe woke up and coronary 
thrombosis came into its own," he said. Herrick also, with Dr. 
Fred Smith, was the first to show a pattern of coronary 
blockage on an electrocardiograph machine. 

After the 1912 article, he had to fight the term "heart 
specialist" for himself, because of its implication that he knew 
about nothing else. He knew about a lot else. Throughout his 
career, he dealt with all manner of medical problems. As an 
intern in 1888, he wrote about hemophilia, bladder rupture 
and tuberculosis. By 1954, when he died, he had written more 
than 160 articles on typhoid fever, leukemia, rheumatism, 
diabetes, pleurisy, gastric ulcer, gallstones, meningitis, 
malaria and many other subjects. Three articles he wrote for 
Sir William Osier's 1909 book. Modern Medicine, were about 
kidney disease. 

As a clinician his experience was wide. He told an assistant 
how as a "heart specialist" he had that day discovered 
leukemia and several other ailments in four of six supposed 
heart patients. He was the first practitioner in Chicago to use 
the new diphtheria toxoid. Surgeons Senn, Murphy and 
Fenger relied on him, as later did Dean Lewis, Arthur Bevan 
and Vernon David. He was consultant of choice to the surgical 
giants of his day. 

He possessed and cultivated what University of Chicago 
cardiologist Dr. Emmett Bay called "an absolute sense of 
touch," like the sense of pitch that a musician might have. "I 



Clinical Observations 91 

would put a needle in there if I were you," he once said, point- 
ing to the back of a patient whose problem had puzzled the 
Presbyterian Hospital staff for two weeks. They did as he 
directed and drew forth pus that hadn't shown on the X-ray. 

He had an unusual ability to elicit a patient's history by 
questioning. Dr. Paul S. Rhoads, a Rush graduate and intern 
under Dr. George Dick at Presbyterian Hospital in the middle 
twenties, did an inadequate writeup of a patient for whom 
Herrick was called in to consult. Herrick sat down at bedside, 
questioned the patient and rewrote the history while Rhoads 
stood suffering in silence. Dick gave Rhoads a wink to show he 
knew what was happening. Herrick said not a word to the hap- 
less intern, who learned this and other lessons well enough to 
be named distinguished Rush alumnus in 1979. 

Herrick was a modest, almost shy man, careful about his 
appearance including the condition of his goatee. He and the 
husky, broad shouldered Dean Lewis were great friends. 
Lewis, for whom it was an especially proud moment when 
baseball star Ty Cobb consulted him about a sprained knee, 
took him to football games, where he explained things to the 
athletically untutored Herrick. 

Among other giants was Dr. Frank Billings, whose focal in- 
fection theory remained a staple of medical practice for 
decades, though it was much abused and finally discarded. 
The theory was that chronic infection in one part of the body 
sometimes showed in other parts. Thus arthritis sometimes 
stemmed from infection in teeth or tonsils. Some practitioners 
carried the idea to extremes, needlessly removing teeth or ton- 
sils. Billings also wrote extensively on arthritis and changes in 
the spinal cord during illness from pernicious anemia. 

But he is known best as a fund raiser without equal — for 
Northwestern Medical School, The University of Chicago, 
Rush Medical College, Presbyterian Hospital, the McCor- 
mick Institute, Provident Hospital and probably a dozen other 
causes. In his philanthropic efforts he did not hesitate to call on 
relatives who walked in the first ranks of Chicago entre- 
preneurs. One of them, his uncle, Albert Merritt Billings, 



92 GOOD MEDICINE 

headed People's Gas Light and Coke Company for many 
years. The University of Chicago hospital was named after 
him. 

Born on a Wisconsin farm in 1854, Frank Billings attended 
Chicago Medical College and interned at County Hospital. 
He returned to teach at his alma mater, left for European 
studies, returned to teach again at Chicago Medical College 
(now Northwestern University Medical School), and in 1898 
joined Rush, where he became dean of the faculty. Shrewd 
and able to "pull wires," he had a "genius for leadership" 
which enabled him, in Herrick's phrase, to plan and "push 
plans through." 

He organized doctors to form a professional office complex 
on the 14th floor of the People's Gas Building on Michigan 
Avenue. Many Presbyterian and St. Luke's Hospital staff 
members, years before the merger of these two institutions, of- 
ficed there. The 14th floor became the place to go for treat- 
ment by the city's medical elite. 

A genial, sympathetic man who "radiated the impression of 
power," Billings had an infectious sense of humor. Herrick 
called him "a rare personality" who "attracted people by his 
big frame, his strong face, and his evident sincerity of 
purpose." He was "forceful, often aggressive, intensely 
human, with strong likes and dislikes, even inconsistencies" 
but "did not cringe or fawn before wealth, title or social posi- 
tion, nor did he shrink from poverty or ignorance." Among 
his trainees he counted some of the city's leading medical and 
surgical lights, including Doctors Ernest Irons, Joseph Miller, 
Joseph Capps and Wilber Post. 

He died in 1932, widely mourned. His colleagues Herrick, 
Post and Vernon David praised the "moral factor" that domi- 
nated his activities, drew others to him, inspired them to do 
their best and "created high morale in the institutions where 
he worked." 

Another notable performer was Dr. Frederick Tice, a Rush 
alumnus who for years was Chicago's leading authority on 
tuberculosis. He was medical superintendent at County Hos- 
pital, taught at the College of Physicians and Surgeons and at 



Clinical Observations 93 

Rush and opened one of the city's first tuberculosis clinics. 
Later he became president of the Municipal Tuberculosis 
Sanitarium. 

Tice was also notable for the 10- volume, loose-leaf encyclo- 
pedia of medical practice which he started in 1915. Its special 
value lay in the way it could be regularly brought up to date by 
publication of new loose-leaf pages. 

Dr. Arthur Dean Bevan, Rush teacher and Presbyterian 
staff member, was a major figure especially because of his 
work on the 1910 study of U.S. medical education known as 
the Flexner Report. As a surgeon, Bevan pioneered the use of 
ethylene-oxygen as an anesthetic, an area in which he and his 
friend Arno Luckhardt did research. 

Bevan 's connection with the Flexner Report in essence 
began in 1905, when the American Medical Association's 
Council on Medical Education, which Bevan chaired, singled 
out five states ("especially rotten spots") responsible for 
"most of the [country's] bad medical instruction." One of 
them was Illinois; of its 54 medical schools, at most six were 
"acceptable" to the council. 

This almost blanket condemnation led eventually to funding 
by the Carnegie Foundation in 1909 of the study by Abraham 
Flexner, an educator chosen partly because he lacked medical 
background and thus presumably would bring a fresh approach 
to the problem. Flexner' s report, published the following year, 
echoed the comments by the AMA committee that Bevan had 
headed, harshly criticizing medical education in the U.S. and 
Canada. 

This is not surprising, since Flexner was acting as unan- 
nounced surrogate for the AMA, which wanted to attack with- 
out being attacked. In Illinois only three institutions — Rush, 
Northwestern and the College of Physicians and Surgeons 
(later University of Illinois) — made the cut. Rush made it 
because of its recently raised admission standards and its 
facilities and scientific work, which Flexner rated tops in the 
state. 

Flexner had toured 155 schools, including 34 in six states 
during a one-month "meteoric dash" in April of 1909. He 



94 GOOD MEDICINE 

decided only 35 of the 155 were needed. Bevan downgraded 
the report before a Chicago audience but later endorsed it. He 
didn't admit AMA involvement in the study until 1928. 

Apart from his kind words for Rush's standards and labora- 
tories, Flexner was hard on the place, calling it "a divided 
school" whose two branches, one on the West Side, one on the 
South, did not form "an organic whole." Presbyterian 
Hospital he said was "not by any means a genuine teaching 
hospital," which may or may not have reflected Bevan 's 
thoughts about his own institutions. 

At those institutions Bevan was a hard taskmaster, training 
many surgeons, including Dallas Phemister, who later was 
head of surgery at Billings Hospital and himself trained a 
number of outstanding surgeons. Bevan "gave every man of 
promise a square deal and the opportunity to make good," in 
Herrick's words. 

Even in his 70s, Bevan remained a master surgeon, operat- 
ing with almost no bleeding. He worked fast and well and was 
a "gentle, superb and technical operator," according to Dr. 
R. Kennedy Gilchrist, who was an intern at the time. 

Dr. Bertram W. Sippy gained fame through his treatment of 
peptic ulcers, as by use of "Sippy powder," and by his quanti- 
tative analysis of a patient's gastric content. One of his great 
achievements was to teach patients how to measure and con- 
trol their own acidity. Patients would remain hospitalized for 
up to six weeks, regularly extracting material from within 
themselves for testing. 

Sippy would discuss a patient's condition with patient and 
numerous staff present for as long as 45 minutes, so absorbed 
was he in his subject. He was well liked anyhow, in spite of his 
"garrulity, needless repetition of medical truisms and lack of 
promptness," said Herrick. 

THE INSTITUTIONS 

Dr. Francis Straus recalls having his adenoids removed at 
Presbyterian Hospital in 1901 when he was six years old. 
Arriving by train from his suburban home, he was taken to a 



Clinical Observations 95 

second-floor corner room in the Jones Building where coals 
burned in an open fireplace. From there he was taken to the 
operating room, where he inhaled ethyl bromide as an anes- 
thetic. It was considered potentially fatal at the time, he learned 
years later. The operation finished, he was taken the same day 
in a hansom cab to catch the Burlington Railroad train back 
home. 

Seven years later, Straus, who later taught at Rush and was 
on the Presbyterian staff, might have been put up in the new 
Private Pavilion adjoining Jones, built in 1908 mainly for use 
by private patients. This pavilion was built only after the 
hospital's medical board practically guaranteed its economic 
viability to the board of managers, promising that as an invest- 
ment its $300,000 cost would outperform bonds and mort- 
gages. Thus paying patients would subsidize charity patients. 

Four years later, Presbyterian built the Jane Murdock 
Memorial Building for women and children, which partly 
replaced the original Ross and Hamill wings. Its $175,000 cost 
had been willed for the purpose by the late Thomas Murdock. 
The Jones Memorial was later remodeled and expanded, so 
that by 1922 the hospital had room for 435 patients. 

The Memorial Institute for Infectious Diseases was founded 
in 1902 in memory of John Rockefeller McCormick, the son of 
Harold F. and Edith Rockefeller McCormick, who donated 
the money for it at the urging of Frank Billings after their son 
died of scarlet fever. In 1918 it was renamed the John McCor- 
mick Institute for Infectious Diseases and in 1943 renamed 
again the Hektoen Institute for Medical Research. It was at 
first quartered in the Rush laboratory building at 1743 West 
Harrison Street. 

Operated under direction of the institute was the 40-bed 
Anna W. Durand Hospital, where sufferers from diphtheria, 
scarlet fever, measles and other infectious diseases were cared 
for without charge. Durand opened in 1913 in its own building 
at Wood and Flournoy streets under Dr. George H. Weaver as 
director. A connecting institute laboratory opened in 1914 just 
north of it on Wood Street. Each building was four stories. 
The hospital also had a sun room and roof garden. 



96 GOOD MEDICINE 

Bedside instruction was given to groups of three to five 
Rush students in the Durand wards. Students wore caps and 
gowns to protect against infection. Each carefully washed his 
or her hands after touching anything in the patient's vicinity. 
The precautions were successful; no students were known to 
become infected. 

Rush faculty and students were closely associated with both 
institute and hospital. Rush provided many young men and 
women willing to work at both places, which in turn provided 
clinical material and helped Rush maintain its atmosphere of 
research. 

An example of the research was a description by Dr. Stan- 
ton A. Friedberg, Sr., in 1916 in The Journal of the American 
Medical Association of removal of tonsils as neutralizer of the 
diphtheria carrier. The carrier would infect others though not 
infected with diphtheria. Dr. Friedberg's son, Stanton A., Jr., 
also a distinguished otolaryngologist at Presbyterian and 
Presbyterian- St. Luke's hospitals, was medical staff president 
from 1964 to 1966. 

As director of the institute, Hektoen supervised and contrib- 
uted substantially to the studies of scarlet fever by Dr. George 
Dick and his wife, Gladys Henry Dick, who together found its 
cause and devised a test for susceptibility to it and an antitoxin 
for treatment of it. 

Contemporary with McCormick-Durand was the Otho S. 
A. Sprague Memorial Institute founded in 1911 by Rush 
trustee Albert A. Sprague with funds from the estate of his late 
brother Otho S. A. Sprague. The Spragues were in the whole- 
sale food business, under the company name of Sprague- 
Warner. They had already contributed to the Presbyterian 
Hospital nursing school building. 

The Sprague Institute built no buildings but supported 
research at The University of Chicago and at Rush, Presby- 
terian, Children's Memorial, St. Luke's and Cook County 
hospitals, with emphasis on discovering chemical solutions to 
medical problems. University of Chicago pathologist Dr. H. 
Gideon Wells was its first director. Like McCormick-Durand 
it became part of the 1916 plan for the university's medical 
school. 



Clinical Observations 97 

By the early twenties, half of the 20-member Sprague pro- 
fessional staff worked full time for the institute. James Herrick 
headed its advisory council, which included pathologists Hektoen 
and E. R. LeCount and internist Billings, who also headed its 
trustees. Among these were Albert A. Sprague II and Martin 
Ryerson, president of The University of Chicago board of 
trustees. 

Sprague Institute work included search for a safe anti- 
tuberculosis drug and work on rheumatism and diabetes. Bill- 
ings headed the rheumatism work in specially designated Pres- 
byterian Hospital wards. Dr. Rollin Woodyatt led the diabetes 
research. 

Sprague-sponsored work also took place at Children's 
Memorial Hospital, which was affiliated with Rush from 1910 
to 1919. Rush faculty not only supervised the teaching at 
Children's but staffed and ran the place, which had room for 
about 30 patients and a small outpatient department. Various 
additions expanded capacity to 150 patients by the early twen- 
ties, including contagious ones. In 1919 Children's transferred 
its affiliation to The University of Chicago in anticipation of 
the coming South Side medical school. 

In spite of Rush's research orientation, the college was ac- 
cused in 1917 of shirking its academic responsibilities and 
turning out mere practitioners. Rush graduates knew no more 
about current medical experimentation than would a "club- 
woman in three weeks reading for a 'paper,' " editorialized 
The University of Chicago Magazine. 

H. Gideon Wells, director of the Sprague Institute, could 
not let this pass. "Nothing could be farther from the truth," 
he responded. The emphasis at Rush was on investigation in a 
graduate school atmosphere, he said. Rush students, more- 
over, regularly published in various journals, including The 
Journal of the American Medical Association. Actually, Wells wrote, 
the usual complaint was the opposite, that Rush made its 
students investigators, not physicians. Wells said he found 
"balm" in the magazine's allegation. "Perhaps we are doing 
something to make doctors after all," he said. 

The Rush program for making doctors included "ward 
courses" for small groups of seniors three hours a day for one 



98 GOOD MEDICINE 

quarter at Presbyterian. Some students took "extramural" 
courses, not supervised by Rush faculty, at the West Side 
Hebrew Dispensary and at Alexian Brothers, St. Anthony's 
and St. Luke's hospitals. 

In general the many options for clinical work at Rush gave it 
major appeal and helped to draw medical students to The Uni- 
versity of Chicago. The pathologist LeCount, for instance, 
was doing thousands of autopsies and was a first-rate pedagog 
besides. He would ask a student to look at a piece of tissue, and 
then cover it with his hands and ask the student what he saw. If 
the student began to describe what was covered, as most did, 
he was in trouble. What LeCount wanted to hear was what the 
student saw (the hand), not what was covered. It was a test of 
hearing what was asked and no more and answering that alone. 

Presbyterian Hospital itself was controlled in medical matters 
by the Rush faculty, who staffed it. The superintendent of 
Presbyterian in the early part of the century. Dr. Henry B. 
Stehman, retired in 1906. Many of his duties fell to a former 
clerk who had developed a talent for innovation in what was then 
a new field. This was Asa Bacon, a protege of the first president 
of the hospital's board of managers. Dr. D. K. Pearsons. 

Bacon is credited with creating the concept of training 
courses for hospital administrators and running the first one in 
1907. In the same year, he founded and became first president 
of the Chicago Cook County Hospital Association. Plans for 
hospital construction that he developed in 1916, considered 
revolutionary at the time, later became common practice. 

Stehman 's successor as president of Presbyterian was Albert 
M. Day, a retired businessman who knew little about hospitals 
but did well as a fund raiser. 

The Presbyterian Hospital School of Nursing was established 
in 1903. Its nurse training had been done by the Illinois Train- 
ing School for Nurses. The first director, M. Helena McMil- 
lan, was one of only four in its 53 years. She served to 1938. 
Persuaded by her father not to pursue a doctor's career, she 
acquired a bachelor of arts degree from McGill University (far 
above nursing standards of the day) and studied at the Illinois 
Training School. 



Clinical Observations 99 

A generous, determined woman with a sense of humor, 
Miss McMillan pretty much created the Presbyterian school, 
which was one of the first to put its students on an eight-hour 
day and one of the first to charge tuition. Its course of three 
and a half years was longer than most schools, and it was affili- 
ated with a medical school. Rush, whose clinics provided good 
learning experience. Unlike many schools, its classes were held 
in the daytime and nurses lived close by. 

The first nurses' residence was a former girls' club at 277 
South Ashland Avenue, at Congress Street. After 1912 nurses 
lived at the Sprague Home, at 1750 West Congress Street, 
across from the hospital. 

Incoming Presbyterian students were told to bring four 
gingham or calico dresses and "noiseless shoes." Students 
wore a pin with "PHSN" engraved on it, not a cross, as most 
nursing students wore. The cap, which sat on the back of the 
head, was simple, without folds and tucks, and kept the 
nurse's hair out of the way. 

Early lecturers in the nursing school included Billings, Her- 
rick, Bevan, and LeCount. In 1907 obstetrics training was 
moved to the Lying-in Hospital, and pediatrics to the Jackson 
Park Baby Sanitarium. There was also pediatrics at Presby- 
terian, headed in the twenties by Dr. Clifford Grulee. 

Other clinical learning opportunities were offered by the 
Home for Destitute Crippled Children, at Washington Boule- 
vard and Paulina Street on the West Side. Rush conducted 
teaching clinics in orthopedic surgery and other subjects at the 
Home, which was a short walk away. 

Presbyterian Hospital received Chicago's first electrocardio- 
graph in 1913, 10 years after it was developed as a practical 
device for recording heart activity. It was the gift (through Dr. 
James Herrick, who used it to track coronary thrombosis) of Net- 
tie McCormick, widow of Cyrus. 

In 1921 Rush opened a five-room children's clinic at the 
Central Free Dispensary, with kindergarten-style tables and 
chairs in its waiting area. This was the first section of the 
dispensary set aside for children, though 500 children a month 
were seen there. That number was sure to rise, dispensary 



100 GOOD MEDICINE 

superintendent Gertrude Howe Britton told a reporter. 

Medicine in general in the early twenties had its own flavor 
and ambience. Its appeal to ambitious young men was limited, 
for one thing, as a Yale graduate of the time recalled in 1977. 
He is Dr. Samuel G. Taylor III, an oncologist who was direc- 
tor of the Illinois Cancer Council and helped start the Rush 
Cancer Center. 

Most of Taylor's class at Yale went on to Wall Street to 
make money. Medical schools did not require top grades. 
Once in the trenches, as it were, as when Taylor interned at 
County Hospital, one found the chief killer was pneumonia, 
which had an 80 percent mortality rate. Syphilis was common 
and treatable only in the early stages. Scarlet fever and 
erysipelas cases crowded the contagious wards. Cerebral 
damage from whooping cough and measles encephalitis were 
also common. 

A few miles to the east, at St. Luke's Hospital, Doctors 
Casey Wood and Frank Allport opened an eye, ear, nose and 
throat clinic about 1910. An outpatient division was opened in 
1917. 

In the twenties, half the St. Luke's staff had teaching 
appointments at Northwestern Medical School, the rest at the 
University of Illinois. Many St. Luke's doctors also served at 
Northwestern-affiliated Passavant Hospital. 

St. Luke's had 400 beds in 1923 and was caring for more 
than 9,800 patients a year. Costs of non-paying patients were 
covered by users of the George Smith Memorial Building. St. 
Luke's, though founded by members of the Episcopal Church, 
was "in no sense a sectarian institution" and practiced "no 
discrimination as to race or creed," according to a fund rais- 
ing brochure. The fund raising was successful. The Indiana 
Avenue building went up, and by 1930 St. Luke's had reached 
a capacity of 697 beds. 

The twenties were distinguished by yet another, more aus- 
picious St. Luke's Hospital event with the advent in 1927 of 
the annual Woman's Board fashion show, which by the mid- 
fifties was raising more than $50,000 a year and by the mid- 
eighties was raising many times that amount. 



Clinical Observations 101 

DOCTORS, NURSES, PATIENTS 

In the early thirties, there were 25 applicants for each intern- 
ship at Presbyterian Hospital. The heavy patient load was the 
main attraction, since other aspects of the assignment were 
anything but engaging. The intern was given room and board 
and had his laundry done for him but was paid nothing. He 
even bought his own uniform. Now and then he could pick up 
a few dollars for a pint of his blood. Otherwise, he was on his 
own. 

One of the "services" in which he might work for three 
months or so at a time was with Dr. George Dick of scarlet 
fever fame, who was to leave for Billings Hospital on the South 
Side in July of 1932. Dick and his wife, Gladys, had isolated 
the scarlet fever organism and produced an immunizing serum. 
He was a big quiet fellow, well over six feet tall and bald, with 
expressive eyes and a sense of humor. 

He was a very good teacher, "one of the few who really 
made one think," according to R. K. Gilchrist, one of his in- 
terns. If an intern asked him something he could have learned 
from a textbook, Dick wouldn't answer him. But if Dick 
realized the intern had looked it up first and still had a ques- 
tion, he would give the young man or woman 15 minutes of his 
time while standing in a stairwell or wherever else the question 
was asked. 

A pathologist, he taught students to "think disease," a skill 
more important in the days before laboratory tests played their 
all-important role. That is, students were to take a patient's 
history, examine, take blood counts and blood pressure and do 
urine analyses staying ever alert to identifying the problem. 

Another "service" was under the distinguished Dr. Kellogg 
Speed, former University of Chicago football star, English 
scholar and war hero. When Speed gave his course on frac- 
tures at County Hospital, guards had to be posted to make 
sure Rush students got their half of the amphitheatre seats, 
such was Speed's popularity. 

Another service was with Dr. Rollin T. Woodyatt, the 
world famous diabetes specialist. Woodyatt was the first to use 



102 GOOD MEDICINE 

insulin in Chicago and in the thirties at Presbyterian was 
teaching children as young as five years old how to give them- 
selves insulin. He and a biochemist, Dr. E. J. Witzemann, 
produced insulin at Rush. Woodyatt was a nephew of the famed 
city planner Daniel Burnham. 

Dr. Herman Kretschmer, later president of the AMA, had 
another service. Kretschmer was a shrewd diagnostician who 
gave two or three blood transfusions a day of whole, uncitrated 
resident blood which worked wonders, passing on antibodies 
and the like where they could do the most good. 

Among nurses at Presbyterian were endowed nurses, spe- 
cialists who cared for the indigent. These were widely used 
during these years, beginning with the first such endowment 
in 1917. Endowed nurses were known by the name of the per- 
son in whose honor the endowment was given. Thus there 
were Helen North Nurses, Gladys Foster Nurses, Ernest A. 
Hamill Nurses, etc. 

The floors at Presbyterian were designated by letters — A 
floor, B floor, etc. The head nurse on D floor and trainer of 
many nurses, a woman named Dessie Greek, had served dur- 
ing the Great War with the 13th Army Base Hospital, staffed 
by the Presbyterian-Rush contingent, and had not forgotten 
what she learned of military discipline. 

She kept her floor sparkling clean and enforced regulations 
to the letter unless a patient belonged to the American Legion, 
in which case special attention would be paid. She also was not 
above (or below) ordering up scrambled eggs from the diet 
kitchen for a surgeon and his resident whom she met in the 
midst of their rounds. 

Nurses and doctors then as now often married each other. 
Nurses were forbidden to marry while in training, however, 
whether doctors or anyone else, though some did and kept it 
secret. Many married once the course was complete. 

Durand Hospital was the scene of sometimes heroic efforts 
to save children choking to death from laryngeal diphtheria. 
They would be brought in at all hours, their chests heaving, 
gasping for air that could not make it past the diphtheric mem- 
brane formed in the windpipe. A big fire gong would go off at 



Clinical Observations 103 

the foot of a resident's bed on the fifth (top) floor. He would 
jump up, put on pants and slippers and hit the floor running. 

A nurse would meet him at the top of the stairs with a gown, 
cap and mask which he donned in seconds. He was with the 
patient almost immediately, slipping a rubber tube into the 
trachea, if necessary through a metal one inserted first. Nurses 
would slip in a mouth gag to keep the child from biting the 
doctor as the two engaged in their life-and-death struggle. 
Then the blocking membrane would be sucked out. R. K. 
Gilchrist, whose recollections these are, did 20 such "intuba- 
tions" in his first three weeks at Durand, where he spent three 
months. After that he lost track. 

Diagnoses in those days were made without expensive testing 
and relied heavily on the doctor's experience. When a needle in- 
serted into the chest of a moderately sick patient drew out 
"brick red fluid," for instance, the examining physician might 
spot the problem immediately as an amoebic abscess of the 
liver that had broken through the diaphragm. 

Presbyterian Hospital, being on Chicago's West Side, had 
its dealings with the crime syndicate. Al Capone's successor as 
syndicate chief, Frank Nitti, known as "The Enforcer," a lit- 
tle dark-haired man, was a patient. So was another syndicate 
member whom Dr. Ernest Irons treated, without knowing the 
man's provenance. In gratitude, the man threw a party for 
Irons and gave him a watch, which later checked out as worth 
a paltry $15. 

Dr. Vernon David operated on the syndicate's slot-machine 
chief, Eddie Vogel, under an alias — Vogel's, not David's. 
Later a syndicate lawyer sent a scrubwoman to be treated for 
skin cancer and, in Robin Hood style, paid her bill. Gilchrist 
later, knowing nothing about the man's clients, begged $200 
from him to fund a research project. 

Others gave and raised money from a different background 
— the women's auxiliaries or boards of Presbyterian and St. 
Luke's hospitals. The president of the St. Luke's Woman's 
Board from 1926 to 1944, Mrs. John W. Gary, presided at 
meetings in no-nonsense fashion. She and the other older 
members sat at a long table, she at one end and Mrs. Walter 



104 GOOD MEDICINE 

B. Wolf, who later succeeded her, at the other. The younger 
women sat along the wall. 

It was at the start of Mrs. Gary's incumbency that two 
Woman's Board members, Mrs. Hathaway Watson and Mrs. 
Frank Hibbard, suggested an annual fund raising fashion 
show. The two had seen charity fashion shows in France, one 
in Deauville and the other in Cannes. Together they decided 
that what was good for Deauville and Cannes was good for 
Chicago. The elegant, popular event became an institution. 

The first show was held at the Stevens (later Hilton) Hotel 
on October 27, 1927. Afternoon and dinner shows were held 
with a tea in between. After some years at the Stevens, shows 
were held at Orchestra Hall and, since 1945, the Medinah 
Temple. 

Mrs. Clyde E. Shorey was president of the Presbyterian 
Hospital Woman's Board in the mid-thirties (1936-1938) and 
early forties (1941-1945) and dedicated herself unstintingly to 
its success over several ensuing decades. She died in 1984 in 
her 90s. 

Those who served the St. Luke's Woman's Board in the for- 
ties and fifties included Mrs. Gordon Lang, Mrs. Eric 
Oldberg, Mrs. Robert McCormick Adams, Mrs. Charles H. 
Morse, Jr., and Mrs. Fentress Ott. Working with the board in 
its various ventures were Leo Lyons, director of St. Luke's 
Hospital from 1942 to 1956, and Cornelia Conger, its decor- 
ator, who bought all the hospital's china and decorated its 
rooms, leaning often on Woman's Board members for guidance. 

At the two hospitals during these years, including the early 
forties, several health care milestones were passed. During 
1932, for instance, the Presbyterian-Rush staff-faculty per- 
formed 75 cornea transplants. During the same year, only a 
few were done elsewhere in the U.S. 

Dr. Eric Oldberg's successful performance of brain surgery 
in 1933 was among the first done in that field. St. Luke's opened 
Chicago's first audiology service in 1937. Presbyterian offered 
such a service in the early fifties. Also in the thirties, the new 
psychiatric unit at St. Luke's was another first for a private 
hospital in the U.S. 



Clinical Observations 105 

THE TWO WARS 

The two world wars involved staffs of both hospitals. The first 
Presbyterian staff person to enter service in the first war was 
the nurse in charge of outpatient service, Alma Foerster, who 
enlisted in the fall of 1914 with the American Red Cross for 
service in Russia. She later served in Rumania and was decor- 
ated by both these countries and by the Red Cross. 

One who left shortly after her was Serbian-born Dr. John 
M. Kara, who died of typhus fever while on duty with the 
Serbian army medical corps. The epidemic in which he died 
was finally brought under control with delousing methods based 
on the findings of another Rush teacher, the medical martyr 
Dr. Howard Taylor Ricketts. 

Ricketts had died five years earlier in Mexico working on a 
cure for typhus, which he discovered was transmitted by lice. 
Hence the delousing, which in Serbia and elsewhere saved 
thousands of lives. Ricketts had already done extensive work 
on Rocky Mountain or tick fever in Idaho and on 
blastomycotic (fungus) infection of the skin. 

Foerster and Kara were the first of dozens of Rush and Pres- 
byterian personnel who went to war, almost all in medical 
service. The 13th U.S. Army Base Hospital was organized at 
Presbyterian in the fall of 1916. Dr. Frank Billings, dean of the 
Rush faculty, was its commanding officer. But Billings caught 
a near fatal pneumonia and was replaced by Dr. Arthur 
Bevan. 

Others on the staff of the 13th were Dr. Dean D. Lewis, of 
the department of surgery; Dr. Basil C. H. Harvey, professor 
of anatomy and later dean of students on the South Side 
medical campus; and Dr. Ralph C. Brown, of the department 
of medicine. The unit entered service in January of 1918 at 
Camp Jackson, Mississippi, and left for Europe in April. It 
served to the war's end in November. 

In the summer of 1917, Billings headed an American Red 
Cross mission to Russia to survey conditions there. Dr. Wilber 
Post joined him on this mission, which lasted two months. Just 
after the war. Dr. H. Gideon Wells headed a similar relief mis- 



106 GOOD MEDICINE 

sion for the U.S. Army to Rumania. Post was also part of a 
four-month relief mission to Persia in 1918 headed by University 
of Chicago President Harry P. Judson. 

Dozens of Rush faculty helped at ROTC camps. Fifteen 
Rush graduates took Navy medical commissions. Seventy of 
the Rush junior class signed as nonmedical personnel in the 
13th, and over 60 sophomores joined an ambulance corps 
organized by Captain Elbert Clark, of the department of 
anatomy. Most of these dropout volunteers later withdrew to 
stay in medical school, heeding an urgent government plea to 
do so. 

The Medical Enlisted Reserve Corps., composed of medical 
students who belonged to the Army, was formed in August of 
1917. The entire Rush-University of Chicago Medical School 
student body began studying on both campuses under military 
command, living in barracks opposite Hull Laboratories on 
the South Side and in the West Side YMCA on Monroe Street 
on the West Side. 

They wore uniforms for the few months that remained of the 
war and drilled three times a week on the former Chicago 
Cubs baseball field two blocks south of Rush. 

In all, 100 or so of the Rush-University of Chicago faculty 
served in the Medical Corps, many overseas in the hospital at 
Limoges, France. Seventy-five others served in other ways. 
Both South and West Side campuses remained open at full 
capacity. 

The St. Luke's staff formed the 14th Field Hospital together 
with the staff of Michael Reese Hospital. Dr. L. L. McArthur 
and nurse Ellen Stewart organized it, but neither could accom- 
pany it overseas. Instead, Dr. Samuel Plummer, a St. Luke's 
surgeon, and Mrs. Lynnette L. Vandervort, a nurse who later 
won a Distinguished Service Medal, headed the unit when it 
went to France. Fifty of the unit's nurses were from St. 
Luke's, 50 from Reese. Activated in the fall of 1917, it went 
first to camps in this country, where pneumonia and conta- 
gious diseases had to be fought in barracks conditions and 
without the help of sulfa and penicillin. 

The unit later paraded in New York City before sailing in 



Clinical Observations 107 

July of 1918 for Liverpool, which it reached on August 11. 
Some of its members served in Paris, others on the English 
coast in an early Elizabethan house from which they could see 
France on a clear day. The old house was loaned by its owner, 
Sir Arthur Markham, who also donated an X-ray and ambu- 
lance. Lady Markham, his wife, did most of the cooking for 
staff and patients. The house-hospital had beds for 50 and an 
operating room. More primitive conditions prevailed in 
Belgium, where some of the war wounded had to undergo am- 
putations without anesthetic, according to one account. 

In World War II, Presbyterian and St. Luke's doctors and 
nurses served again in the 13th and 14th Army hospital units, 
though not all. The Presbyterian unit began recruiting in 
1942, thanks largely to Dr. L. C. Gatewood, a veteran of the 
Presbyterian unit in the first war, who had remained in con- 
tact with the War Department. 

The 13th's doctors and nurses were recruited with ease 
almost entirely from Presbyterian. The unit offered the doctor 
a way out of being drafted, which was universally considered a 
bad way to enter the Army even by those who were willing to 
go. The Army would use doctors as it wished in any event, 
removing them from this unit as they were needed elsewhere 
— to head other units, for instance. This World War II unit 
was a general hospital, not a base hospital, as was the one in 
World War I. 

Recruiting for enlisted men was harder, but the quota was 
filled by October of 1942. Once formed, the unit met several 
nights a week on the South and West sides for drilling and lec- 
tures. In December the first cadre was inducted and sent to 
Camp Grant near Rockford, Illinois. From there they were off 
to Camp Robinson, near Little Rock. In all, the unit num- 
bered 20 or so doctors, almost 100 nurses and 350 enlisted men 
— plumbers, barbers, carpenters and the like. Among the doc- 
tors were Edwin Miller, the unit's chief of surgery, Evan Bar- 
ton, R. K. Gilchrist, Holmes Nicoll, Francis Straus and 
George Stuppy. 

Many Presbyterian nursing students joined the U.S. Cadet 
Nurse Corps during these years. The cadet program, 1943 to 



108 GOOD MEDICINE 

1948, marked the first underwriting by the federal government 
of nursing education. It was also the first time nursing classes 
were offered at Presbyterian on a racially and religiously non- 
discriminatory basis. 

The 13th hospital left Little Rock in May for the Desert 
Training Center at Spadra, California, a camp in the desert 
near Los Angeles, where they pitched tents and dug in to care 
for those injured in nearby desert maneuvers. Wooden bar- 
racks, hot water and other amenities eventually replaced the 
tents. 

In September they went to Utah, and in January of 1944 
they left on a converted Dutch liner for New Zealand, 
Australia and finally New Guinea. In New Guinea, they set up 
a general hospital 60 miles behind the lines to receive 
casualties from station hospitals. In the early weeks in this 
jungle location, dysentery and skin diseases, such as jungle 
rot, were a regular concern. 

In May of 1945, Evan Barton, who had headed the unit's 
laboratory service, was made commanding officer. In June the 
unit was off to the Philippines, in October to Japan. By 
December of 1946, when the unit was officially deactivated, 
most had gone home. 

Not all Rush-Presbyterian doctors went with the 13th. A 
group was taken from it while in Australia and sent to form the 
second and 25th portable surgical hospitals. This was even- 
tually commanded by Dr. Frederic de Peyster (later Major), a 
1940 Rush graduate. As part of the 32nd Infantry, the 25th 
saw action on a series of Pacific islands, including Okinawa, le 
Shima (where correspondent Ernie Pyle was killed by a 
sniper's bullet), and the Philippines. On September 6, 1945, 
after the Japanese surrender, the 32nd entered southern 
Japan, where de Peyster' s portable hospital group set up the 
first American hospital. Every doctor but one in the 25th was a 
Rush graduate. 

Presbyterian's doctors for the most part stayed together dur- 
ing the war, but St. Luke's did not. Some served in North 
Africa and Italy with the 14th General Hospital, setting up 
hospitals in Naples and then in France. In the one in France, 



Clinical Observations 109 

there was one nurse to every 100 patients and the staff per- 
formed 60 to 90 operations a day. 

Others, 35 of them, joined the Army Air Corps after the Army 
and Navy told Dr. Foster McMillan they weren't needed. 
McMillan finally went to Washington, where he found the Air 
Corps needed them very much. St. Luke's had two Air Corps 
units, one headed by McMillan and Dr. John Brewer, the 
other by Dr. Marvin Flannery. The first went to Denver, to 
set up Buckley Hospital, near Buckley Field. 

The other went to Amarillo, Texas, though later Brewer 
went to Amarillo too, to head the hospital there. Doctors 
Ormand Julian and Earl Merz (later head of ophthalmology at 
Northwestern) were in the Amarillo group. In general the St. 
Luke's men were split off from the original St. Luke's group as 
the Air Corps found other posts for them. 

Back on the home front at Presbyterian, nonprofessional 
volunteers were trained to help the short-handed staff, in- 
cluding a contingent of male Wilson & Company employees in 
1944. Women volunteers came from the Red Cross and from 
the ranks of the Woman's Board. Mrs. Clyde Shorey headed 
the latter group. It was the first time direct service for patients 
— taking temperatures, for instance — was performed by 
volunteers. A bright spot in the middle of the war was the be- 
quest to the hospital of $450,000 from the estate of the widow 
of Dr. Arthur Bevan. 




William Rainey Harper, 
1856-1906, founder of 
The University of Chicago. 

(Photo courtesy University of Chicago) 



E. Fletcher Ingals, M.D., 
1848-1918. 



Frank Billings, M.D., 

1854-1932, and Arthur 

Dean Be van, M.D., 

1861-1943. 





OJ 



> 

Q 




o 
o 



o 
X 



c 

O 
O 

o 
o 

O 



T3 

C 
O 
o 



PC 

PQ 




Teaching surgery, 1938. 




James B. Herrick, M.D. 
1861-1954. 



Ludvig Hektoen, M.D. 
1863-1951. 




Bertram W. Sippy, M.D. 
1866-1924. 




Nicholas Senn, M.D., conducts surgery clinic in amphitheatre of 
Rush Medical College. 



M. Helena McMillan, R.N. 

1868-1970, founder of 

Presbyterian Hospital School 

of Nursing in 1903. 





Surgical supplies room, Presbyterian Hospital, 1910. 




Children's Ward, 
Presbyterian Hospital, 
1937. 




Central Free Dispensary waiting room, 1923. 




First electrocardiogram at Rush Medical College/Presbyterian 
Hospital, 1913. 




St. Luke's Hospital operating room, 1913. 




John Benjamin Murphy, 
M.D., 1857-1916. 

(Courtesy Mercy Hospital of 
Chicago) 




St. Luke's Hospital, 1925. 



Madeleine McConnell, R.N., 
1888-1983. 





p 

FASHION-SHOW 

BENErnia 



Poster for Woman's Board 
Fashion Show in 1927. 




Fashion Show Poster, 1986. 



Postwar Revival 
1946-1955 



At Presbyterian Hospital in 1946, the mood was shaped by 
two major events of the past five years, the war just ended and 
the split with The University of Chicago. The war had been 
disruptive, of course. Doctors and nurses left. Supplies and 
services were short. The hospital functioned short-handed. 
Life went on but with a sometimes grim expectancy. At the 
same time, there was a huge, unprecedented governmental in- 
volvement in medical matters which was to make a great dif- 
ference to Presbyterian. 

The split with the university was disrupting, as was the 
simultaneous mothballing of Rush Medical College. For the 
first time in its almost 60 years, the hospital had gone it alone 
without Rush. The Presbyterian staff was adjusting to its new 
identity. 

The hospital affiliated with The University of Illinois in 
1941, the year the Chicago Medical Center District was 
created by the state legislature and given power to buy and 
clear slum land, Presbyterian and The University of Illinois 
were in the district. So were Cook County Hospital and its 



121 



1 22 GOOD MEDICINE 

affiliates, the Loyola University and Chicago Medical schools 
and some state laboratories. Presbyterian might have felt 
orphaned, but its West Side location was receiving a powerful 
boost from government. 

The Presbyterian-University of Illinois agreement preserved 
the independence of each. The hospital pledged cooperation 
with the university, which was to have access to the hospital's 
facilities. Neither institution assumed budgetary obligations 
for the other. 

Hospital appointments were to be made by hospital trustees 
after a process of nomination and approval by the university. 
This nomination process has been commonly thought to have 
given the university veto power, never exercised, over hospital 
appointments, but it didn't quite say that. 

Furthermore, the university was to appoint the hospital staff 
to its own clinical staff (would "blanket" them in, as one 
veteran put it) and was free to nominate "a limited number of 
qualified members" of its faculty to the hospital staff. 

Former Rush faculty members were to be designated "Rush 
Professors" — "to provide continuity between the old and the 
new organizations." Rush veterans understood this to cover 
not only Rush staff at the time of the agreement but also those 
who joined Presbyterian (and the university faculty) later. 

But university administrators did not agree, and when 
papers came into their offices describing newcomers as 
"Rush," they crossed out the "Rush" part. In any event the 
nomenclature was honorific and apparently a nod to the feel- 
ings of those recently bereaved of their medical college. At the 
university it denoted neither special standing nor automatic 
professorship. 

The University of Illinois, then a shadow of what it would 
become, was Presbyterian's second choice for affiliation. The 
hospital had tried Northwestern first — the city's other strong 
medical school. But Northwestern had just completed its affili- 
ation with Wesley Hospital and was not ready for another. 

First choice or not, the Illinois affiliation provided university 
appointments for the hospital faculty and made it easier to 
recruit house staff. At least half of these would eventually come 



Postwar Revival 123 

from the University of Illinois. It also helped the hospital when 
it sought research grants. 

University of Illinois students began coming immediately to 
Presbyterian. William Grove, later to spend his career at the 
university, much of it as dean of the medical school, was one of 
them. A senior student in medical school in 1942, he took 
classes at Presbyterian and was one of the first University of Il- 
linois students to take a clerkship (do third- and fourth-year 
clinical studies) at Presbyterian. 

For the most part, the university-hospital relationship went 
smoothly, in spite of what Dr. Grove later called an "uneasy" 
relationship among administrators. The uneasiness was there 
from the beginning, however more obvious it became later. 
But among medical staff and faculty there was generally coop- 
eration, even comradeship. 

Meanwhile, the war veterans returned beginning in 1946, 
greeted with a half-serious "Welcome back but not here" from 
some colleagues who saw increased competition for patients. 
Attending physicians had to start their practices over again. 
Surgeons who had not gotten board certification found places 
saved for them by Dr. Vernon David. One of these. Dr. 
Frederic de Peyster, joined David and Dr. R. Kennedy 
Gilchrist for practice in general surgery. 

Once back on the West Side, de Peyster, one of Rush's most 
recent graduates, "picked up the ball to carry Rush into the 
future," as Bill Grove saw it at the time, assuming the role of a 
"quiet but key leader" in maintaining alumni interest and 
keeping quiet pressure up for some sort of Rush revival. 

St. Luke's a few miles away was at a high point academically, 
what with University of Illinois appointments in orthopedics, 
plastic surgery, neurosurgery and the like. But these all dated 
from the thirties, which were a golden age for that institution 
(as the twenties had been for Rush Medical College). There 
had been no new appointments in 10 years. So there was a 
10-year gap in age of the staff, not to mention a modicum of 
hard feeling about those who hadn't gone to war. 

The house staff was older than had been normal. Some who 
had run field hospitals were reduced to interns when they 



124 GOOD MEDICINE 

returned. Most were married (the old rules had forbidden 
marrying during internship), but were expected to be on call 
24 hours. During his internship months in the urology depart- 
ment, Dr. Philip N. Jones was not even allowed out of the 
hospital. In the department of medicine, it was two nights on, 
one off, two weekends on, one off. 

Presbyterian was to have its postwar revival, but at St. 
Luke's disadvantages began to predominate. St. Luke's had 
patients, a solid reputation and a thriving Northwestern 
University clerkship (without full affiliation). 

But it was off the beaten path, while Presbyterian sat along- 
side the route of the new Congress (later Eisenhower) Express- 
way, which was to be fully operative in 1960. Presbyterian 
thus was to be near a gateway to downtown from three direc- 
tions. Northwestern had the same advantage north of the 
river. St. Luke's on the other hand, enjoyed no such visibility 
and accessibility, and its neighborhood was in sharp socio- 
economic decline. 

So was Presbyterian's, but again location made the differ- 
ence. Presbyterian was in the world's biggest medical district, 
while St. Luke's was isolated. St. Luke's began to slip in 
recruitment of patients, doctors and employees. 

Neither had St. Luke's suffered the trauma of disaffiliation 
from a major university, as had Presbyterian, which now, like 
a man or woman after a divorce, had to pull itself together. It 
was nothing like that at St. Luke's, where business continued 
pretty much as usual. 

Neither did St. Luke's have money sources comparable to 
Presbyterian's. The Bevan and Sprague funds, for example, 
though not university-size, nonetheless were important for 
funding research and professorships. War's end was a peak 
time for St. Luke's. The slide was coming. 

For Presbyterian it was another story. The immediate post- 
war period was a slough for Presbyterian. Full of "prominent, 
nationally known senescent doctors," as one Presbyterian 
veteran said, it was on the verge of either something great or 
something very bad. Staff had to be strengthened, weakened 
as it was by lack of new blood during the war, not to mention 
the University of Chicago split. 



Postwar Revival 125 

The board felt the same way. "The only way to make this a 
distinguished hospital," said trustee A. B. Dick, Jr., "is to get 
distinguished physicians." Presbyterian had some already. 
Dick wanted more. So did Alfred Carton, another board vet- 
eran, the lawyer for the hospital who had functioned as its 
part-time president in the thirties. 

Management consultants Booz, Allen & Hamilton were 
called in — a move unheard of for hospitals at the time. Some 
eminent professor might have been consulted, but not a com- 
mercial, nonmedical consulting firm. Booz, Allen recom- 
mended funding full-time professors. Rush (Presbyterian) was 
supposed to be a postgraduate school. Let it be one then. 

Most teaching hospitals worth their salt had full-timers. But 
Presbyterian's teachers supported themselves with their prac- 
tices and taught interns and residents in their spare time. This 
worked with James Herrick and his contemporaries, but Her- 
rick could function with little more than a microscope. Things 
had changed with the coming of the modern laboratory. World 
War II had started a revolution in academic medicine. Get 
salaried people, said Booz, Allen. 

The first of these were Dr. George M. Hass, a pathologist, 
and Dr. Douglas A. McFadyen, a biochemist, who arrived in 
January of 1946. Hass, now professor emeritus at Rush- 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center, was to exert national 
influence, training a dozen or more pathologists who later 
headed departments around the country. A great believer in 
basic research, he recorded gains in seeking out the causes of 
arteriosclerosis. 

Two years later, in January of 1948, Dr. S. Howard Arm- 
strong, Jr., came as Presbyterian's first full-time chairman of 
medicine. These were the nucleus of the new staff. Armstrong 
stood out among them as a colorful, dynamic leader, but 
neither he nor McFadyen were to remain. 

Staff veterans welcomed the developments, determined as 
they were that Rush should one day reopen. Even before the 
13th General Hospital had gone overseas, its members had 
recommended hiring new people. The hirings represented an 
important move by the board toward keeping alive hopes for a 
revived Rush Medical College. The University of Illinois rela- 



126 GOOD MEDICINE 

tionship, cordial and valuable as it was, could be no substitute 
for a new Rush risen from its limbo state. The board had funds 
which it was expected to put to just such a use. 

More would be needed, however. In April of 1950, A. B. 
Dick, Jr., was announced as chairman of a campaign to raise 
$5.5 million. It was the first general public subscription cam- 
paign in Presbyterian Hospital history. Philanthropic muscles 
were beginning to ripple. 

In December of 1951, a full-time surgeon arrived. Dr. Ed- 
ward (Ted) Beattie, from George Washington University 
medical school, in Washington, D.C. Beattie was to become, 
in September of 1954, Presbyterian's first full-time head of 
surgery. 

Beattie and Dr. Fred de Peyster had known each other as in- 
terns at Peter Bent Brigham Hospital in Boston before the 
war. When de Peyster heard Presbyterian was looking for a 
chest surgeon, he told Dr. Edwin Miller, Presbyterian's head 
of surgery, about him. Beattie, then at Brigham, couldn't 
come to Chicago right away but came after a stint at George 
Washington. 

When Beattie did come, he was greeted on his first two visits 
in Chicago fashion — once when a hospital security guard and 
doorman known as "Bill the cop" shot to stop a purse snatcher 
right in front of Presbyterian and again when there was a rob- 
bery on the floor of the Drake Hotel, where he and his wife 
were staying. 

Surgical research began under Beattie; he generally revital- 
ized the program in surgery. Once or twice when he was chair- 
man, for instance, his staff read more papers at the Forum of 
Fundamental Sciences (part of the annual meeting of the 
American College of Surgeons) than the surgical staff of the 
much bigger University of Illinois medical school. 

Beattie left in July of 1965 for Sloan-Kettering Institute in 
New York City, where he became medical director and head 
of general and thoracic surgery. He was succeeded by Ormand 
Julian, another full-timer, who was succeeded by Dr. Harry 
Southwick, a private practitioner. 

Meanwhile, in September of 1950, progress was reported by 



Postwar Revival 127 

Presbyterian researchers in another field, cardiovascular 
medicine — specifically in the search for causes of arteriosclerosis. 
This was James A. Campbell's work. Campbell had arrived in 
March of 1949 as the fourth of the full-timers, the second in 
medicine, recruited by Armstrong, who had known him at 
Harvard, as director of the new cardiovascular research labo- 
ratory. A mere 31 years old, he was destined to spend his life at 
Presbyterian and was to become the second founder of Rush 
Medical College. 

In some respects Campbell was an unlikely candidate for the 
honor. The oldest of three children of a Presbyterian minister 
in Rochelle, Illinois, 75 miles west of Chicago, he grew up 
poor but educated. He attended Knox College (class of 1939), 
a small liberal arts school in Western Illinois, on a scholarship. 

Then he passed up a scholarship to the Yale University 
School of Drama because his father blocked the move, though 
the Broadway producer Brock Pemberton reportedly had 
guaranteed the young man parts in his plays. (These later in- 
cluded the immensely successful "Harvey," in 1944.) Camp- 
bell went instead to The University of Chicago medical school. 
There is probably no one who knew the outgoing, dramatic 
Campbell in later life who would doubt that he once con- 
sidered the stage for a career. 

After two years at Chicago, 1939 to 1941, he interrupted 
medical school to spend a year working in the university's 
pathology laboratory. Then he was off to Harvard Medical 
School, where he got his M.D. in 1943. While at Cambridge, 
he met and married a young Brookline, Massachusetts, school 
teacher and recent graduate of Boston's Wheelock College, 
Elda Crichton, from Johnstown, Pennsylvania. 

He interned at the Harvard Service in Boston City Hospital, 
then worked for a year at that hospital's Thorndike Laboratory. 
In 1946 he entered the Army at Edgewood (Maryland) Arsenal, 
where he became something of an expert on mustard gas. In 
1947 he took the Harvey Cushing fellowship in cardiac medicine 
at Johns Hopkins University Medical School, working on car- 
diac catheterization under Dr. Richard Bing. In 1948 Armstrong 
recruited him for Presbyterian. 



128 GOOD MEDICINE 

At Presbyterian, Campbell set up the cardiac catheteriza- 
tion lab in the department of medicine, equipping it like a 
surgical room over the objections of the head of surgery, Dr. 
Vernon David, It was in this room that Campbell performed 
Chicago's first heart catheterization. 

He and his family lived in Lake Forest. Their next-door 
neighbors, Cyrus and Mary Adams, were known to the Arm- 
strongs. Cyrus Adams and Howard Armstrong's father had 
been friends at Princeton. Cyrus and Mary's daughter, Mary 
Adams Young, was the wife of George Young, a lawyer soon 
to be a trustee of St. Luke's Hospital. Mary Young and Elda 
Campbell became good friends, and so did their husbands. 
The friendship would prove extremely important to Presby- 
terian and St. Luke's hospitals. 

The James Campbell-Howard Armstrong relationship un- 
ravelled, however. The two disagreed philosophically on the 
role of publicly funded medical institutions, for one thing. In- 
deed, Armstrong was to leave Presbyterian eventually for 
Cook County Hospital, which he believed in and which 
Campbell didn't. A gap yawned between the two, whatever 
the cause. 

In any event, for reasons that are not clear and not clearly 
related to any disagreement he had with Armstrong, Jim 
Campbell walked away from Presbyterian less than three years 
after he arrived, leaving to be dean of the Medical School of 
Albany, New York, a part of Union College in Schenectady. 

Off to Albany he went, young and young-looking. His first 
day on the job, he was taken for a student and told not to park 
in the staff parking lot. The incident was symbolic. Albany 
was a mistake, he later told a colleague, without saying why. 
Two years after he arrived there, when Armstrong was in the 
process of leaving Presbyterian, Dr. Edwin Irons, son of the 
former Rush dean, came out to Albany with an offer from a 
search committee. Campbell jumped at it and hurried back to 
become Presbyterian Hospital's second full-time chairman of 
medicine. He was a few months short of his 36th birthday. 

At Presbyterian he instituted the weekly medical grand 
rounds, which became the best attended exercise in the cur- 



Postwar Revival 129 

riculum. He presided, quizzing interns and residents about 
patients' treatment. The sessions were full of tension, humor 
and knowledge for some, but full of trouble for others. A lot of 
students were scared to death of Jim Campbell. 

To a contemporary who had known him at Harvard, it was 
vintage Campbell, a mixture of the fascinatingly brilliant and 
the fascinatingly vindictive. Aggressive, vitriolic, a born 
debater, he used the grand rounds to weed out the mediocre 
and to educate the rest. Coming to what was essentially a com- 
munity hospital with 350 to 400 beds, he found people he 
wanted to keep and others he didn't and moved accordingly to 
shape his staff. 

Patients were sometimes amused by the experience, includ- 
ing friends of trustees. Wheeled from their rooms down to the 
A. B. Dick auditorium in the East (now Kellogg) Pavilion, 
they would listen while Campbell asked opinions from 
assembled "youngsters" (interns, etc.), pleased to be the ob- 
ject of so much attention. 

But they weren't at the receiving end. One or two surgeons 
were "not very good," and Campbell "went after them all the 
time," the same contemporary said. Jim Campbell was not 
about to suffer fools gladly. He was hard on administrators 
too. He is said to have "driven out" the first he worked under, 
made it tough on the next one, who didn't last long, and forced 
the board to a choice between him and the third. Recollections 
differ, but a prominent trustee is among those who concede it's 
possible things happened that way. 

Furthermore, he clashed with his nominal superior at the 
University of Illinois medical school, Dr. Harry Dowling, the 
chief of medicine. A full-timer like Campbell and like him a 
debater and persuader, Dowling often won the university 
faculty to his views. 

Conflict was to some extent inevitable. Campbell had the 
manner and goals of an entrepreneur. Ambitious and impa- 
tient, he was also a "medical politician" who elicited "unbe- 
lievable support" from the hospital board, in the words of a 
Presbyterian old-timer. 

Campbell began hiring other full-timers immediately, using 



130 GOOD MEDICINE 

Presbyterian's strong financial base to improve its teaching 
and research capabiUties. The first, in 1953, were Graettinger 
and Kark, followed in 1954 by Trobaugh. 

Dr. John Graettinger, also fi:'om Harvard, joined Campbell 
in medicine and worked with him in the newly reestablished 
cardiovascular lab, which he later headed. Dr. Robert Kark, 
who held the Licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians of 
London and had also trained in the Harvard Service in 
Boston, was internationally known for his treatment of renal 
(kidney and kidney-related) diseases. He introduced renal bi- 
opsies, a powerful diagnostic tool, into the cardiovascular lab. 

Dr. Frank Trobaugh, a classmate of Campbell's at Har- 
vard, came to head hematology (the study of blood and blood- 
related diseases). Trained in pathology, he had headed the 
laboratories for U.S. forces in Europe during the war before 
returning to Harvard in internal medicine. At Presbyterian he 
set up laboratories for analyzing patient's blood, urine, and 
the rest. These labs were moved into Campbell's department 
of medicine. 

Campbell and Graettinger were joined in March of 1954 by 
Dr. Joseph Muenster, who came as Presbyterian's first re- 
search fellow. He was just out of the Air Force, from St. Louis, 
and came on a two-year assignment. He was to stay for consid- 
erably longer than that, however. 

As a sort of fringe benefit, Campbell told Muenster when he 
hired him that he would introduce him to James Herrick, the 
94-year-old founder of cardiology. But the day before 
Muenster was to meet the great man, Herrick died. Herrick's 
death came fittingly, perhaps, at about the time Campbell and 
his colleagues were developing heart catheterization at Presby- 
terian, the landmark diagnostic technique for the disease Her- 
rick had first described which replaced the electrocardiograph, 
which Herrick had first used to map the disease's progress. 

A year later, Campbell hired another full-timer, this time in 
endocrinology. Dr. Theodore Schwartz. Schwartz came from 
Johns Hopkins University by way of Duke University, where 
since 1948 he had been studying under Dr. Frank Engel. 
Schwartz had taught Engel internal medicine while Engel 



Postwar Revival 131 

taught him experimental endocrinology, and the two had 
taken their board examinations at the same time. 

Schwartz arrived with his family in the summer of 1954 and 
stayed at the Campbells' Walton Street apartment on the 
city's Near North Side until he and his wife found a house in 
Evanston. The Campbells were vacationing at the time. 

Campbell had set up the endocrinology section which 
Schwartz headed with a Hartford Foundation grant. Other 
grant money followed, as one a few years later from the Na- 
tional Institutes of Health, to train cardiologists. Most of 
Presbyterian's grants came to the department of medicine. 

Now there were five full-time salaried staff — the surgeon 
Beattie and medical men Campbell, Graettinger, Trobaugh 
and Schwartz — with Muenster as a fellow. An older physician 
who worked with this new team was Dr. Richard B. Capps, 
who also had served in the Harvard unit at Boston City 
Hospital. Capps was internationally known for his work in 
liver diseases. 

Another, a part-timer, was Dr. Samuel G. Taylor III, who 
moved out of endocrinology to make room for Schwartz and 
went into oncology (the study of tumors). Taylor became the 
founder of oncology at Presbyterian. 

Not all supported the changes. Some practitioners, volun- 
teer teachers suspicious of this new breed of salaried full-time 
professors, called them "hired hands." But for these critics the 
worst was yet to come, as Campbell made changes in house- 
staff education and even in the hospital wearing apparel of 
attending physicians. 

Meanwhile, "cutting-edge" diagnostic procedures were be- 
coming available. Chief among them was cardiac catheteriza- 
tion, a much more powerful tool than the electrocardiograph, 
which up to then was the best available in Chicago. Heart 
surgery developed in tandem with the new diagnostic proce- 
dure. Cardiologists identified problems, and surgeons solved 
them. 

Graettinger and Muenster supervised postoperative man- 
agement when necessary. In this they worked closely with 
Beattie, who as chairman of surgery was Campbell's surgical 



132 GOOD MEDICINE 

counterpart, and the 20-year Presbyterian veteran, Dr. Egbert 
Fell. In 1956 Fell performed Chicago's first successful open- 
heart operation in which the heart-lung machine was used. 
This was at Cook County Hospital; a week later he did the 
second at Presbyterian Hospital. In 1957 he reported on his 
successful series of such operations (about 25) to the Chicago 
Surgical Society. The hospital's fame spread. 

Campbell had left lab work in Graettinger's and Muenster's 
hands and had turned to administration and the training of 
house staff. Presbyterian's training programs were in need of 
improvement. In August of 1954, when Graettinger arrived, 
the hospital had only four interns. 

A recruiting program was started, and the numbers of in- 
terns and residents grew rapidly. One year, seven residents 
came from Harvard Medical School. Clerkships for third-and 
fourth-year undergraduate clinical students also increased. 
University of Illinois students began to ask for Presbyterian for 
their third and fourth years. In time, well over half of Univer- 
sity of Illinois clerks were being trained at Presbyterian. 

During this time, not all the initiative was Campbell's. 
Members of the research and education committee met in 1955 
to discuss how to spend a $25,000 Sprague Institute grant. The 
group included Ernest Irons, the former Rush dean; veteran 
surgeons Vernon David and R. K. Gilchrist, and Dr. Karl 
Klicka, the hospital's superintendent, whom Campbell opposed. 
It didn't include Campbell. 

Campbell continued to attend to hospital-wide concerns, 
among which he considered none more important than provid- 
ing a single standard of care for patients. 

In Boston he had seen the best of the dual system — separate 
treatment for paying and nonpaying patients. His and Graet- 
tinger's chief at Massachusetts General Hospital, Dr. William 
B. Castle, knew his patients by name and came to see them at 
all hours, not just in the daytime. Nonetheless these patients, 
captive in their poverty, were used by doctors for clinical in- 
vestigation. 

When this happened under doctors like Castle, it was the 
reason American medicine developed rapidly between the 



Postwar Revival 133 

wars. Doctors did this sort of clinical research (and teaching) 
in places like Cook County Hospital or Presbyterian's "lower 
wards," as they were called. 

The private-patient pavilions, on the other hand — Phillips 
House at Massachusetts General in Boston, Harkness at Pres- 
byterian in New York City, Passavant in Chicago and others 
— were regarded by medical students as "dogs," because in 
these places students had to stand and watch while the attending 
physicians did the work. They much preferred public institu- 
tions, where they could do it themselves and learn to be doctors. 

Campbell decided this had to change. The double standard 
had to go because of what it meant to medical trainees (clerks, 
interns, residents) and paying patients as well as to nonpaying 
ones. 

In the old system, trainees dealt mostly with more severe 
problems which were harder to treat outside a hospital and 
with patients who, because of their poverty, were relatively 
inert consumers of health care. The patients couldn't talk back 
because they had no choice. Thus the nature of ailments 
treated and the relative lack of questioning by patients pre- 
pared the trainees for only one kind of service. 

Paying patients, on the other hand, were denied the improved 
care that stems from inquiry by trainees, who approached 
problems with a fresh eye. Every student remembers the day 
he caught something important that others had missed, Dr. 
John Graettinger observed. The atmosphere of inquiry meant 
better care for the paying patient. 

Thus all patients became teaching patients, to be assigned to 
students and studied by house staff, and nonpaying patients 
were to have senior attending doctors assigned to them. Pay- 
ing patients objected almost not at all. Instead, they welcomed 
the attentions of the eager, inquiring young learners. The 
learners relished the experience. 

Private and nonpaying patients were roomed together, 
rather than the former in the private pavilion and the latter in 
the big open wards of the Murdock Building. 

It was one of Campbell's most important contributions. In 
achieving it he was far ahead of developments that were to at- 



134 GOOD MEDICINE 

tend the coming of Medicare and Medicaid in the sixties, 
when many nonpaying patients became paying patients. Pres- 
byterian Hospital became a superb example of how a single- 
standard system could work. 

Meanwhile, Campbell made another move that affected 
medical education, a power play that worked. It had to do with 
deployment of interns and residents who traditionally were 
assigned to attending physicians — master doctors to whom 
they were apprenticed. 

Instead, in 1957 as chief of medicine, Campbell assigned 
them "geographically" to wards, where patients themselves 
were assigned according to illness or injury. This was good for 
the patients, who became more accessible to their interns and 
residents, and it was good for the interns and residents, who 
no longer had to follow the master doctors on their appointed 
rounds. 

But whether good or not for attending physicians, they did 
not appreciate the change. Some were used to being met at the 
hospital door by intern or resident, who helped them off with 
their coats, ran errands and otherwise made themselves useful. 
If the young men were late, the senior doctor would sometimes 
stand in the lobby, watch in hand, waiting. 

The change did not affect surgery, centered as it is in the 
operating room. But it represented a dramatic shift of power 
from the private-practitioner, volunteer faculty to the academi- 
cian. While the old way flattered the master doctor — "the chief 
of his own "service" — the new way tended to deflate him. 

Boston, Baltimore and New York City had made this 
change. But in Chicago and Philadelphia, two major centers, 
the best of the old died last. The system which had placed a 
student doctor at the feet of a Herrick, Woody att or Sippy 
gave way to one in which the young men became "house 
staff," still learning in a "service" but no longer tied to one 
teacher. The new system also provided for more give and take 
between teacher and student, and accepting things on the 
senior doctor's authority became less common. 

There were objections, but Campbell won out. He was in 
charge and acted with the support of the trustees, who may not 
have fully understood the changes but trusted Campbell. 



Postwar Revival 135 

Campbell then introduced a physician's uniform, the white 
coat already worn by the salaried "hired help." Some of the 
private practitioners called it a "butcher's apron," but now 
they would have to wear one while in the hospital. Accustomed 
to dressing as their affluent patients dressed, they got used to 
dressing like the full-timers. Again Campbell had to fight to 
get his way, but he did it adroitly, and in the end this change 
was also accepted. 

He had not run out of ideas, however. When some years later 
as president he had a Professional Building put up for practi- 
tioners' offices, some of the practitioners again drew the line. 
Nobody in his right mind will abandon the Loop, they argued. 
Their Michigan Avenue patients would not come to the West 
Side. But again Campbell prevailed: the Professional Building 
went up, and eventually almost the entire staff officed in it. 

Campbell did none of this in a historical vacuum. The unused 
Rush charter was still alive. The Presbyterian laboratories, 
built in times past by people who in some ways thought like 
Campbell, were much in use. Presbyterian had been a major 
teaching hospital of a major university with its own commit- 
ment to research. When Campbell had come with his plans — 
one might say his grand plan — he found an institution groan- 
ing to be reborn. He didn't invent the atmosphere of inquiry, 
but he certainly built on it. 

Though not yet chief executive, Campbell was developing 
the hospital along medical school lines, and people were begin- 
ning to notice. He enlarged the department of medicine, which 
he headed, using what money there was to pay competent 
"cronies" to head subsections and specialties. Some of the sec- 
tions and subsections, like cardiology, did well, while others 
did not. He started the concept of fellowships at Presbyterian. 

A fervent promoter of the private sector, he himself never 
practiced privately. Indeed, for a time he looked down on doc- 
tors who took money from patients. He retreated from this at- 
titude a few years later, when as president he came to respect 
the practitioner's role. But he never wavered in his belief in 
salaried people, whom he considered necessary for overseeing 
the education of interns, residents and fellows. 

He was also largely responsible for the hospital's decision at 



136 GOOD MEDICINE 

this time to stay in the city — when suburban migration was ap- 
peaHng to many a business and institution. 

Campbell during these years was a free-wheeling type who 
thrived on directness, even bluntness. When his new endocrin- 
ologist, Ted Schwartz, was investigated by a federal officer, 
Campbell yelled out of his office to Schwartz asking him if he 
were a communist. "Some guy here wants to know," he hol- 
lered. Schwartz had refused to fire a technician who was 
suspected of communist tendencies. 

When a senior physician complained about Schwartz's 
questioning of a patient during grand rounds, Campbell im- 
mediately called Schwartz in so the man could complain to his 
face. The accuser became flustered, and the matter was dropped. 

When Schwartz, new in town and lacking a personal physi- 
cian, came to work one day with sharp abdominal pains, he 
told Campbell. They decided it was appendicitis, and Camp- 
bell thought it was funny. It was as if the fly had caught up 
with the elephant, this specialist falling prey to one of the most 
common of internal ailments. 

Campbell was on a roll, and he knew it. He was having 
more fun than a long Broadway run would have given him had 
he taken up play-acting. And the best was yet to come. 



The Merger & Campbeirs 
Accession to the Presidency 
1955-1965 



When Jim Campbell moved back to Chicago in 1953, he 
resumed his regular, even daily, contact with George B. 
Young, who had become a St. Luke's Hospital trustee in the 
early fifties. Campbell found a kindred spirit in the young 
lawyer whose parents were Yale professors, his father of 
history, his mother of English. To Young, Campbell put his 
ideas about merging Presbyterian and St. Luke's hospitals. It 
was the first Young heard of it. In lawyer Young's view, 
Campbell "had a patent" on the idea. 

The two discussed it between chess games at each other's 
house or apartment. The Youngs and Campbells lived at first 
in apartments on the city's Gold Coast, a high-rent district 
north of the river and east of Michigan Avenue. Later they 
moved to Lake Forest, where the Campbells built a house on 
20 acres of land that Marshall Field III, also a St. Luke's 
trustee, had bought from the Ogden Armour estate. Both 
Young and Campbell had met Field at a party. Field had put 
Young to work for him. Eventually Young was to head Field 
Enterprises. 



137 



138 GOOD MEDICINE 

Campbell had a plan for the two hospitals that he had been 
turning over in his mind since even before the Albany assign- 
ment. Now he bent Young's ear with it night after night, push- 
ing the notion that neither hospital by itself had the "critical 
mass" (enough staff and facilities) to make the kind of institu- 
tion he envisioned. 

Another Presbyterian-St. Luke's connection was between 
St. Luke's trustee and later board president John P. Bent and 
his friend and Lake Forest neighbor, John M. Simpson, a 
Presbyterian trustee. On at least one occasion, a merger was 
discussed by Bent and Simpson. 

St. Luke's at the time consisted of five buildings, including 
the aging five-story Smith Memorial at 1439 South Michigan 
Avenue and the 20-story high-rise built in the twenties at 1440 
Indiana Avenue. In effect there were two hospitals that had to 
be connected by a third if they were to function as one. The 
third would be very costly. The huge wards of the Indiana 
Avenue building had already been divided to make more func- 
tional smaller wards or private rooms. The whole St. Luke's 
plant was crying for repairs and remodeling, all of which 
would have been expensive also. 

Presbyterian, on the other hand, was expanding at a steady 
pace. Its new nursing school had gone up in 1952 at 1743 West 
Harrison. Its new East Pavilion was planned for six stories, 
with the option for seven more, on Congress Street opposite 
the new expressway. Both institutions faced continued costs 
which were to be met mostly by philanthropic donations. 
Comparable in size and serving comparable clienteles, they 
were to be competing for the same gift dollar. 

The St. Luke's trustees discussed other merger possibilities 
— Northwestern and The University of Chicago — but con- 
tacted only Presbyterian. There was the feeling that the St. 
Luke's identity would be lost in a merger with one of the 
universities. St. Luke's might have continued on its own, in 
John Bent's opinion, raising the money for the needed con- 
necting building. The institution wasn't as bad off financially 
as some claimed, though it did lack an endowment. 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 139 

But if there were a merger, it was clear who would have to 
move. St. Luke's, run-down, needing a new building and 
isolated, would have to join Presbyterian in the soon to be 
booming Medical Center District on the West Side. 

By October of 1955, both institutions were discussing merger. 
John Bent as St. Luke's board president explained the St. Luke's 
options to the press. It could stay where it was, repairing its 
buildings, or move to a university campus or merge with another 
hospital. Norman A. Brady, Presbyterian's assistant director, in 
a separate statement confirmed a report that discussions had 
been going on since the summer of 1954. 

Discussions continued, obviously, and in a few months the 
decision was made. On February 10, 1956, the two boards 
voted to merge. On the St. Luke's side, where the move would 
be required, it was not an easy decision. The move was im- 
mensely unpopular with the medical staff, for one thing. "You 
couldn't blame them," said trustee George Young decades 
later, adding with a smile, "but we did blame them." The St. 
Luke's trustees voted two to one for merger, and then only 
after some "arm twisting" by the board's leaders. 

The move would "combine two eminent groups of doctors 
who with a strong board (could) provide Chicago and the mid- 
west with one of the country's foremost voluntary teaching 
hospitals," Ralph A. Bard, Sr., president of the Presbyterian 
board, and John Bent, the St. Luke's board president, told 
reporters. In addition, the Presbyterian connection would give 
St. Luke's a "direct" university affiliation (with the University 
of Illinois) and a new location which allowed room for expansion. 

Two months later it was official. Bard was chairman of the 
new joint board. Bent its president. A $9-million fund drive 
was announced, to increase the new Pavilion "probably to 12 
stories," thus adding 180 beds. It was time to say something 
like "Presbyterian and St. Luke's are dead. Long live Presby- 
terian-St. Luke's." But it didn't happen that way. 

Bent had received letters and telegrams from staff members 
and trustees telling him not to do it. The woman's boards and 
nursing schools didn't like it a bit. For many it was an arranged 



140 GOOD MEDICINE 

marriage, "for the good of the children" (patients), as staff 
president Dr. Andrew Thomson told the medical staff 28 years 
later. 

It was like merging U.S. Steel and Bethlehem Steel. The 
two groups were similar. They thought alike and had gone to 
the same or similar schools. Many of the doctors knew each 
other from the People's Gas Building, where Presbyterian and 
St. Luke's doctors had offices on the 14th floor. But they still 
didn't like it, and differences among them almost killed the 
merger. 

It didn't help that Presbyterian had switched to the geo- 
graphic system of assigning interns and residents (to wards), 
while St. Luke's still used the service-chief approach (assigning 
them to attending physicians), which better served the doctors' 
convenience. 

Neither did the presence of full-time staff physicians at 
Presbyterian contribute to the St. Luke's staffs sense of well- 
being. These full-timers were the ones whom some called "hired 
help" and even treated as if they were. In the competition for 
department chairmanships, furthermore, the full-timers were 
automatic winners. Thus Campbell headed medicine, George 
Hass pathology, Ted Schwartz the endocrinology section, etc. 

Some who lost out in competition for department chairs 
retired or left for other institutions — one to Northwestern and 
others to the University of Illinois or University of Chicago 
hospitals. For years after the merger, it was common to hear 
references to whether one was from Presbyterian or St. Luke's. 
Even patients got the message. Some asked to be placed in the 
"St. Luke's section," meaning the East (later Kellogg) 
Pavilion, newly built in time for the completed merger — 
rather than in Jones or other older Presbyterian buildings. 

Milder reservations were registered by the genial and 
literate veteran St. Luke's surgeon, Geza De Takats, in The 
New England Journal of Medicine shortly after the physical 
merger. In the January 21, 1960, issue, De Takats applied 
Parkinson's Law to "the merging phenomenon": work ex- 
pands to fill time available for its completion; subordinates 
multiply without increase in productivity. With institutions as 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 141 

with individuals, De Takats wrote with tongue in cheek, the 
more helpers and telephones one has, the more important one 
is. After the merger, "the money bag is full, and the adminis- 
trator looks powerful." Yet to be learned, however, was 
"whether Mr. Jones, the man on the street, gets as much good 
service as he did in the premerged situation." 

Resistance was diluted to a considerable degree through the 
medical staff presidency of Dr. George W. Stuppy, a University 
of Chicago and Presbyterian veteran, who edged the St. 
Luke's surgeon, Foster McMillan, in a 1956 election for the 
post. There was electioneering on both sides, but the choice 
was a good one. 

Stuppy was an old hand at smoothing conflicts, partly be- 
cause he had both the M.D. and Ph.D. and knew what it was 
to bridge hostile camps. He did a lot to smooth this conflict, 
among other things keeping it to himself when an overzealous 
St. Luke's trustee asked him to resign his newly won presidency. 

A World War II 13th Hospital veteran who had served 
though over draft age, Stuppy had earlier helped form the 
Chicago Arthritis Club, later called the Chicago Rheumatism 
Society. After the war he headed an arthritis clinic at Presby- 
terian. He died in July of 1986. 

The moment finally came, on June 26, 1959, when the 
doors of St. Luke's closed, 94 years after Reverend Clinton 
Locke and the members of Grace Episcopal Church had opened 
its doors in a small wooden house on State Street. The last 
patient, a Flossmoor woman, was given a corsage. Moving of 
patients had begun in February. The hospital had stopped 
admitting new patients on June 19th. 

The five buildings were for sale. During the 1960 guberna- 
torial campaign, candidate Otto Kerner said the state ought to 
buy them. He won the election, but the state didn't buy them. 
A developer announced plans for converting them to a geri- 
atric hospital. Various other uses were discussed and imple- 
mented over the years. In 1986 the two main buildings still 
stood. 

The former Smith Memorial, five stories plus a penthouse 
at 1439 South Michigan Avenue, was empty and surrounded 



142 GOOD MEDICINE 

by vacant property. The 20-story building, erected in the 
1920s at 1440 South Indiana Avenue, was a privately owned 
apartment building for the elderly and handicapped. 

The St. Luke's Woman's Board had its last meeting in Jan- 
uary of 1959, six months before the move. Its fashion show 
had been a joint venture with the Presbyterian Woman's 
Board for the three years since the legal merger. Emily Fen- 
tress Ott, the president of the newly combined Woman's 
Board, was the niece and namesake of Mrs. John W. Gary, 
president of the St. Luke's Woman's Board from 1926 to 
1944. The following year's fashion show chairman was to be 
Mrs. Herbert C. DeYoung, who remains active on the board 
today. 

The two woman's boards merged a few months later, though 
with some initial discomfort. The more church-oriented 
Presbyterian group had some adjustment to make when it began 
participating in the socially more high-powered St. Luke's ac- 
tivities. Like the doctors, however, both sides saw it through, and 
in years to come the Presbyterian- St. Luke's Woman's Board 
was to perform prodigious fund raising for the institution, in ad- 
dition to a variety of service functions. 

Among palpable benefits to the newly joined institution was 
the addition of St. Luke's surgeons to the staff mix. Joining the 
nationally renowned Beattie, who before and after the merger 
was most responsible for the institution's reputation for 
surgery, were Doctors Ormand Julian, Foster McMillan, 
Geza DeTakats, Eric Oldberg and others. 

Julian, a national pioneer in cardiovascular surgery, pro- 
moted the use of a certain type of incision in open-heart 
surgery and performed the first successful resection and graft- 
ing for aneurism. DeTakats, one of the founders of vascular 
surgery, was an authority on the role of the sympathetic ner- 
vous system in vascular disease. 

They joined Dr. Egbert Fell, a veteran Presbyterian 
surgeon who successfully performed heart surgery before the 
advent of the pump, or heart-lung machine, and was the first 
in Chicago to do so with it. Julian also performed pre-pump 
surgery, though after Fell. 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 143 

Julian succeeded Beattie as head of Presbyterian-St. Luke's 
Hospital's department of surgery in January of 1966. Later, 
Dr. William Hejna headed surgery as an associate dean (not 
chief of surgery as before) of Rush Medical College in the early 
seventies. Dr. Penfield Faber succeeded Hejna in this post 
when Hejna became dean. 

Another of the St. Luke's surgeons was Dr. Eric Oldberg, 
who in 1960 was to become president of the Chicago Board of 
Health — a position he held until 1979. Oldberg, considered a 
founder of neurosurgery in Chicago — with Dr. Percival Bailey 
of The University of Chicago, Dr. Loyal Davis of North- 
western and Dr. Adrien Verbrugghen of Presbyterian 
Hospital — headed that specialty at the University of Illinois in 
the thirties as he did at St. Luke's and at the new Presbyterian- 
St. Luke's. Oldberg died in June of 1986 at 84 after a dis- 
tinguished civic as well as professional career. 

Nursing was another problem area during the merger. It 
was another case of two rich traditions trying to meld, with 
powerful loyalties colliding — not the easiest of tasks. Symbols 
naturally meant much, as they do in any society. Thus such a 
thing as the nurse's cap became a matter of negotiation and 
even tension. 

The two nursing schools were worthy of each other. Presby- 
terian's in the late forties had multiplied college and university 
affiliations and added psychiatry and tuberculosis work to its 
disciplines. In 1952 the Presbyterian school got a new Sprague 
building, at 1743 West Harrison Street, replacing the old 
Sprague home on Congress Parkway, torn down to make 
room for the new expressway. This 300-room, 14-story struc- 
ture was renamed Schweppe- Sprague in 1960 to reflect both 
Presbyterian and St. Luke's origins. The Schweppe School for 
Nurses was part of the St. Luke's complex built in the forties. 

The master of the merger by all accounts was Dr. James 
Campbell. But its mistress was Edith Payne, who managed the 
nursing side of the union. Payne had come to St. Luke's as 
director of nursing education in June of 1953 from Phila- 
delphia Woman's Hospital. She succeeded the retiring Made- 
leine McConnell, who had held the position since 1939. Payne 



1 44 GOOD MEDICINE 

was the first St. Luke's nurse with a master's degree. Hers was 
from Columbia University. She valued nursing research, that 
is, the systematic observation and evaluation of how nurses 
performed their daily tasks. 

To this end she hired a nurse researcher and began an over- 
haul of St. Luke's training and practice. At weekly meetings 
with her faculty, she tried to make training coincide with prac- 
tice. She began a program of getting her faculty back to school. 

In September of 1956, Payne was put in charge of the school 
of nursing at the newly merging institution. She moved imme- 
diately to Presbyterian, where she was joined shortly by nurses 
Barbara Schmidt and Dorothy Jane Heidenreich and researcher 
Josephine Jones. They began at Presbyterian the methods im- 
provement work they had been doing at St. Luke's. 

Schmidt and Heidenreich, who had been developing a policy 
and procedures manucJ for St. Luke's, were given a new task at 
Presbyterian, where they evaJuated the system in use on the new- 
ly remodeled second floor of the Jones Building. The changes 
they recommended for "two Jones" were followed. 

Strengthening the St. Luke's group's hand at Presbyterian 
was the presence of Norman A. Brady, hospital administrator 
under Dr. Karl Klicka, the superintendent. Brady had done 
an administrative residency at St. Luke's and helped in work- 
simplification efforts there. Now he worked again with Payne 
and her helpers, putting observers on the floors around the 
clock. From their reports he decided what changes were in 
order — installation of ward clerks to relieve nurses of clerical 
duties, for instance, and use of an automatic envelope- 
addressing system. 

Brady also improved the central supply operation, relieving 
nurses of work such as sterilizing instruments and improving 
the system for getting drugs to the wards, so they arrived in 
patient-dose sizes rather than in big drums. 

Payne was never rattled and found something to laugh 
about in inconvenient situations. For instance, she made do 
with various temporary offices while waiting for Sylvia Melby, 
her Presbyterian counterpart, to retire. One was the first-floor 
party room at Sprague, next to a serving kitchen. Even after 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 145 

Melby's retirement, she officed for a time in the private-duty 
nurses' lounge of the new East Pavilion, during construction 
delays. Here she was joined now and then by a nurse who 
came to eat her lunch while the unflappable Payne worked at 
her desk. 

Neither did Payne quail in the face of problems connected to 
the merger. To help this along, she set up joint committees 
and a nursing council which cleared changes in both institu- 
tions before the physical merger. Thus when the physical 
merger came, practices were alike in both places. 

If one school had afternoon tea, the other got it. Presby- 
terian student government activities exceeded those at St. 
Luke's, so St. Luke's activities were strengthened. The alum- 
nae associations were integrated. By the time of physical 
merger, the two institutions were very much alike. 

Fund raising for the new institution was an immediate 
priority. The $9-million drive announced in April of 1956 was 
chaired by John Bent and insurance executive Donald R. 
McLennan, Jr. Mayor Richard J. Daley and his wife came to 
the kickoff dinner, where banker and trustee Philip R. Clarke 
was speaker. 

The mayor also came for the laying of the Pavilion corner- 
stone in the spring of 1957, along with Bent, McLennan and a 
variety of clergy in ceremonial robes. The mayor had been in 
office less than two years at the time. His appreciation of the 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's venture was clear from the start, as 
was his political support. 

The eight-story, 80-apartment Kidston residential building 
for house staff and their families had gone up in 1955. In 1959, 
the 56-room McCormick Apartments for nursing students was 
completed. Seven stories high, the building, named after 
Colonel Robert R. McCormick of the Chicago Tribune, was 
paid for in part by a $300,000 grant from the McCormick 
Foundation. This was in addition to rooms already available 
for nursing students in the Sprague (soon to be Schweppe- 
Sprague) School of Nursing Building. 

The Jelke Memorial, a $3.5-million medical science 
research building, was opened in 1960. Oleomargarine maker 



146 GOOD MEDICINE 

John F. Jelke gave $1 million to help build it. McCormick and 
Jelke were part of an $18.5-million expansion under way since 
1956. The blueprint for this expansion was provided by 
management consultants Booz, Allen & Hamilton after a 
seven-month study. 

Presbyterian-St. Luke's was hailed in news accounts as ap- 
proaching Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, John 
Hopkins University in Baltimore and Columbia-Presbyterian 
in New York City in size and services, with an expected pa- 
tient capacity of over 1 ,000 beds — almost double the 554 it had 
in 1960. Jim Campbell's "critical mass" had been achieved. 

The merger was the best thing that ever happened to the two 
medical staffs and a complete overall success, said critics and 
supporters of Campbell alike years later. 

And by common agreement, it was Campbell's doing. He 
gave the merger direction, working hard and insisting on ex- 
cellence, though making enemies along the way. He gained 
support for it from board and staff. He put the whole thing 
through. It was a triumph of personal diplomacy achieved by 
playing largely behind the scenes. That was about to change. 

The merger orchestrated, full-timers in place, geographic 
placement of house staff achieved, James A. Campbell stood 
in the late fifties as a first among equals at Presbyterian-St. 
Luke's, minister plenipotentiary without portfolio. 

He had planted the seed of the merger idea and had seen it 
grow to harvest. The institution meanwhile was being run in 
what he considered an undistinguished manner. And he was 
not alone in his thinking. 

Influential trustees like John P. Bent and A. B. Dick III 
found themselves looking askance at practices that to them 
were unbusinesslike. Staying in the black, to them an unques- 
tioned imperative, was apparently only an attractive option to 
some administrators. The medical staff did little to oppose this 
view. Doctors sometimes proposed buying equipment, for in- 
stance, without due regard for its economic feasibility. 

Indeed, those were simpler days, and hospital business was 
conducted in near hip-pocket fashion. Room rates would be 
raised on a show of hands by the medical staff at the University 
Club after a presentation by the hospital director. 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 147 

The solution was to put a businessman in charge. Herbert 
Sedwick, a Commonweakh Edison retiree, became executive 
vice president in 1957, general manager in 1959, chairman of 
the executive committee in 1960 and life trustee and president 
in 1963 after two others had had short, unhappy terms as 
president of the merged institution. 

Sedwick's dollars-and-cents approach was what the trustees, 
if not the doctors, ordered, though some of the latter came to 
endorse profitability too. He "put the organization on its 
feet," said one doctor. To John Bent he was "a pillar of 
strength" for the institution. One of his early moves, however 
— separating nursing education from nursing service — did not 
set well with some staff. It was a classic mistake to split the 
two, according to a close Campbell associate, and indeed 
Campbell later reversed the move. 

Meanwhile, Campbell wanted the job. If he asked himself 
why he shouldn't have it — and there is no evidence he did — he 
would have come up with no good answers. Seated in the chair 
of medicine, he had already effected big changes. Seated in the 
presidency, he could do much more. 

So he "maneuvered" and "shouldered" his way, as a col- 
league put it, building his base and staying close to the board. 
Sedwick stayed long enough to do his duty as he saw it and 
then asked out. Bent filled in, and a search was announced. 
George Young, by now chairman of the board, said the board 
wanted a president such as major academic institutions 
wanted, one who would be responsible for policy and planning 
and would report directly to the board, whose representative 
he would be. Reporting to this president would be an execu- 
tive vice president, who would handle operations. 

Young knew whom he wanted, if some trustees didn't. His 
business was to educate them to the merits of James A. Camp- 
bell, on the one hand, and to keep Campbell from bolting, on 
the other. New York's Mount Sinai Hospital, the University 
of Washington and the University of Arizona were institutions 
who shared Young's opinion about Campbell. 

Offers were made. Arizona was ready to hire Graettinger, 
Trobaugh and Schwartz along with Campbell in a sort of 
medical-education power play. At one point, the three besides 



148 GOOD MEDICINE 

Campbell were getting bulletins on the half hour about the 
progress of negotiations, which apparently were not successful. 

The trustees presumably got wind of these near misses and 
possibilities, among which the Mount Sinai offer loomed big 
enough to precipitate a decision. The charade, if it was one, 
ended. Young apparently convinced the last of the doubters 
some 18 months after he'd described the man they were look- 
ing for. He and Bent, to whom Campbell had become "the 
obvious choice," drove over to the house of Bent's fellow Lake 
Forest resident and made him their offer. 

Jim and Elda Campbell and two guests were at dinner. 
"Come with us," said Young to Campbell, who followed him 
and Bent into an adjoining room. Campbell, the next presi- 
dent of Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital, accepted on the 
spot. 

Young announced it October 8, 1964. Campbell was to take 
office November 18. Norman A. Brady was to remain as ex- 
ecutive vice president. In Campbell the institution had at its 
head a nationally known working physician-scientist, what in 
athletics might be called world-class performer. 

He also was a businessman and a politician and "one of the 
toughest characters" Edward McCormick Blair, later to chair 
the board, ever met. A perfectionist, he came into office with 
tremendous imagination and big plans. His forceful approach 
was resented by some, his plans were questioned, but he is 
widely if not universally credited with achieving what he set 
out to do. 

Essential to Campbell's success was the redefined presidency 
that came out of his first year in office. The president that 
George Young had described 18 months earlier was not a chief 
executive officer. He was rather a paid chairman of the board, 
or assistant chairman, who developed policy, got board ap- 
proval for it, and interpreted it to the executive vice president, 
who headed operations. 

The executive vice president was in effect the CEO. The 
EVP whom Campbell inherited, Norman A. Brady, was used 
to this arrangement. He naturally looked on Campbell as 
Mister Outside, dealing with the board and overseeing public 



The Merger & Campbell's Accession 149 

relations and fund raising, and on himself as Mister Inside, 
running the hospital. 

Nothing could have been further from the role Campbell 
had been carving out for himself. He was used to working with 
the board. But he was equally used to making things happen in 
the hospital. Nonetheless, he was not sure of the role he 
wanted to take as president, or so it appeared to Donald Oder, 
the Arthur Andersen partner who in August of 1965 under- 
took a study of the institution's corporate structure. 

The financial executive was already reporting to Campbell, 
and the medical staff was going around Brady to do the same. 
The question was, did Campbell want to be chief executive of- 
ficer? Oder, an old hand at servicing the hospital for 
Andersen, put the question to him, and Campbell decided, 
yes, he did want to be CEO. 

In that case a second tier was called for, four vice presidents 
— one each for administration, finance, public relations and 
development, academic and mediccJ affairs. Each would report 
to Campbell as president and CEO. Oder was promptly hired as 
vice president-finance. Brady became executive vice president- 
administration, keeping his title but not its full authority. 
Richard S. Slottow remained vice president-public relations 
and development. A few months later. Dr. Mark Lepper was 
made vice president-medical and academic affairs. 

The structure remained in place into the mid-eighties, by 
which time it had become common in hospitals. But in 1966, 
when Oder came aboard, very few hospitals were so organized. 
A key element, in addition to putting Campbell in charge, was 
its combining medical and academic authority in one vice 
president, Lepper. 

In this action a philosophical point was made in addition to 
a practical one, namely that patient care and teaching went 
together. Patient care personnel were teachers, and vice versa. 
The medical-school character of the institution, yet to be fully 
realized, served the hospital. There was to be education for the 
sake of patient care and research for the sake of education. 
Thus was organized the medical-academic institution that 
within a decade was to blossom as fruitful in its own right. 




James A. Campbell, M.D., 
1917-1983. 

(Photo by Fabian Bachrach) 




Presbyterian Hospital, circa 1953. (Photo courtesy of Chicago 
Transit Authority) 




Aerial view of Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital in mid-1960s. 




George W. Stuppy, 
M.D., 1898-1986, first 
president of combined 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's 
Hospital medical staff. 




Edith D. Payne, R.N., 1903-1976. 




Rush Medical College library, mid-1960s. 




Grand Rounds, with James A. Campbell, M.D., presiding. 




to 

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3 






Mark H. Lepper, M.D. 




Library of Rush University. 




Lecture Hall of Rush University. 




Luther P. Christman, R.N., Ph.D., the John and Helen Kellogg 
Dean of the Rush University College of Nursing. 




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James A. Campbell, M.D., at "topping out" of Rush University 
Academic Facility, 1975. 




Donald R. Oder presided at 1984 Commencement exercises. 




Harold Byron Smith, Jr., chairman of the Trustees, John S. 
Graettinger, M.D., university marshall, at installation of Leo M. 
Henikoff, M.D., (right) as president of Rush University, in 1985. 




Rush University academic facility. 



The Second Founding of 
Rush Medical College 
1963-1983 



In March of 1963, trustees of Rush Medical College met with 
representatives of the American Medical Association to discuss 
how to make best use of Rush's assets. These totalled 
$1,677,000, including land and buildings then used by Presby- 
terian-St. Luke's Hospital. One of the options was to revive 
Rush. 

Rush was a paper tiger. The school had gone out of business 
more than 20 years earlier. Its faculty had been appointed to 
the University of Illinois medical school, where they were 
known as "Rush professors." These teachers continued to 
teach third- and fourth-year medical students (clerks) at 
Presbyterian and later Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital. A 
few were careful also to preserve Rush as a legal entity. 

Once or twice a year they met as trustees, often over lunch. 
With the help of retired investment banker and fellow trustee 
William J. Hagenah, they reviewed the endowment portfolio, 
never more than a half million dollars. Once a year they went 
through the motions, required by their charter, of appointing 
a Rush faculty, namely the staff of Presbyterian or Presby- 



161 



162 GOOD MEDICINE 

terian-St. Luke's Hospital. Thus the chairman of surgery at 
Presbyterian was not only a University of Illinois professor of 
surgery but a Rush professor as well. Through these and other 
activities, some of them formalities, the Rush charter was kept 
alive by a small group of loyalists. 

The endowment income was put to use as well. For in- 
stance, half the salary of Dr. Friedrich Dienhardt, a virologist 
who with two other researchers, one of them his wife Jean, an 
immunologist, developed a new mumps vaccine, was paid by 
Rush for several years after his arrival at Presbyterian-St. 
Luke's in 1961. With Dr. A. William Holmes, the Dienhardt 
group also worked on cancer and hepatitis, experimenting on 
small, squirrel-like monkeys called marmosets. 

The 1963 meeting with the AMA, therefore, was not an ex- 
ercise in nostalgia. The Rush trustees, headed by their chair- 
man, Dr. Frank B. Kelly, Sr., did not come to waste their time 
or that of the AMA man. Dr. W. S. Wiggins, secretary of the 
AMA's history-laden Council on Medical Education. In addi- 
tion to Kelly, there were Rush trustees Dr. Frederic A. 
de Peyster, Dr. R. K. Gilchrist and Judge Hugo M. Friend 
and former trustee Charles L. Byron. They suggested three 
possibilities. 

The Rush assets could be used to (a) start a new medical 
school or (b) enter on a more independent relationship with the 
University of Illinois or (c) set up a trust fund to aid medical 
education in general. A new school — of necessity a four-year, 
degree-granting institution — would cost $30 million to open and 
$3 million a year to operate for the first 10 years, Wiggins told 
them. 

It was enough to stop the most dedicated in his tracks. The 
trustees didn't have the money to start a new school. If they 
wanted to revive Rush, they would have to fmd an umbrella 
university. They considered three possibilities: Illinois Insti- 
tute of Technology, Roosevelt University and the University 
of Illinois. The last was an obvious choice, for reasons of prox- 
imity and familiarity. 

A few weeks after the meeting with Wiggins, three Rush 



The Second Founding 163 

trustees — Doctors Gilchrist, de Peyster and Fred O. Priest — 
presented the case for declaring Rush a second medical school 
of the University of Illinois to the dean of the university's 
medical school, Dr. Granville Bennett. Bennett said he was in- 
terested, but a few weeks later told de Peyster the outlook was 
not good. 

The response smarted. Rush had the facilities, the teachers, 
even the students, that is, third- and fourth-year students 
(clerks) from University of Illinois and other medical schools. 
It had a history of " 1 25 years [sic] of uninterrupted teaching, ' ' 
as Kelly reported to 35 or so Rush alumni a month later in 
Atlantic City. 

The Rush alumni, members of an organization founded in 
1868 and almost 3,000 strong, had a stake in reviving Rush. 
As one told de Peyster at the Atlantic City meeting, "This be- 
ing a graduate of a defunct school is not good." Indeed it was 
not, and besides, the University of Illinois was getting "a tre- 
mendous bargain" from Presbyterian-St. Luke's, paying a 
mere $60,000 a year for the clinical education of one-third or 
more of its clerks. 

"Pretty darn cheap" at the price, de Peyster commented at 
Atlantic City. Furthermore, the arrangement depended in 
part on use of the Rush-owned Senn and Rawson buildings, 
rented at a dollar a year by Presbyterian-St. Luke's hospital. 
"These are our buildings," de Peyster reminded the alumni. 

And yet though university backing was necessary, University 
of Illinois backing (incorporation, actually) would place some 
uncomfortable limits on a revived Rush. For instance, all but 
five percent of its students would have to be Illinois residents. 
Eventually Rush was to accept just such a restriction when it 
accepted state funds given to educate Illinoisans who would 
practice in Illinois, but for now it was all talk. 

Meanwhile, Rush trustees tended the flickering flame, nursed 
their modest funds and above all kept the charter from lapsing. 
Frank Kelly kept James Campbell, president of Presbyterian- 
St. Luke's from November of 1964, informed of his various 
meetings about the future of Rush. Campbell listened with in- 



164 GOOD MEDICINE 

terest but had to admit the time was not ripe for reviving Rush 
Medical College. It would soon be ripe, however, sooner than 
those hopeful Rush trustees and alumni dreamed. 

The break came in 1967, when the Illinois Board of Higher 
Education asked Campbell to do a statewide study of medical 
education. He pulled together a staff for the project: Dr. Mark 
Lepper, Dr. W. Randolph Tucker and sociologist Irene 
Turner. 

Their report issued the following year, "Education in the 
Health Field for the State of Illinois," or the Campbell 
Report, called for massive expansion of health profession 
education in Illinois and showed how expansion might be sup- 
ported in public and private schools. Moreover, it convinced 
the legislature of the need and the funding solution. In the 
summer of 1969, the legislature voted to provide state aid for 
both private and public medical schools. 

Even before this, the Rush ball had begun to roll. In 
November of 1967, the Rush trustees made what Campbell 
called a "statesmanlike and generous" offer to cede Rush 
Medical College to Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital with the 
understanding that the hospital would try to reactivate the 
college. 

Hospital Trustee Chairman A. B. Dick III formed a com- 
mittee headed by past chairman George Young to investigate 
the matter. On it were Chairman Dick, past Chairman John 
Bent, future chairmen Edward F. Blettner and Edward Mc- 
Cormick Blair, and trustees Elliott Donnelley and Arthur M. 
Wood. At the same time a national advisory council of top- 
rung medical educators was also convened by the trustees to 
consider the same question. 

The stage was set for major developments. In 1968 the 
Campbell Report was issued. In July of that year the first of a 
series of meetings took place with University of Illinois 
representatives to discuss a new relationship with a reac- 
tivated, semi-independent Rush. The proposal was in effect 
what Rush trustees had wanted in 1963, namely a separate 
identity (Rush Medical College) within the university for 
"Rush professors" and Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital. 



The Second Founding 165 

Negotiations went badly. Personalities and expectations 
clashed, communication floundered. Mutual respect was 
wanting. Rush wanted financial autonomy. Its people were 
not ready to submit to University of Illinois control, which 
they considered inadequate and ill-directed. The University of 
Illinois people were suspicious. 

The university president, David D. Henry, told his people 
to work something out, and the university's medical faculty 
approved incorporation of Presbyterian-St. Luke's with a 
revived Rush Medical College as one of several university 
schools of medicine, each with its own dean under a university 
executive dean. Presbyterian-St. Luke's-Rush would become 
a "so-called semiautonomous" school, Campbell said. But it 
wasn't clear to either side what the other meant by "semi- 
autonomous." 

Money was, not surprisingly, a major obstacle. Campbell 
wanted it from the state on a no-strings basis. But provost Lyle 
Lanier, the university's number two executive, drew the line 
there, saying that's not how state dollars were used. "There 
had to be accountability," Dr. William Grove, University of 
Illinois medical dean at the time, said years later. 

But neither Campbell nor Lepper was willing to surrender 
the paymaster's role. They wanted to pay their own depart- 
ment heads with their own money. A compromise solution was 
offered by which Presbyterian-St. Luke's would have its own 
separate account from which to pay its department heads. 

But more than a year went by without an agreement. 
George Young's committee and the national advisory group 
were at work nonetheless. By September, one issue at least was 
decided: Presbyterian-St. Luke's would merge with Rush to 
form a medical center that would include a revived Rush 
Medical College. 

"We have a new opportunity to show that medical educa- 
tion belongs in the mainstream of medical care," Campbell 
told the hospital's medical staff on September 3, 1969, the day 
the hospital trustees voted to merge with Rush. On October 
24, they signed the merger agreement, and Rush-Presbyterian- 
St. Luke's Medical Center became a legal entity. 



166 GOOD MEDICINE 

There was still time for an agreement with the university, 
which was under pressure to double its output of doctors, but 
not much time. Rush Medical College would open in two 
years. For more than 70 years it had leaned on two major 
universities. Now there was no waiting on another institution. 

A new proposal was made to the University of Illinois in 
November. This was turned down in January of 1970. In 
March the two institutions' 28-year connection was severed, 
effective the following March. "Go it alone," national ad- 
visory committee chairman Dr. Robert J. Glaser, acting presi- 
dent of Stanford University medical school, had advised the 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's trustees. And that's what they did. 

Rush Medical College reopened on September 27, 1971, 
with 98 students — 61 first-year (from 1,050 appUcants), 31 
third-year and six Ph.D. candidates. Rush became Illinois' 
seventh medical school and the nation's 108th. Yet it was not 
strictly a new school, and this qualified it for state and federal 
(matching) funds under "health manpower production" 
priorities. 

As an existing school opening new positions for students, 
Rush qualified for state aid according to the formula spelled 
out in the Campbell Report and endorsed by the legislature. 
The other six medical schools also received aid as they opened 
new positions, but none of these were starting from scratch as 
Rush was, and none received as much. 

Meanwhile, there was a changing of the guard among Rush 
Medical College trustees. Seven retired as trustees — Doctors 
Kelly, de Peyster, Gilchrist, Priest, Bertram G. Nelson and 
Robert Morse Potter and investment advisor William Hagenah. 
Other trustees of the inactive institution had retired in the 
sixties — ^Judge Hugo Friend after 26 years, Frederick C. 
Shafer, Earl Hostetter, Henry A. Gardner, Charles L. Byron, 
Dr. Vernon C. David, and Dr. Wilber E. Post. Four of the 
seven recent retirees — Kelly, Gilchrist, Potter and Hagenah 
— were elected by the medical staff to the Rush-Presbyterian- 
St. Luke's Medical Center board. 

Rush opened with a three-year program, summers included, 



The Second Founding 167 

which was not uncommon at the time; such was the urgency to 
produce doctors. Rush switched to the four-year schedule in 
1973 — a move defended by Dr. William Hejna, associate dean 
and later dean of Rush Medical College in The Journal of the 
American Medical Association, where he said the three-year pro- 
gram added few if any graduates, saved little or no money but 
made students more tired and otherwise less capable of pursu- 
ing their studies. 

The Rush admissions process recognized competence in 
nonmedical fields and ignored some traditional requirements 
that were judged nonessential. Rush accepted more women 
and more older students than the University of Illinois, for in- 
stance. Ten percent of applicants were women, but 14 percent 
of those accepted were women — this without special effort to 
attract women students. The trend continued into the mid- 
eighties, when 35 percent of Rush students were women. 

Some University of Illinois medical students transferred to 
Rush. The University of Illinois was in the midst of changes, 
and this process of transition didn't help the instructional 
situation. More important, thanks to Rush's partial subsidiza- 
tion in these early years by the state, there was no difference in 
tuition between the two institutions for Illinois residents. Be- 
sides, Presbyterian-St. Luke's clinical training for third- and 
fourth-year students (clerks) had been an attraction for 
decades. 

A medicine clerkship at Presbyterian-St. Luke's, for in- 
stance, was considered a plum in the early seventies. So was 
the surgical clerkship, depending on the specialist one served 
under. Cardiac, oncologic and ear-nose-throat (ENT) surgery 
were special attractions. Some teachers stood out for their 
eagerness to help, such as Dr. Fred de Peyster and Dr. David 
L. Roseman, who seemed to welcome the chance to increase a 
student's knowledge. 

Indeed, Presbyterian-St, Luke's Hospital had been almost 
but not quite a medical school. Half to two-thirds of University 
of Illinois third- and fourth-year students were trained there. 
Even so, Rush needed new structures — admissions and 



168 GOOD MEDICINE 

registrar's offices, basic science departments, rules for govern- 
ance, faculty contracts, and when the time came, a commence- 
ment ceremony. 

Many basic science teachers were on hand — biochemistry 
and pathology teachers, for instance. But physiology, anatomy 
and other departments had to be established. Research space 
was limited. Rush did not have an animal facility until 1976, 
for instance. A separate research center was part of 
Campbell's original plan, but it never materialized, notwith- 
standing Campbell's offer to the medical staff to put the name 
on it of any doctor who put up the money for it. 

These were growing pains in becoming a full-scale academic 
medical center. Before these problems could be addressed, 
however, there had to be a dean. Dr. Mark Lepper got the job 
almost by default. In February of 1970, the search committee 
told Lepper to contact Dr. Julius Richmond, of the State 
University of New York at Syracuse, who was also deputy 
director of Project Headstart in Washington, D. C. Lepper, 
on his way to a Caribbean vacation, wrote Richmond a note 
that through a series of mishaps was never mailed — and this 
with the calendar counting and clock ticking to a projected 
Fall, 1971 opening. 

Lepper returned from his vacation some weeks later and 
called Richmond, who of course knew nothing of the Rush 
offer. Lepper told him the news, but Richmond had already 
received an offer from Harvard Medical School which he 
could not refuse. So Lepper, Campbell's right-hand man and 
acknowledged resident philosopher, took the job. He held it 
for three and a half years until the governor of Illinois tapped 
him to head a state commission. 

There were four associate deans, one for surgery, one for 
medicine, one for biological and behavioral sciences, one for 
student and faculty affairs. Dr. William F. Hejna, who later 
succeeded Lepper as dean, was associate dean for surgical 
sciences and services. Dr. Robert W. Carton held the same 
post for medical sciences and services. Dr. Max E. Rafelson 
held it for the sciences and Dr. John S. Graettinger for student 
and faculty affairs. All four reported to Lepper, who as dean 



The Second Founding 169 

oversaw not only medical education but also patient care — 
both medical school and hospital. Department heads reported 
to the associate deans, who were also assistant vice presidents. 
It was a structure that reflected the institution's joining of 
patient care and education. 

Rush Medical College was a medical school organized for 
the benefit of a hospital, in the English manner. The hospital 
would remain no matter what happened to Rush. In it health 
professionals were educated in a patient-care, rather than a 
research, setting. Education served patient care, and research 
served education. 

These were the three legs of the stool on which academic 
health centers were said to rest — patient care, education and 
research. Campbell argued for a fourth leg, management, to 
guarantee accountability and efficiency. Around this principle 
he organized his entire administrative structure and later, to 
this end, he promoted a master's program in health systems 
management at Rush University. 

Closely linked to Campbell's emphasis on management was 
his emphasis on parity among health professions. He knew 
doctors would be 'Tirst among equals" in an academic health 
center, but he did what he could to save the rest from second- 
class status. Thus he made sure that deans of the College of 
Health Sciences and The Graduate College were made vice 
presidents and members of the management committee, as 
were their counterparts in medicine and nursing. 

These were the dean of the college of medicine, who was 
vice president for medical affairs, and the dean of the college of 
nursing, who was vice president for nursing affairs. All four of 
these dual appointments evidenced the crucial symbiosis of 
practice with education. 

Later deans of Rush Medical College included Dr. Leo M. 
Henikoff, who succeeded Dr. William Hejna in an acting 
capacity, and Dr. Robert S. Blacklow. Blacklow, who was 
dean from 1978 to 1980, is remembered for his keen interest in 
and enthusiasm for the college, including great support for the 
honor society. Alpha Omega Alpha. He also rewrote most of 
the bylaws for the college's alumni association, though not 



170 GOOD MEDICINE 

himself an alumnus. Blacklow's successor, Dr. Henry P. 
Russe, took office in February of 1981. 

With Rush Medical College reactivated, a new academic 
health center begun and a senior health university in the off- 
ing, long-term planning was in order to produce facilities to 
house them. From the planning came three phases of facilities 
development. Phases I and II were primarily to start the new 
educational programs. Phase III was primarily to modernize 
patient care facilities. In each phase, however, there was 
overlapping. 

Phase I involved adding two floors to the Jelke SouthCenter 
building for classroom space and six to the Professional 
Building; erecting a 1,500-car parking facility for visitors, pa- 
tients and staff; and expanding various other parts of the 
medical and educational plant. It was completed in 1973 at a 
cost of $23.4 million. 

In Phase II, the $24.5-million Rush University Academic 
Facility was built, and 883 parking spaces were added. The 
cost of the Academic Facility was covered by almost $15 
million in federal and state money and $10 million in privately 
given and borrowed funds. Ground was broken for it in 
November of 1973; it was dedicated in September of 1976. 
Rush's longtime supporter and sometime patient. Mayor 
Richard J. Daley, helped with the groundbreaking, symbol- 
ically pushing a wheelbarrow, as the Chicago Tribune pictured 
him the next day on its front page. 

Phase III, as we shall see, centered around a new nine-story 
patient-care facility connected to the rest of the complex. 

The Academic Facility, built to house the colleges of 
medicine, nursing and health sciences, was the flagship struc- 
ture of Rush University, which had been founded in 1972. Six 
stories high, with supports for six to eight more, it stretched 
down a narrow, busy strip of Paulina Street south of Harrison. 
Connected to the hospital over rapid transit "L" tracks, its 
concrete-block walls were partly filled with sand to block the 
noise of passing trains; its sealed joints were covered with 
sound-absorptive panels. The building had classrooms, labor- 
atories, study areas and library, all linked by walkways or cor- 



The Second Founding 171 

ridors to the hospital, Professional Building and Johnston R. 
Bowman Health Center for the Elderly. 

The Bowman Center also opened in 1976, when there were 
very few "dyed in the wool geriatricians" in the U.S., accord- 
ing to its medical director, Dr. Rhoda Pomerantz. Dr. Pomer- 
antz first came to Rush as a Presbyterian Hospital intern in 
1962 and learned to look on the institution as "always one step 
ahead" of similar places. 

In winning the Bowman Center contract, Rush competed 
successfully against seven other Chicago-area institutions, 
each of which proposed how to use a bequest by Lula 
Bowman, widow of dairy owner J. R. Bowman. Mrs. Bow- 
man had designated the money for care of the elderly. The 
Northern Trust Company, as trustee of her estate, asked for 
ideas. The Rush proposal was to care for sick elderly patients 
with the goal of restoring them to relative self-sufficiency. 

The 176-bed Bowman Center has its own board and inde- 
pendent legal existence but is managed by Rush. David W. 
Dangler, the Northern Trust officer who headed the search 
and became a Rush trustee after Bowman was established, 
chairs that board. 

The building includes some residential apartments but is 
mostly for rehabilitation of its patients, who are gotten in and 
out as soon as is consistent with their health, always v/ith a 
view to their returning home. After 10 years, in fact, three out 
of four Bowman Center patients were going home after treat- 
ment. The major challenge has been to give help at the right 
time to stroke victims and other similarly afflicted people so 
that fewer have to stay in nursing homes. In sum, Bowman is 
primarily for patients who can be restored to full or near-full 
social participation. 

Rehabilitation is more than physical and involves counseling 
both patient and family, as regards use of community services 
such as "meals on wheels." A patient spends three months at 
the most at Bowman, up to twice as much for psychiatric reha- 
bilitation as for medical. The Geriatric Assessment Program 
(GAP) involves evaluation of arrangements to be made for a 
patient and communication of the findings and rationale to the 



172 GOOD MEDICINE 

patient's family. Commitment to the patient extends past 
hospitalization, again with a view to de-institutionalizing of 
care. 

Consistent with its commitment to geriatric work, Rush 
established an Alzheimer's Disease Clinical Center in 1985. 
Within two years, Rush had been designated one of Illinois' 
two Regional Alzheimer's Disease Assistance Centers by the 
State Department of Public Health. 

Nursing in the Rush curriculum was reconstituted under 
Luther Christman, Ph.D., a nationally known nurse educator 
from Vanderbilt University, where he had been the first male 
dean of nursing in the U.S. Christman came to Rush in July of 
1972 and two months later brought from Vanderbilt Sue 
Thomas, Ph.D., soon to be Sue Thomas Hegyvary. Thomas 
was to help him in reviving nurse education at Rush, where 
there hadn't been any since the diploma (non-degree) school 
was closed in 1968, after the degree program became virtually 
obligatory. 

The Christman and Hegyvary doctorates were in sociology 
and anthropology, which says something about the state of 
nurse education at the time; nurses' doctorates were in fields 
loosely allied with nursing rather than with nursing itself. Or 
they were "content-free" degrees in education. Christman set 
to work immediately to offer doctorates in nursing as such. 
Eventually, Rush offered a doctor of nursing science degree, 
the first in the Chicago area. 

The Rush University nursing program combined education 
and practice, as the Presbyterian-St. Luke's diploma nursing 
school had done. Like the diploma school's teachers, its faculty 
were expected to practice as well as teach nursing. The pro- 
gram in this respect also imitated Rush Medical College, 
where teachers were also expected to be practitioners. The 
nursing program began in September of 1973. 

Meanwhile, Christman 's goal was to upgrade nursing to full 
professional status. The first step was to institute "primary 
nursing," what Christman would rather call use of a "phy- 
sician-nurse team" which takes responsibility for a patient 
from the time of entering the hospital. 



The Second Founding 173 

This approach was a long way from the assembly-line, task- 
oriented nursing that dominated the field between the two 
world wars. During this period, when hospitals came into 
vogue as the place to go when you were sick, nurses divided 
various functions. One handled this, another that, and pa- 
tients received all the expert attention that a new car got at an 
assembly plant. 

For the Rush patient in the 1970s, however, the nursing 
process was intended to resemble more closely a work of art. 
Nursing services were put one by one on the "primary nurs- 
ing" basis. Nurses were increasingly made responsible as pro- 
fessionals for patient care. Quality assurance was placed in the 
hands of nurses themselves, as it was for doctors. Sue Thomas 
Hegyvary led a federally financed study which gave norms for 
a self-checking process intended to put nursing as near to full 
professional status as possible. 

At the same time the use of nurse's aides declined drastically. 
This was all right with Christman, who cites the inherent lack 
of opportunity for advancement of the nurse's aide along with 
the wastefulness of using one. Superiors have to spend too 
much time giving instructions to nurse's aides. A degreed 
nurse is more cost effective, he says. 

The Rush program has been institutionalized and widely 
publicized as the "Rush Model for Nursing," which health 
care professionals have come from far and wide to observe. A 
half-hour educational film depicting the Rush Model for Nurs- 
ing has had wide distribution in health care institutions 
throughout the U.S. and overseas. 

This Rush Model covers everything about nursing at Rush 
from the presence of an all-registered-nurse staff to the system 
of compensating nurses. Primary nursing, in the hospital and 
at patients' homes, is central to it. There is a process of decen- 
tralized decisionmaking about patients' needs and centralized 
allocation of nurse personnel based on a daily gathering of 
workload information. 

Teaching and the practice of nursing are merged, as we 
have seen; nurse faculty, the best educated of the Rush nurses, 
are Rush's managers of service, teaching and research, as is 



174 GOOD MEDICINE 

the case with medical faculty. Like doctors, nurses function as 
members of a fully organized, self-governing group with its 
own officers, bylaws, etc. Quality is assessed regularly by a 
team of nurses, most of them doctoral candidates. And finally, 
each nurse is paid according to demonstrated competence; in- 
deed, no two nurses are as a matter of course paid the same 
salary, and thus financial incentives are present for each to im- 
prove herself or himself continually. 

Creating and inspiring this whole Rush program has been 
Luther Christman, who is something of a grand old man of 
nursing in the U.S., lionized and anthologized and otherwise 
praised and blamed for his outspokenness. He has blamed 
nurses for their own subprofessional plight even as he has pro- 
moted an educational and professional upgrading of nursing 
itself. A member of the Institute of Medicine of the National 
Academy of Sciences, he has been a recipient of many other 
honors in his long career. 

To attract undergraduate students in nursing and medical 
technology, Rush University has had to look to schools which, 
unlike itself, offer nontechnical undergraduate training. To 
help in this recruitment process, James Campbell established a 
network of colleges and universities to serve as feeder schools. 
Now 40 or so students a year transfer to Rush from network 
colleges in six states. The college network program thus has 
enjoyed moderate success. 

In November of 1971, Rush introduced a second network, 
of patient care institutions, to achieve a vertical integration of 
patient care among a group of independent institutions. At the 
hub of this six-county network would be Rush itself, ready to 
handle tertiary-care cases referred by the other hospitals. This 
vertical integration would thus respect the capacities of each 
institution, whether small community hospital or tertiary-care 
medical center. 

In the early seventies. Rush considered expanding its cor- 
porately owned hospital base to the northwest suburbs. But 
site approval suffered local-government delays, projected costs 
doubled, and plans were abandoned. In 1975, however, another 
opportunity arose to expand in the Far North Side of Chicago, 



The Second Founding 175 

and Rush assumed control of what became its Sheridan Road 
Hospital. 

Meanwhile, Rush was sending residents and students 
(medical, nursing and other) to network hospitals for part of 
their training. These hospitals as a result were in a position to 
recruit staff from Rush residents and students. In addition, 
Rush teacher-practitioners offered continuing education pro- 
grams in these network hospitals. 

According to Campbell's plan. Rush and its network insti- 
tutions were to serve 1.5 million people. If other Northern Il- 
linois academic health centers did the same, each forming its 
own network and assuming its "fair share" of health care for 
the poor, a half dozen such systems could handle the area's 
health problems. 

The Rush network began with four hospitals — Christ Hos- 
pital and Medical Center, Oak Lawn; Community Memorial 
General Hospital (now La Grange Memorial Hospital), La 
Grange; Swedish Covenant Hospital, Chicago; West Subur- 
ban Hospital Medical Center, Oak Park — and a clinic. By the 
mid-eighties, there were 18 hospitals. 

The clinic was Mile Square Health Center, Chicago, which 
was part of an unfolding story of James A. Campbell's applica- 
tion of his "single standard" to health care for the indigent. In 
the late 1950s, after Campbell had integrated nonpaying with 
paying patients in Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital, the 
hospital's outpatient clinic for nonpaying patients remained, a 
relic. Its name itself, the Central Free Dispensary, breathed 
Chicago medical history. But it also breathed the double 
standard. Patients sat on long wooden benches waiting their 
turn and were called up by their first names. The Dispensary 
typified poor people's experience in receiving medical care. 

Campbell as chief of medicine got it moved from its old 
quarters in the Rawson Building, diagonally across the street 
from Cook County Hospital, to the first and second floors of 
the new Jelke Building. Its name went the way of traditions no 
longer considered serviceable and, in August of 1961, it 
became the Presbyterian-St. Luke's Health Center. 

Campbell put Dr. Joyce Lashof in charge of preventive 



176 GOOD MEDICINE 

medicine at the newly named health center. He had known her 
when she was a staff physician at nearby Union Health Serv- 
ice. Lashof was later Illinois state public health director, U.S. 
Health, Education and Welfare undersecretary and dean of 
the school of public health at the University of California at 
Berkeley. Partly because of Lashof s influence, the clinic was 
modernized and its poor people's atmosphere sharply curtailed. 

Then Lashof, on loan to the Chicago Board of Health, and 
Dr. Mark Lepper, who chaired the University of Illinois' 
department of preventive medicine, headed a Board of Health 
survey of health care for poor people in the city. Lepper had 
earlier headed the Municipal Contagious Hospital, and he had 
been a senior attending physician at Presbyterian-St. Luke's 
since 1958. He was to work closely with Campbell throughout 
the sixties and seventies. 

Lepper and Lashof found huge gaps in health care in poor 
neighborhoods and recommended a massive public effort in- 
cluding setting up 24 neighborhood health centers throughout 
the city. Presbyterian-St. Luke's promptly followed through 
— the first of only two institutions to do so. In 1966 it joined a 
neighborhood organization in applying for a federal grant to 
begin a health center. This was the Mile Square Health 
Center, named after the Mile Square Federation, whose ter- 
ritory was the black ghetto community north and west of the 
hospital, bounded by Ashland and Western avenues and Kin- 
zie and Van Buren streets. The center, modeled on the recent- 
ly reorganized Presbyterian-St. Luke's Health Center, opened 
in 1967, with Lashof its medical director. 

Overall responsibility for the center was Lepper's. He had 
joined Presbyterian-St. Luke's full time in 1965 mainly 
because Campbell and he agreed on single-standard care for 
the poor and how to provide it. Interviewed by Campbell, 
newly appointed president, for the chairmanship of medicine, 
he was hired instead as executive vice president for academic 
affairs. He saw the future of medicine as one system in the 
voluntary sector, and so did Campbell. 

The concept enjoyed far from universal acceptance. Some 
believed in care for the poor primarily "to learn and experi- 



The Second Founding 177 

ment," as Lepper put it. It was "go down and do your thing, 
salve your conscience," he said. The poor "didn't dare call 
you. They didn't dare have any followup. If you weren't 
there, the next time they saw somebody else." Lepper felt used 
by County Hospital, for instance. He would make his rounds 
there, and they would say people got good care, although a 
patient's temperatures might not be recorded. 

Campbell also argued against the double standard for edu- 
cational reasons, as we have seen. He felt students should deal 
with people who will talk back to them, rather than with those 
who are captive by their poverty, who must accept whatever 
care is given them. He also argued that paying patients would 
profit by being seen by the eagerly inquiring young man or 
woman. In effect, why deprive the student doctor of paying 
patients and vice versa? 

The Mile Square Center's approach was revolutionary be- 
cause, like the Presbyterian-St. Luke's clinic, it guaranteed 
poor people the same treatment as paying patients. By now, of 
course, even the poor were paying, through Medicaid. But at 
public institutions they were still getting separate and not 
always equal care. Mile Square center patients, on the other 
hand, were sent to Presbyterian-St. Luke's if their physicians 
thought it necessary. There was no shunting them off to County 
Hospital. It was a care system that provided private practice 
continuity to "public" patients. 

Campbell, who had grave misgivings about public institu- 
tions, wouldn't have had it any other way. Thus the new 
neighborhood health center mimicked the Presbyterian-St. 
Luke's center, and Campbell's single standard philosophy was 
expanded beyond Presbyterian-St. Luke's boundaries. 

He tried to extend the concept city wide. He devised a plan 
that would permit indigent patients to use private hospitals 
throughout the city at public expense. Hospitals would each 
have taken its "fair share" of indigent patients and would 
each have offered single-standard care. The plan won accept- 
ance from private hospitals but lost out politically, because of 
feared loss of jobs at public institutions. 

Years later, in 1976, Campbell closed the Presbyterian-St. 



178 GOOD MEDICINE 

Luke's clinics as the institution's last vestige of the double 
standard. Some said he was abandoning the poor, but he ar- 
ranged for most clinic-registered patients to be accepted by 
private practitioners at Rush who agreed to forego their 
regular fees in exchange for public-aid payments. 

The patient care network of which Mile Square Health 
Center was a small part was not as successful as Campbell 
hoped. Rush received tertiary-care referrals from its hospitals 
but mostly on a doctor-to-doctor basis rather than hospital-to- 
hospital. 

The network's educational and training component worked 
fine, however. More than 3,500 students and 1,500 residents 
completed its programs, many then taking positions in net- 
work hospitals. Professional relationships developed from 
these contacts have worked to patients' benefit. 

At the end of Campbell's first decade as president, in 
November of 1974, he recalled the comment 10 years earlier 
by John Bent, former chairman and president of the institu- 
tion, that it was time for the hospital board to leave adminis- 
tration to the operating officers. This was a "most serious" 
redefinition of responsibility for management that imposed "a 
new kind of obligation," said Campbell in 1974. 

Much had happened in 10 years. The $84 million budget 
was 10 times that of 1964. The hospital staff of 647 was 50 per- 
cent higher. Hospital capacity was up slightly, to 850 beds. It 
was soon to top 1,000 beds. The department of medicine, for 
instance, had gone from 140 members in 1970 to 244 in 1972 
— a two-year leap of over 60 percent directly related to the 
revival of Rush Medical College. Many department heads had 
been recruited from outside, and many more teachers of basic 
sciences. Total faculty numbered more than 1,000. The com- 
bination of full-time and voluntary staff kept medical educa- 
tion "hand in hand" with medical practice. Research kept the 
enterprise scholarly, 

Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center had its own 
schools, its own university, its own hospital. It was dependent 
on no other institution, either for patient care or academic 
training, though it was "at the heart of a vast cooperative 
enterprise." 



77?^ Second Founding 179 

Indeed, during those early years, the glow of the enterprise 
suffused everything, partly because of the ample financial sup- 
port available. Campbell's dynamism was the key to it all. A 
true scholar-physician, he took risks to achieve his vision. 
("He gambled and won," said a critic.) Others were caught 
up in the excitement. 

Jewish and Catholic trustees were added (there already were 
a few Catholics), so that the board more adequately repre- 
sented the patient group. The additions also widened support 
for the institution, which was already considerable. Doctors in 
other institutions got the feeling that Rush had the money to 
do anything it wanted. 

The best was yet to come. In November of 1976, the trustees 
approved Campbell's proposal for a $154-million capital 
development program to assure "the future of success" at 
Rush. The centerpiece of this Phase III of facilities develop- 
ment was to be a nine-story patient care facility linked to the 
existing hospital complex. A new Cancer Treatment Center 
was also to be built, also linked to the existing complex. 

Of the $154 million, over $112 million would be targeted for 
patient-care facilities and over $10 million for academic. An 
additional $21.6 million would be sought for Rush University 
endowment, and another almost $9.6 million to support pro- 
grams, especially research. Rush management was to raise 
$79 million internally and otherwise, including some by bor- 
rowing. The rest, $75 million, would come from private 
philanthropy. 

This $75 million was ten times the goal of 20 years earlier, 
when the two hospitals had merged. Chairman Edward 
McCormick Blair and the trustee committee on philanthropy 
headed by Harold Byron Smith, Jr., pretty much agreed the 
money was there. It just had to be sought in the right way. 
Architect of the campaign was Sheldon Garber, vice president 
for philanthropy and communication and secretary of the 
trustees. 

Early soliciting preceded public announcement of the cam- 
paign, as is common with major fund raising efforts, since early 
momentum is crucial. Among early major gifts was $1 million 
pledged by Trustee Robert C. Borwell which endowed a pro- 



180 GOOD MEDICINE 

fessorship in neurology to go with directorship of the multiple 
sclerosis center. 

Another was $2 million pledged by the Woman's Board 
towards the new Cancer Treatment Center. The center was to 
be named after the Woman's Board. Other gifts followed, in- 
cluding $4.5 million from the John L. and Helen Kellogg 
Foundation for a national center for nursing excellence. By 
November 14, 1978, former President Gerald Ford was able to 
announce at a kickoff dinner that the Kellogg gift had brought 
the campaign to $38 million or "past the 50-yard line." 

Later, at a 1982 dinner celebrating completion of the cam- 
paign. Ford was invited back to announce even better news, 
that the campaign had gone $8 million over its $75 million 
goal. "In football terms," he told his audience, "that's an 
extra touchdown and two points on the conversion." 

There were 18 gifts of $1 million or more each. These totaled 
over $40 million. The campaign went over the $75 million 
mark with a major gift by Life Trustee Kenneth Montgomery. 
Medical staff members gave $5 million. 

Eight endowed chairs were established and funding was 
completed for two others, bringing the endowed-chair total to 
30. One of them was the James A. Campbell, M.D., Distin- 
guished Service Professorship of Rush University, established 
with $2 million pledged by friends. It was "probably the only 
element of the campaign of which Campbell was unaware," 
said Sheldon Garber, whose performance in the campaign re- 
ceived high praise from Blair and Smith. 

Spending the money was almost harder than raising it, how- 
ever. The new Atrium Building had trouble from the start. 
This was the 222-bed patient care and surgical wing. At $75.6 
million it was the most expensive project ever approved by the 
Illinois Health Facilities Planning Board, which had to certify 
that it was needed. Rush's application for the certificate of 
need was attacked vigorously by critics and competitors but 
was finally approved with only minor changes. 

A heavily publicized controversy developed during the 
Atrium Building's construction. Rush, on the advice of a city 
planning official, bought and closed a short city block on 



The Second Founding 181 

Paulina Street as a way to cut costs considerably. Rush acted 
with city council approval, and only after gaining the endorse- 
ment of the Medical Center District Commission. Rush made 
the purchase on November 29, 1978, for $97,500. 

On January 2, 1979, the contractor barricaded the work 
site, as is customary in such projects, closing Paulina. Two 
weeks later, a blizzard struck. Streets became impassable. In 
the general frustration, the Paulina Street closing became a 
focus for critics of Rush at two neighbor institutions. Cook 
County Hospital and the University of Illinois. 

A storm of protest and publicity ensued for months. 
Mayoral candidate Jane Byrne, riding the crest of the snow- 
storm that did most to elect her, stood by the Paulina Street 
barricades and promised, "The walls will come down." Rush 
was taken to court (not by Byrne), where it proved it had acted 
without deceiving any of the apparently aggrieved parties. 
Mayor Byrne eventually provided her own endorsement of 
sorts three years later, when she joined dignitaries on May 25, 
1982, to help dedicate the once-controversial Atrium Building. 
Hard feelings in other quarters lasted several years after the 
1979 uproar. 

The Campbell era was drawing to a close. In June of 1983, 
approaching 65, he announced he was retiring as president of 
Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center. No one had 
done as much for the reborn institution. He was the second 
founder of what had begun as Rush Medical College almost 
150 years earlier. In September he was re-elected trustee, 
appointed consulting physician and reappointed professor, 
and was chosen for an honorary degree. 

To the trustees on this occasion he spoke of the "new gener- 
ation" of civic leaders and trustees, many of them present, 
who 25 years earlier had "caught the vision" of serving 
Chicago through "bold and enterprising" leadership. Typi- 
cally, he spoke of what others had done. He was, after all, the 
man you couldn't head off as he went to hold the door. He 
urged them to remember that numbers weren't everything but 
compassion was, that everything they did was to be measured 
by the test of compassion. 



182 GOOD MEDICINE 

He ticked off issues for their attention. 

Corporate responsibility was one. How well would health 
care institutions be run? Rush had not had an operating deficit 
in his memory. The institution had generated its own working 
capital, thanks in part to how it was organized and run. 

Another issue was competition among health care institu- 
tions. "Our faith," Campbell reminded the trustees, "lies in 
the private practitioner as the backbone of the institution." 

Rush's ANCHOR Health Maintenance Organization, 
started 12 years earlier, was an example of successful competi- 
tion, anchor's membership was nearing 100,000. Camp- 
bell said he had urged the state to adopt the HMO principle 
for its medical welfare program, which he feared might revert 
to the "old dual system" of public health care for the poor 
because of cutbacks. This return to the old system would in- 
volve "enormous" financial expense and even greater loss to 
society because "class divisions" would be revived and 
"humanistic gains" would erode. It was James Campbell 
riding his single-standard horse again. 

In three months, however, James A. Campbell was dead of 
a heart attack, and the era ended not with a bang but a thud. 
At a memorial service at Fourth Presbyterian Church on 
December 7, 1983, his name was added to the Rush- 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's pantheon. During his presidency the 
institution had not only kept pace but had taken a leadership 
position. Of greatest importance was the reactivation of Rush 
Medical College and the founding of Rush University. 

The institution was caring for 30,000 people a year on an in- 
patient basis. Its total number of beds, having risen well over 
1,200, was almost half again as great as when Campbell had 
taken office. Surgery had risen from 13,500 operations a year 
to 17,500. The medical staff had doubled, the number of 
residents and fellows had tripled. The number of employees 
had tripled. Rush with its 7,500 employees had become one of 
Illinois' top 25 private employers. Its budget of $300 million 
was 15 times the 1964 budget. Its assets had sextupled to 
almost $400 million. 



The Second Founding 183 

At the memorial service, Dr. Mark Lepper was one of those 
who gave tribute. 

"Without reservation," said Lepper, "I feel that under no 
other leadership would the resources available when Jim 
Campbell entered the presidency have produced anything 
remotely approximating the current Medical Center." 

Campbell's goals, said Lepper, revolved around patients, 
"whose needs included both compassionate and technically 
excellent care." Care had to be the same for all patients, rich 
or poor, black or white. All socioeconomic and racial groups 
were to be served in a "fair share" manner, representative of 
the "entire metro-Chicago population." 

Or as Campbell had told the trustees a few months earlier, 
numbers weren't everything, and everything had to pass the 
test of compassion. 



New Leaderships New Directions 
Rush-Presbyterian-St, Luke^s 
After Campbell 



James Campbell considered the loss of a leader "a temporary 
matter," said Rush Chairman Harold Byron Smith, Jr., when 
Donald R. Oder assumed Rush's interim presidency. The 
true leader "assembles echelons of managerial and profes- 
sional skill" ready to take up where he left off. 

Smith had both Campbell and Oder in mind. Oder took 
over as acting president when Campbell left office in 
September of 1983 and remained until the following July. He 
was senior vice president and treasurer and associate professor 
in the College of Health Sciences and chairman of the Illinois 
Hospital Association. A former Arthur Andersen partner, he 
had headed several Rush projects, including the 1969 corpo- 
rate reorganization. 

He was thus in part the architect of the presidency as Camp- 
bell had filled it, namely as a physician-chief executive officer. 
The pattern thus set, the board wanted another physician 
active and respected in his field for its CEO. Given this re- 
quirement, Oder was out of the running for the presidency 
even if he did want it. But in his nine months as acting presi- 
dent, he made the most of it. 

184 



New Leadership, New Directions 185 

During that time, for instance, Rush set up its first occupa- 
tional health centers in leased downtown space and consider- 
ably expanded its Rush Home Health Services. But the project 
that most reflected Oder's talents was Chicago Technology 
Park, announced in June of 1984, a few weeks before Oder 
passed the baton to Campbell's successor. 

Chicago Technology Park was a $13.1 -million high- 
technology industrial park financed mainly by city and state 
funds as an "incubator" for small companies, a place where 
individuals or small groups of scientists would work to develop 
marketable high-tech products. It would include a three-story, 
$8-million laboratory building for use by scientists and 
businessmen. 

The park itself was 56 acres almost immediately west of the 
Medical Center District where Rush and the University of 
Illinois Medical School were neighbors not always on the 
friendliest terms. It was in part a tribute to Oder's "great skill, 
judgment, patience and humor" (cited by Chairman Smith) 
that the project was to be operated jointly by Rush and the 
University of Illinois. 

Thus passed into apparent oblivion the unseemly squabbles 
of the late seventies over Rush's certificate of need for a new 
pavilion and the much publicized closing of Paulina Street 
— not to mention the invasion by County Hospital patients 
and doctors of the Rush emergency room. Under Oder the 
sometimes tense relationships between Rush and its neighbor 
institutions improved considerably. 

Especially did he defuse the University of Illinois situation, 
which had sputtered and smoked throughout the Campbell in- 
cumbency. Oder managed to bridge the gap, making apt use 
of his skills as a listener with what an observer called a "down 
home" quality "masking an incisive mind." 

During his brief incumbency, Oder "presided over develop- 
ment of new initiatives . . . while establishing and broadening 
cooperative understanding" with other institutions, the city 
and the state. Smith said. 

Neighborhood relations also benefited from Rush's will- 
ingness to stay and invest heavily in the West Side, when as a 
private institution it could have moved. Its investment over 



186 GOOD MEDICINE 

the years of several hundred million dollars sent a message of 
stability to the area and the city. For instance, Rush was im- 
portant to redevelopment of the area south of the Eisenhower 
expressway and east of Rush to the Chicago River. Center 
Court Gardens, for instance, a group of apartments and town 
houses, was developed by trustee Charles H. Shaw on Camp- 
bell's urging. Shaw also provided for transfer to Rush, at 
Rush's discretion, of the general partnership corporation 
which he formed to develop the property. 

Rush was also active in the University Village Association, 
the neighborhood organization to its east, with its focus on 
community development, and in the West Central Association 
and West Side Project, with their thrust toward economic 
goals. Much of Rush's community involvement began in the 
sixties with start-up of the Mile Square Health Center. Oder 
maintained a strong interest in this involvement, which con- 
tinued in health fairs, health screenings and other programs of 
Rush's community relations department. More important was 
Rush's hiring of blacks and Hispanics over the years, helping 
people to start careers who otherwise would not have had the 
opportunity. 

Oder presided over the June 1984, commencement at which 
Campbell was posthumously awarded an honorary degree. A 
few weeks later, in July, Dr. Leo M. Henikoff took over as 
president praised by Chairman Smith for his "impeccable pro- 
fessional credentials and demonstrated managerial talent." 
Henikoff had been chosen after an eight-month national 
search. The curtain had fallen on the Campbell era. 

Henikoff, a pediatric cardiologist associated for many years 
with Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's, arrived from Temple Uni- 
versity in Philadelphia, where he had been vice president and 
dean of the medical school for five years. He had earlier served as 
associate and then acting dean of Rush Medical College and, 
what was to prove a particularly useful experience, as Rush's 
vice president for interinstitutional affairs with special respon- 
sibility for its patient care network. 

A University of Illinois medical school graduate, Henikoff 
had done his internship, residency and fellowship training at 



New Leadership, New Directions 187 

Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital in the sixties, with time out 
for Public Health Service work, eventually as chief of the serv- 
ice's congenital heart disease program. 

In April, 1984, when he'd been elected by the trustees, 
Henikoff called Rush "second to none" in patient care. In his 
inaugural address, he emphasized integration of academic and 
patient care functions. By November he noted the reduced 
need for the hospital setting and said the Rush System for 
Health was going to move beyond the hospital. Patient care 
was still the priority, but the patient care setting would 
change. A year later, he foresaw a "wide range of new pro- 
grams involving new technologies." 

The primacy of patient care was reinforced before and after 
Henikoff took office, by Rush's outlay for the latest in medical 
scientific equipment. Rush was the first Chicago-area institu- 
tion to operate a CT (Computed Tomography) scanner, the 
first to use magnetic resonance imaging, and one of the first to 
use a lithotripter — a machine that crushes kidney stones with- 
out surgical intervention. 

Such technology fits the patient profile at Rush, where 
about half the medical-surgical beds are filled by patients 
referred by other institutions for tertiary or advanced care. For 
diagnosis and treatment of these patients. Rush keeps at hand 
the most sophisticated equipment. 

The Henikoff presidency coincided with fallout from cost- 
cutting in health. Government, insurers, employers and other 
major U.S. buyers of health care had been cutting back for 
several years. Hospital occupancy levels declined, ambulatory 
care hit an upswing, same-day surgery became more common. 
The health care industry felt the pinch. Some fat was being 
cut, but much of the lost hospital occupancy represented care 
people needed but could not get because they had exhausted 
their benefits. 

Rush began to hurt a little, though less than most compar- 
able institutions. Still, Henikoff became convinced that strat- 
egy had to be threshed out at the top levels. He and Chairman 
Smith assembled an ad hoc trustee committee which met a 
number of times in the winter and spring of 1984 and 1985. 



188 GOOD MEDICINE 

From the meetings came a new strategic plan and the ground- 
work for another philanthropic campaign. 

Rush also laid off 200 of its more than 7,500 employees; 
they were the first layoffs in memory. In a letter to employees 
on April 8, 1985, Henikoff cited reductions in state and federal 
reimbursement for the coming year of $14.6 million and "con- 
tinuing pressures in the private sector." Budget adjustments 
for the "tough period ahead" were "imperative." Counseling 
and placement help were made available for laid off employees. 

In the same message Henikoff said Rush was "perhaps in a 
stronger position to weather these difficult times than any 
comparable institution anywhere in the country." Some hos- 
pitals would not survive, but Rush was upgrading facilities 
and acquiring technology and equipment to ensure not only 
survival but national leadership. The institution was to be 
"stronger than ever." 

Ambulatory care would receive greater emphasis, though 
the hospital would remain central. A more aggressive 
approach was to be used. Rush-quality care would become 
available throughout the area. The strategy was to "bring 
medicine to the neighborhoods, rather than people to the 
hospitals," as former chairman John Bent put it. 

ANCHOR Health Maintenance Organization (HMO) would 
be expanded. So would industrial medicine clinics and down- 
town satellite offices. A preferred provider organization (PPO) 
and an Independent Practice Association (IPA) form of HMO 
would be added. The limping patient care network would be 
redeveloped. The research program would be expanded. 

Some of this was already happening. The ANCHOR HMO, 
a deliverer of prepaid health care services, was one of the first 
of its kind in Illinois. It was begun in 1971, after the HMO 
concept was put on the negotiating table by Rush's unionized 
employees. ANCHOR'S share of patient care revenue, which 
at Rush is 87 percent of all revenue, rose sharply in the eighties 
— from 7 percent in 1980 to almost 25 percent in 1986. 
ANCHOR membership rose in this period from 38,000 to 
130,000. 

By the mid-eighties, alternative systems were proliferating. 



New Leadership, New Directions 189 

Rush Contract Care, a PPO or Preferred Provider Organiza- 
tion, was launched in 1986 with 16 hospitals and the services of 
1,000 doctors. Rush also participated in other PPOs — Volun- 
tary Hospitals of America, for instance — as a way to reach as 
many patients as possible. Access Health, a more recent Rush 
project, is an IPA-type HMO and as such provides prepaid 
services through private physicians using their own offices and 
reimbursed on a per capita basis. 

Two other alternative systems were the Rush Occupational 
Health Network, which serves over 3,000 employers in six 
Chicago-area offices, and Rush Home Health Services. In 
addition, satellite offices were established in two downtown 
locations: One Financial Place and River City. A "profes- 
sional building within a building" was planned for the North- 
western Station Atrium Center. 

All this evidenced a tilt toward ambulatory care. Indeed, 
ambulatory care and surgeries rose by the mid-eighties, while 
patient days (spent in hospital) declined. A Rand Corporation 
study of six successful academic medical centers cited Rush's 
entrepreneurial spirit. Henikoff attributed Rush's success to 
diversified programming and "broadened" community pres- 
ence. ANCHOR HMO and more recent efforts plus advanced 
facilities and treatments had kept Rush competitive. 

Rush had even gone into an entrepreneurial program of 
providing skills and services to health care institutions in three 
areas — pharmacy, home health care and accounts receivables 
management. This is ArcVentures, a for-profit subsidiary of 
Rush with a staff of 85 and 1986 revenues of about $8.5 
million. ArcVentures operates the Professional Building phar- 
macy and a mail-order prescription service, markets at-home 
therapies and equipment, and provides billing and collection 
services to hospitals and doctors' offices. Its profits return to 
Rush while it promotes the Rush name and quality. 

In the midst of all this bustle of alternative services and even 
of entrepreneurship, however, the heart of Rush has remained 
its private-practitioner medical staff. Its pursuit of health care 
was there from the first and remained the foundation of what 
Rush has tried to do over the decades. 



1 90 GOOD MEDICINE 

Rush has remained competitive, but things have changed 
nonetheless since the seventies, when the sharpest disagree- 
ments among administrators were about how, not whether to 
spend, as Wayne M, Lerner, vice president for administrative 
affairs, recalled. The creative spirit remained from those days 
but not the wherewithal. The institution would fund 300 to 
500 internal program requests a year, said John E. Trufant, 
Ed.D., vice president for academic resources and dean of the 
Graduate College and College of Health Sciences of Rush 
University. "We'd fund those things and raise the room 
prices," he said. When the money ran short in the eighties, "it 
was a much more difficult time." 

Instead, there was soul-searching as payments dropped. 
The institution had to examine itself more than ever before. 
No one thought Rush would abandon its academic mission, 
but the new era had "severe impact," said Trufant. 

Still, the institution prospered. The Campaign for the 
Future of Success closed in 1982 with $83 million raised. Then 
in 1986 came a resurgence of giving — $17 million, the most 
since 1982. That same year, 1986, a new Benefactors' Wall 
was erected on which principal contributors' names were 
inscribed. 

In organ and tissue transplantations — liver, heart, kidney, 
bone, cornea and bone marrow — Rush became a national 
leader. In liver transplantation especially, Rush pushed boldly, 
and in less than a year was one of six or so U.S. institutions do- 
ing the procedure more than occasionally — one a week by 
1986. It was a matter of deciding to do it and then recruiting 
"one of the best teams in the United States," said Dr. Henry 
P. Russe, dean of Rush Medical College and vice president for 
medical affairs. 

Rush developed so-called specialty centers which enhanced 
its abilities in the most advanced treatments, including the 
Rush Cancer Center, the Multiple Sclerosis Center and The 
Thomas Hazen Thorne Bone Marrow Transplant Center. 
Rush also developed notable strengths in heart disease, ortho- 
pedics, psychiatry and geriatrics. 

Rush's achievements have been recognized. Commemo- 



New Leadership, New Directions 191 

rating the 100th anniversary of Presbyterian Hospital in April 
of 1983, the Union League Club of Chicago gave Rush its Dis- 
tinguished Public Service award for providing "the highest 
quality medical service to all segments of the community." 
Business Week and Family Circle magazines cited Rush for its 
leadership. A book soon to be published on top U.S. hospitals 
will do the same. Patients have frequently praised the care and 
attention they received. Among them is the president of Hyatt 
Hotels, who said in a post-stay letter, "You run one hell of a 
hospital." 

Meanwhile, the patient care network developed new pat- 
terns. As specialization became more available, community 
hospitals began to do what only major referral centers like 
Rush had been doing. Henikoff had been Campbell's liaison 
with the hospital network in the late seventies and had a sense 
of what these institutions needed and wanted. He and others 
among the Rush leadership decided that Rush should work 
closely with these hospitals as they specialized, to help them in- 
crease their expertise. Rush would in effect work selectively to 
decentralize tertiary care activity while strengthening its com- 
munication and referral patterns with these institutions. The 
approach was being used with some success as 1986 drew to a 
close. 

Possibly even more important was the interest of some net- 
work hospitals in merging with Rush. Before 1986 merger* 
discussions had never moved past preliminaries. On the eve of 
Rush's sesquicentennial, however, at least two network hos- 
pitals were in negotiation, with agreements apparently immi- 
nent. Rush-owned facilities were already the most extensive 
among Chicago-area academic medical centers, and it had 
more operating beds than any other private hospital in Illinois. 
With mergers, the margin would widen even further. 

The success of patient care at Rush has perhaps over- 
shadowed an even older Rush tradition, the education of 
health professionals. This story began with recognizing the im- 
portance of medical education for community health. It should 
end with an appreciation of health professional education in all 
its aspects. 



192 GOOD MEDICINE 

The figures tell the story. When Rush Medical College was 
reactivated in 1971, it offered only the doctor of medicine 
degree. In 1987, Rush University offered 30 degrees at three 
levels — baccalaureate, master's and doctoral. Rush Univer- 
sity's four colleges — medicine, nursing, health sciences, and 
graduate college — have granted over 3,600 degrees in this 
time. Enrollment has remained for some time at about 1,150. 
About 350 graduate each year. 

They are a remarkable variety. President Henikoff was only 
half joking when he told the trustees: "I hesitate to say that 
each of our graduating classes could go out and completely 
staff a small hospital, but if you added in the residents com- 
pleting training each year, you wouldn't be very wide of the 
mark." 

Rush has 33 endowed professorships, 10 of which came out 
of the Campaign for the Future of Success. Research awards 
topped 1,100 in 1986, for a record. The leading categories 
were in cancer, heart disease, immunology and neurology. 

Henikoff had frequently mentioned the continued matura- 
tion or full development of Rush University when, within a 
year of his taking office, the trustees took him at his word and 
arranged an academic convocation at which he would be in- 
stalled as president of Rush University. Campbell had re- 
gretted that in the rush of things he had never been installed as 
university president. He had realized it was an opportunity 
lost to tell the academic world about this new institution. The 
trustees were not about to make the same mistake again. 

The installation was held in May of 1985. A national panel 
of speakers gathered to discuss "The Role of the Academic 
Health Center in the 21st Century." Honorary degrees were 
conferred. A touch of pageantry was provided. And more than 
1,000 friends, colleagues and delegates from colleges and 
universities around the country settled back to hear Henikoff s 
inaugural address. For him it was the time to spell out his 
views on Rush's academic mission: 

"In the late 1800s and early 1900s," he said, "people arriv- 
ing in the new towns and cities of the West would ask if there 
was a 'Rush physician in town,' for such was our reputation in 



New Leadership, New Directions 193 

a time of greatly disheveled medical education. The public de- 
manded quality." 

He went on to draw parallels with today's Rush, with its 
"exciting and innovative educational program in nursing and 
in the allied health professions. Our Ph.D. candidates in 
science," he said, "are part of a new and rapidly expanding 
research program, already demonstrating national leadership 
in several areas. Much remains to be done. Nurture and 
growth of these research efforts are essential to the maturation 
of Rush as a major health university." 

He emphasized "the traditional role of practitioner as 
teacher" and said it "cannot be lost if we are to educate nurses 
and physicians and other health professionals who are human- 
ists as well as scientists, who care about, as well as care for, the 
patient. In this regard," he said, "our institutional philosophy 
of education in a health care environment serves us well." 

He voiced his fear "that much would be lost if such educa- 
tion were to be removed from the bedside to the classroom." 
Rush's "unique institutional position and philosophy" enable 
it to maintain this approach to health education. Rush will not 
"give up control of the academic health teaching environ- 
ment, (namely) the hospital, to an entity that does not share 
(its) mission and ethic. . ." 

He cited a trend towards "separation of academics and 
health care delivery, brought about by current economic pres- 
sures." He called it "not an unlikely scenario" that univer- 
sities might divest themselves "of hospitals and perhaps 
medical schools." Rush's "heritage and future," on the other 
hand, "lie in the uncompromising intertwining" of health 
care education with medical delivery "in the forefront of pa- 
tient care." 

Rush's base is in the health care system, said Henikoff. 
"Our priority is the patient. In this we differ from most of our 
sister institutions. We have a unique role and a unique oppor- 
tunity in this new era. It is up to us to make that opportunity a 
reality." 

President Henikoff spoke as successor to Dr. Daniel Brain- 
ard, the founder of Rush Medical College, who in his in- 



194 



GOOD MEDICINE 



augural address reminded his audience of the great stake they 
had in the success of this institution, "The health, the hap- 
piness, the life of your dearest friends, and your own, may and 
will some day depend on the skill of some member of the 
medical profession," Brainard said in 1843. 

Henikoff quoted him in 1985. He also quoted another of 
Rush's great men. Dr. James B, Herrick, who in 1912 said a 
hospital should have the "stimulus of instructing young, active, 
wide-awake" students and praised "the spirit of research" which 
freshens and enlivens education. "And yet no matter what view 
we may take," said Herrick, almost as if to head off any excess of 
enthusiasm for education and research, "the central figure is, 
and should be, the patient." 

At Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center for over a 
century and a half, the patient came first. 




Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center today. 



Appendix I 



AN ACT TO INCORPORATE THE 
RUSH MEDICAL COLLEGE 



The Act of the Legislature of Illinois, Approved March 2, 1837, Entitled An Act to Incor- 
porate the Rush Medical College 

Section i. Be it enacted by the People of the State of Illinois, represented in 
the General Assembly, 

That TheophUus W. Smith, Thomas Ford, E.D. Taylor, Josiah C. Goodhue, 
Isaac T. Hinton, John T. Temple, Justin Butterfield, Edmund S. Kimberly, 
James H. Collins, Henry Moore, S. S. Whitman, John Wright, William B. 
Ogden, Ebenezer Peck, John H. Kinzie, John D. Caton and Grant Goodrich, 
be, and they are hereby created a body politic and corporate, to be styled and 
known by the name of the "Trustees of the Rush Medical College," and by 
that style and name to remain and have perpetual succession. The College shall 
be located in or near Chicago, in Cook County. The number of trustees shall 
not exceed seventeen, exclusive of the Governor and Lieutenant Governor of 
this State, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and the President of 
the College, all of whom shall be ex-officio members of the board of trustees. 
Section 2. The object of incorporation shall be to promote the general in- 
terests of medical education, and to qualify young men to engage usefully and 
honorably in the professions of medicine and surgery. 

Section 3. The corporate powers hereby bestowed, shall be such only as are 
essential or useful in the attainment of said objects, and such as are usually con- 
ferred on similar bodies corporate, namely: In their corporate name to have 
perpetual succession; to make contracts; to sue and be sued; to plead and be 
impleaded; to grant and receive by its corporate name, and to do all other acts 
as natural persons may; to accept and acquire, purchase and sell property, real, 
personal or mixed; in aiU lawful ways to use, employ, manage, dispose of such 
property, and all money belonging to said corporation, in such manner as shall 
seem to the trustees best adapted to promote the objects aforesaid; to have a 
common seal, and to alter and change the same; to make such by-laws as are 
not inconsistent with the Constitution and laws of the United States, and this 



195 



196 GOOD MEDICINE 

State; and to confer on such persons as may be considered worthy, such 
academic or honorary degrees as are usually conferred by such institutions. 

Section 4. The trustees of said College shall have authority, from time to 
time, to prescribe and regulate the course of studies to be pursued in said Col- 
lege; to fix the rate of tuition, lecture fees and other College expenses; to 
appoint instructors, professors and such other officers and agents as may be 
needed in managing the concerns of the institution; to define their powers, 
duties and employments, and to fix their compensation; to displace cind 
remove either of the instructors, officers or agents, or all of them, whenever the 
said trustees shall deem it for the interest of the College to do so; to fill all 
vacancies among said instructors, professors, officers or agents; to erect all 
necessary and suitable buildings; to purchase books and philosophical and 
chemical apparatus and procure the necessary and suitable means of instruc- 
tion in all the different departments of medicine and surgery; to make rules for 
the general management of the affairs of the College. 

Section 5. The board of trustees shall have power to remove any trustee 
from office for dishonorable or criminail conduct; Provided, That no such 
removal shall take place without giving to such trustee notice of the charges 
preferred against him, and an opportunity to defend himself before the board, 
nor unless two-thirds of the whole number of trustees for the time being shall 
concur in such removal. The board of trustees shall have power whenever a 
vacancy shall occur by removal from office, death, resignation, or removad out 
of the State, to appoint some citizen of the State to fill such vacancy. The ma- 
jority of the trustees for the time being, shall constitute a quorum to transact 
business. 

Section 6. The trustees shall faithfully apply all funds by them collected, in 
erecting suitable buildings; in supporting the necessary instructors, professors, 
officers and agents; and procuring books, philosophical and chemical ap- 
paratus, and specimens in naturail history, mineralogy, geology, and botany, 
and such other means as may be necessary or useful for teaching thoroughly 
the different branches of medicine and surgery; Provided, That in case any 
donation, devise, or bequest, shall be made for particular purposes, accordant 
with the object of the institution, and the trustees shall accept the same, every 
such donation, devise, or bequest, shall be applied in conformity with the ex- 
press condition of the donor or devisor; Provided also. That lands donated or 
devised as aforesaid, shall be sold or disposed of as required by the last section 
of this act. 

Section 7. The treasurer of said College always, and all other agents, 
when required by the trustees, before entering upon the duties of their of- 
fice, shall give bonds respectively, for the security of the corporation, in 
such penal sum, and with such sureties as the board of trustees approve; 



Appendix I 197 

and all process against said corporation shall be by summons, and service of 
the same shall be by leaving an attested copy with the treasurer of the Col- 
lege, at least thirty days before the return day thereof. 

Section 8. The lands, tenements, and hereditaments, to be had in 
perpetuity in virtue of this act, by said institution, shall not exceed six 
hundred and forty acres; Provided, however, That if donations, grants or 
devises of land, shall from time to time be made to said corporation, over 
and above six hundred and forty acres, which may be held in perpetuity as 
aforesaid, the same may be received and held by said corporation, for the 
period of six years from the date of any such donation, grant or devise; at 
the end of which time, if the said lands over and above the six hundred and 
forty acres, shall not have been sold, then, and in that case, the lands so 
donated, granted, or devised, shall revert to the said donor, grantor, or to 
their heirs. 

Approved 2nd March, 1837. 



Appendix II 

Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center 



CHAIRMEN OF THE BOARD OF TRUSTEES 



John P. Bent, 1956-1964* 
George B. Young, 1962-1966* 
Albert B. Dick III, 1966-1971 
Edward F. Blettner, 1971-1974 



Edward McCormick Blair, 

1974-1978 
Harold Byron Smith, Jr., 1978- 

*Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital 



PRESIDENTS 



James A. Campbell, M.D., 

1964-1983 
Donald R. Oder, Acting, 

1983-1984 



Leo M. Henikoff, M.D., 
1984- 



RUSH UNIVERSITY DEANS 



Rush Medical College 

Daniel Brainard, M.D., 

1843-1866 
James Van Zandt Blaney, M.D., 

1866-1871 
Joseph Warren Freer, M.D., 

1871-1877 
Jonathan Adams Allen, M.D., 

1877-1890 
Edward Lorenzo Holmes, M.D., 

1890-1898 
Henry Munson Lyman, M.D., 

1898-1900 
Frank BUlings, M.D., 1900-1924 
Ernest Edward Irons, M.D., 

1924-1936 



Emmett Blackburn Bay, M.D., 

1936-1940 
Earle Otto Gray, M.D., Acting, 

1940-1941 
Mark H. Lepper, M.D., 

1970-1973 
William F. Hejna, M.D., 

1973-1976 
Leo M. Henikoff, M.D., Acting, 

1977-1978 
Robert S. Blacklow, M.D., 

1978-1980 
Henry P. Russe, M.D., 

1981- 



198 



Appendix II 199 



College of Nursing 

Luther P. Christman, Ph.D., 
R.N., 1972- 

CoUege of Health Sciences 

David I. Cheifetz, Ph.D., 

1976-1981 
Bruce C. Campbell, Dr. P.H., 

Acting, 1981-1982; 1982-1983 
John E. Trufant, Ed.D., Acting, 

1983-1985; 1985- 



The Graduate College 

A. William Holmes, M.D., 

Acting, 1973-1974 
David I. Cheifetz, Ph.D., Acting, 

1974-1977 
Mark H. Lepper, M.D., Acting, 

1981-1982; 1982-1983 
John E. Trufant, Ed.D., Acting, 

1983-1985; 1985- 



DEPARTMENTAL CHAIRPERSONS 



Anatomy 

Anthony J. Schmidt, Ph.D., 
1974- 

Anesthesiology 

Reuben C. Balagot, M.D., 

1967-1970 
Max Sadove, M.D., 1970-1979 
William Gottschalk, M.D., Acting, 

1979-1980 
Anthony Ivankovich, M.D., 

1980- 

Biochemistry 

Max Rafelson, Ph.D., 1960-1970 
Howard Sky-Peck, Ph.D., 

1970-1978 
Hermann Mattenheimer, M.D., 

Acting, 1978-1979 
Klaus Kuettner, Ph.D., 

1980- 

Cardio vascular Thoracic Surgery 

Ormand C. Julian, M.D., 

1965-1971 
Hassan Najafi, M.D., 1971- 

Clinical Nutrition 

Rebecca Dowling, Ph.D., Acting, 
1986- 

Communication Disorders and 
Sciences 

Thomas Jensen, Ph.D., Acting, 
1986- 



Community Health Nursing 

Iris Shannon, M.A., 1975-1976 
Georgia B. Padonu, Dr. P.H., 

1977- 

Dermatology 

Frederick D. Malkinson, M.D., 
D.M.D., 1969- 

Diagnostic Radiology and 
Nuclear Medicine 

Richard E. Buenger, M.D., 
1968- 

Family Practice 

Philip C. Anderson, M.D., 

Acting, 1975 
Erich E. Brueschke, M.D., 

1976- 

General Surgery 
Ormand C. Julian, M.D., 

1965-1970 
Harry W. Southwick, M.D., 

1970-1985 
Steven G. Economou, M.D., 

1985- 

Geriatric/Gerontology Nursing 

Lorry Gresham, R.N., 1977 
Joan LeSage, Ph.D., R.N., 
1978- 



200 GOOD MEDICINE 



Health Systems Management 

Gail L. Warden, M.H.A., 

Acting, 1975 
Richard A. Jelinek, Ph.D., 

Acting, 1976-1977 
Bruce C. Campbell, M.B.A., 

Acting, 1978-1979 
John G. Larson, Ph.D., 1982 
Wayne Lerner, M.H.A., Acting, 

1983-1984; 1985- 

Immunology 

Henry Gewurz, M.D., 
1973-1981 

Immunology/ Microbiology 

Henry Gewurz, M.D., 
1981- 

Internal Medicine 

John S. Graettinger, M.D., 

1966-1970 
Theodore B. Schwartz, M.D., 

1970-1982 
Robert W. Carton, M.D., 

Acting, 1982-1985 
Roger C. Bone, M.D., 

1985- 

Medical Nursing 

Sue Hegyvary, Ph.D., R.N., 

1974-1977 
Ellen Elpern, M.S.N. , 

1977-1979 
Marilee Donovan, Ph.D., R.N., 

1980- 

Medical Physics 

Lawrence Lanzl, Ph.D., Acting, 
1986- 

Medical Technology 

Marjorie Stumpe, M.A., Acting, 
1986- 

Neurological Sciences 

Maynard M. Cohen, M.D., 
1963-1984 



Harold L. Klawans, M.D., 

Acting, 1984-1985 
Frank Morrell, M.D., Acting, 

1986- 

Neurological Surgery 

Eric Oldberg, M.D., 1959-1971 
Walter W. Whisler, M.D., 
1971- 

Obstetrical and Gynecological 

Nursing 

Ann Neeley, Ph.D., R.N., 

1974-1976 
Claudia Anderson, Ph.D., R.N., 

1978-1981 
Constance J. Adams, Dr. P.H., 

R.N., 1982- 

Obstetrics and Gynecology 

George D. Wilbanks, Jr., M.D., 
1969- 

Occupational Therapy 

Cynthia Hughes, M.Ed., Acting, 
1986- 

Operating Room and Surgical 
Nursing 

Yvonne Munn, M.S., R.N., 

Acting, 1974 
Joyce Stoops, M.S., R.N., 

1975-1976 
Nellie Abbott, Ph.D., R.N., 

1977-1981 
Joyce Keithley, D.N.Sc, Acting, 

1982-1986; 1986- 

Ophthalmology 

William F. Hughes, M.D., 
1959-1975; Acting, 1976-1978 

William E. Deutsch, M.D., 
Acting, 1979-1982; 1983- 

Orthopedic Surgery 

Robert D. Ray, M.D., Acting, 
1969-1970 



Appendix II 201 



Claude D. Lambert, M.D., 

Acting, 1970-1971 
Jorge O. Galante, M.D., 1972- 

Otolaryngology and 
Bronchoesophagology 

Stanton A. Friedberg, M.D., 

1959-1973 
David D. Caldarelli, M.D., 

1974- 

Pathology 

George M. Hass, M.D., 

1959-1974 
Ronald S. Weinstein, M.D., 

1975- 

Pediatric Nursing 

Robert A. Lyons, M.S., Acting, 

1975; 1976 
Mary Beth Badura, M.S.N. , 

1977 
Jean Kaufman, Ph.D., R.N., 

1978-1979 
Jean Sorrells-Jones, Ph.D., 

R.N., Acting, 1980-1981; 

1982- 

Pediatrics 

Joseph R. Christian, M.D., 

1960-1985 
Paul W. K. Wong, M.D., 

Acting, 1985-1986 
Samuel P. Gotoff, M.D., 

1986- 

Pharmacology 

Paul E. Carson, M.D., Acting, 

1974; 1975-1985 
Henri Frischer, M.D., Ph.D., 

Acting, 1985- 

Physical Medicine and 
Rehabilitation 

Jorge A. Galante, M.D., Acting, 
1975-1980 



Richard E. Harvey, M.D., 
1986- 

Physiology 

Joel A. Michael, Ph.D., Acting, 

1974-1976 
Robert S. Eisenberg, Ph.D., 

1976- 

Plastic and Reconstructive 
Surgery 

John W. Curtin, M.D., 
1969- 

Preventive Medicine 

Joyce E. Lashof, M.D., Acting, 

1970-1972 
James A. Schoenberger, M.D., 

Acting, 1973; 1974- 

Psychiatric Nursing 

Jane Ulsafer, M.S., R.N., 

Acting, 1975-1977 
Ann Marie Brooks, D.N.Sc, 

1978-1982 
Karen Babich, Ph.D., R.N., 

1983- 

Psychiatry 

Paul E. Neilson, M.D., Acting, 

1969-1971 
Jan A. Fawcett, M.D., 1972- 

Psychology and Social Sciences 

David I. Cheifetz, Ph.D., 

Acting, 1970-1971; 1971-1975 

David C. Garron, Ph.D., 
Acting, 1976 

Rosalind D. Cartwright, Ph.D., 
1977- 

Religion and Health 

Bernard Pennington, B.D., 

Acting, 1975 
Christian A. Hovde, Ph.D., 

D.D., 1976- 



202 



GOOD MEDICINE 



Therapeutic Radiology 

Frank R. Hendrickson, M.D., 
Acting, 1970-1971; 1971- 

Urology 

Charles F. McKiel, M.D., 



Acting, 1969-1971; 1975- 
Jack E. Mobley, M.D., 

1972-1973 
MalachiJ. Flanagan, M.D., 

Acting, 1974 



MEDICAL STAFF PRESIDENTS 



George W. Stuppy, M.D., 

1959-1960 
Thomas J. Coogan, M.D., 

1960-1962 
Richard B. Capps, M.D., 

1962-1964 
Stanton A. Friedberg, M.D., 

1964-1966 
Richard B. Capps, M.D., 

1966-1967 
Rigby C. RoskeUy, M.D., 

1967-1969 
William S. Dye, M.D., 1969-1971 
Frederic A. de Peyster, M.D., 

1971-1973 



PhUip N.Jones, M.D., 1973-1975 
Maurice L. Bogdonoff, M.D., 

1975-1977 
Milton Weinberg, Jr., M.D., 

1977-1979 
Joseph J. Muenster, M.D., 

1979-1981 
Robert J. Jensik, M.D., 

1981-1983 
Andrew Thomson, M.D., 

1983-1985 
MalachiJ. Flanagan, M.D., 

1985-1987 
James A. Schoenberger, M.D., 

president-elect 



Marcia Pencak, R.N., 1984 
Sandra McFolling, R.N., 

1985-1986 
William Wiessner, R.N., 



NURSING STAFF PRESIDENTS 

1985 



1986-1987 
Helen Shidler, R.N. 
elect 



president- 



PRINCIPAL OFFICERS 



Harold Byron Smith, Jr. 

Chairman 
Roger E. Anderson 
Marshall Field 
Richard M. Morrow 



Richard L. Thomas 

Vice Chairmen 
Leo M. Henikoff, M.D. 

President 



Appendix II 203 



GENERAL TRUSTEES 



Mrs. Frederick M. Allen 

Roger E. Anderson 

Angelo R. Arena 

Mrs. Bowen Blair 

Edward A. Brennan 

John H. Bryan, Jr. 

W. H. Clark 

Richard G. Cline 

E. David Coolidge III 

Susan Crown 

Dino D'Angelo 

Donald B. Davidson 

Mrs. Herbert C. De Young 

Albert B. Dick III 

Thomas A. Donahoe 

H. James Douglass 

James L. Dutt 

Bernard J. Echlin 

Wade Fetzer III 

Marshall Field 

Cyrus F. Freidheim, Jr. 

Robert Hixon Glore 

David W. Grainger 

Joan M. Hall 

Marilou McCarthy Hedlund 

Leo M. Henikoff, M.D. 

Mrs. Edward Hines 

Frederick G. Jaicks 

Edgar D. Jannotta 

Silas Keehn 

John P. Keller 



Thomas J . Klutznick 
Frederick A. Krehbiel 
William N. Lane III 
Charles S. Locke 
Vernon R. Loucks, Jr. 
Donald G. Lubin 
John W. Madigan 
Mrs. F. Richard Meyer III 
Richard M. Morrow 
Joseph J. Muenster, M.D. 
Doncild Nordlund 
William A. Pogue 
Joseph Regenstein, Jr. 
Robert P. Reuss 
Thomas A. Reynolds, Jr. 
Thomas H. Roberts, Jr. 
Patrick G. Ryan 
Robert W. Schaefer 
John J. Schmidt 
Charles H. Shaw 
Michael Simpson 
Harold Byron Smith, Jr. 
Robert A. Southern 
Philip W. K. Sweet, Jr. 
Bide L. Thomas 
Richard L. Thomas 
William L. Weiss 
H. Blair White 
James R. Wolfe 
William T. Ylvisaker 



ANNUAL TRUSTEES 



Ralph A. Bard, Jr. 
Edward McCormick Blair 
The Rev. Edward F. Campbell, Jr. 
James W. De Young 
The Rev. David A. Donovan 
MalachiJ. Flanagan, M.D. 
The Rt. Rev. Frank Tracy 
Griswold III 



Mrs. Edgar D. Jannotta 
Clayton Kirkpatrick 
Ronald D. Nelson, M.D. 
R. Joseph Oik, M.D. 
Mrs. James T. Reid 
Harold L. Sherman 
Andrew Thomson, M.D. 



204 GOOD MEDICINE 



LIFE TRUSTEES 



A. Watson Armour III 
Ralph A. Bard, Jr. 
Edward C. Becker 
John P. Bent 
Edward McCormick Blair 
Edward F. Blettner 
William F. Borland 
Robert C. Borwell, Sr. 
R. Gordon Brown, M.D. 
Mrs. George S. Chappell, Jr. 
William M. Collins, Jr. 
David W. Dangler 
Robert C. Gunness 
Stanley G. Harris, Jr. 
Augustin S. Hart, Jr. 
Robert J. Hasterlik, M.D. 
Mrs. William G. Karnes 
Clayton Kirkpatrick 



John H. Krehbiel, Sr. 
Brooks McCormick 
Anthony L. Michel 
The Rt. Rev. James W. 

Montgomery 
Kenneth F. Montgomery 
George V. Myers 
The Rt. Rev. Quintin E. Primo, Jr. 
Richard W. Simmons 
Justin A. Stanley 
E. Norman Staub 
T.M. Thompson 
Mrs. Calvin D. Trowbridge 
Waltman Walters, M.D. 
B. Kenneth West 
Edward Foss Wilson 
Arthur M. Wood 
George B, Young 



MANAGEMENT 



Leo M. Henikoff, M.D. 

President 
Donald R. Oder 

Senior Vice President and 

Treasurer 
Henry P. Russe, M.D. 

Dean, Rush Medical College 

and Vice President, Medical 

Affairs 
Luther P. Christman, Ph.D., 

R.N. 
Dean, Collge of Nursing and 

Vice President, Nursing 

Affairs 
John E. Trufant, Ed.D. 

Vice President, Academic 

Resources, Dean, The 

Graduate College and Dean, 

College of Health Sciences 



Wayne M. Lerner 

Vice President, Administrative 
Affairs 

Kevin J. Necas 

Vice President-Finance 

William Gold, Ph.D. 

Vice President, Prepaid Health 
Programs and President, 
ANCHOR Corporation 

Sheldon Garber 

Vice President, Philanthropy 
and Communication and 
Secretary 



Bibliography 



In writing this book, I have relied heavily on Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's 
Medical Center archivist William Kona, M.A. Without his help and that of his 
assistant, Mary Jane Kirchner, the enterprise would have been very difficult. 

Among published authors I have depended most on Thomas NevUle Bon- 
ner, whose Medicine in Chicago, 1850-1950 gave me a valuable overview of the 
subject at hand. 

Dr. Janet R. Kinney, biographer of Daniel Brainard and astute researcher, 
gave important help on the Brainard-Davis conflict and other aspects of those 
early years. 

University of Illinois medical historian Patricia Spain Ward gave some good 
early advice; her article on Abraham Flexner was especially stimulating. 

Dr. Frederic de Peyster supplied valuable audiocassette recordings and a 
history of the 13th General Hospital, among other items. Dr. Stanton 
Friedberg supplied a transcript of his conversation with Dr. Francis Straus and 
other materials. 

Bruce Rattenbury, associate vice president for public relations at Rush, gave 
me reams of written materials and contributed greatly to my understanding of 
recent events. Some gaps in the 20th century history of St. Luke's Hospital 
may be explained by the unfortunate loss of some St. Luke's records at the 
time of its merger with Presbyterian Hospital. A bibliography follows. 



BOOKS 

Leslie B. Arey, Northwestern University Medical School, 1859-1959: a Pioneer in 
Educational Reform, Evanston and Chicago, Northwestern University, 1959, 
495 pp. 

Thomas Neville Bonner, Medicine in Chicago, 1850-1950, Madison, 
American History Research Center, 1957, 302 pp. 



205 



206 GOOD MEDICINE 

Norman Bridge, M.A., M.D., and John Edwin Rhodes, M.A., M.D., Rush 
Medical College, Chicago, Oxford Publishing Company, 1896, 154 pp. 

James B. Herrick, M.A., M.D., Memories of Eighty Years, Chicago, Univer- 
sity of Chicago Press, 1949, 270 pp. 

Edwin F. Hirsch, M.D., Ph.D., Christian Fenger, M.D., 1840-1902, The Im- 
pact of His Scientific Training and His Personality on Medicine in Chicago, Chicago, 
1972, 79 pp. 

Hirsch, Frank Billings, Chicago, The Printing Department, University of 
Chicago, 1966, 144 pp. 

James Nevins Hyde, M.A., M.D., Early Medical Chicago, an Historical Sketch of 
the First Practitioners of Medicine etc., Chicago, Fergus Printing Co., 1879, 
78 pp. 

Ernest E. Irons, M.D., Ph.D., The Story of Rush Medical College, Chicago, 
1953, Trustees of Rush Medical College, 82 pp. 

Frederic Cople Jaher, The Urban Establishment, especially Chapter V, 
"Chicago," pp. 453-576, Urbana, University of Illinois Press, 1982, 
777 pp. 

Ruth Johnsen, R.N., B.S., M.A., The History of the School of Nursing of 
Presbyterian Hospital, Chicago, Illinois, 1903-1956, University of Chicago 
master's thesis, Chicago, Alumnae Association, School of Nursing, 
Presbyterian Hospital, 1959, 65 pp. 

Rev. James DeWitt Clinton Locke, Personal Reminiscences of the Diocese of Il- 
linois, 1856-1892, The Rev. R. B. Dibbert, editor, Chicago, Grace 
Church, 1976, 95 pp. 

Marie G. Merrill, The History of St. Luke's Hospital School of Nursing, Chicago, 
1946, 258 pp. 

Bessie L. Pierce, A History of Chicago, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 
1937, 3 volumes: 1673-1848, 1848-71, 1871-93 

The Pulse of Rush Medical College, the school yearbook, 1894 and 1895, Arthur 
Tenney Holbrook, Editor-in-Chief, 1894, pages not numbered; Samuel 
Omar Duncan, A.B., Editor-in-Chief, 1895, 376 pp. 

The 13th General Hospital in World War II, 1942-1945, 62 pp. 

ARTICLES, BROCHURES, ETC. 

Emmet B. Bay, M.D., "Herrick as a Clinician," in "Joint Meeting in 
Memory of James B. Herrick" (of Institute of Medicine in Chicago and the 
Society of Medical History of Chicago, Oct. 14, 1954), The Proceedings of the 
Institute of Medicine in Chicago, 188-191 

William K. Beatty, "Daniel Brainard — Pioneering Surgeon and Teacher," 
Ibid, Vol. 34, 1981, 2 ff. 



Bibliography 207 

Beatty, "JVZ Blaney, Genial Chemist, Inventor and Editor," Ibid., Vol. 39, 

1986, 55-61, 111-118 
Beatty, "Ludvig Hektoen — Scientist and Counselor," Ibid., Vol. 35, 1982, 

7-9 
Beatty, "William Heath Byford: Physician and Advocate for Women," 

Ibid, Vol. 39, 1986, 6 ff. 
James A. Campbell, M.D., "Some Persons at Rush," Transactions of the 

American Clinical and Climatological Assn, Vol. 89, 1977, 162-171 
Chicago Daily News, September 6, 1945, p. 2, "Chicago Doctors Hit the 

Beach First in Southern Japan" 
Chicago Medical Society, History of Medicine and Surgery and Physicians and 

Surgeons of Chicago, Chicago, 1922 
Chicago Tribune, June 13, 1950, "Doctors Dig Up Old Pranks at Rush '00 

Party" 
"Daniel Amasa Jones," Newton Bateman and Paul Selby, editors. Historical 

Encyclopedia of Illinois, Chicago, Munsell Publishing, 1906, pp. 926-928 
Geza de Takats, M.D., "Parkinson's Law in Medicine," New England Journal 

of Medicine, Jan. 21, 1960, 126-128 (Presented Oct. 8, 1958, at annual 

meeting of the Mont Reid Society, Chicago) 
John Milton Dodson, Sc.D., M.D., "The Affiliation of Rush Medical College 

with the University of Chicago — A Historical Sketch," Bulletin of the Alumni 

Association of Rush Medical College, 1917, January, May, September; 1918, 

January, August; 1919, April, November; 1920, February; 1921, Febru- 
ary, June, October; 1922, May, August; 1923, Jzmuary 
Robert M. Hutchins, "The State of the University: a Report to the Alumni 

and Friends of the University of Chicago, Aug. 10, 1941," 20 pp. 
C. Frederic Kittle, M.D., "Benjamin Rush — Heritage and Hope," The 

Magazine, Winter 1976-77, 46-51 
Kittle, "The Development of Academic Surgery in Chicago," Surgery, Vol. 62, 

No. 1, 1-11 
DeLaskie Miller, M.D., "Rush in the Past," The Corpuscle, Vol. 7, No. 8, 

May 1898, 271-274 
Harold L. O'Donnell, Newport and Vermillion Township, the First 100 Years, 

1824-1924 (Vermillion County, Indiana), 1969 
Walter L. Palmer, M.D., Ph.D., "Franklin Chambers McLean and the 

Founding of the University of Chicago School of Medicine," Perspectives in 

Biology and Medicine, Winter 1979, Part Two, S2-S32 
Bruce Rattenbury, "A Generation at Rush — 1964-1984," The Magazine, Fall, 

1980, 8-22 
Paul S. Rhoads, M.D., "James B. Herrick, M.D.," Proceedings of the Institute of 

Medicine in Chicago, Vol. 35, 1982, 3-6 



208 GOOD MEDICINE 

Richard B. Richter, M.D., "A Short History of the Medical School at the 
University of Chicago," Bulletin of the Alumni Association, School of Medicine, 
University of Chicago, Vol. 22, No. 2, Spring, 1967, 4-7 

Henry T. Ricketts, M.D., "Highlights in the History of the Institute of 
Medicine," reprinted in Nostalgia Corner, Proceedings of the Institute of 
Medicine in Chicago, Vol. 38, 1985, 84-86 

John E. Rhodes, M.A., M.D., "The Making of a Modern Medical School: a 
Sketch of Rush Medical College," The Medical News, Weekly Journal of 
Medical Science, Vol. LXXIX, No. 20, Nov. 16, 1901, 761-767 

"St. Luke's Hospital: 80th anniversary. 1865-1945," 1945 

"St. Luke's Hospital, An Indispensable Institution," Chicago, 1923, Officers 
and Trustees of St. Luke's Hospital, 23 pp. 

James P. Simonds, M.D., D.P.H., Ph.D., "Ludvig Hektoen: a Study in 
Changing Scientific Interests," Proceedings of the Institute of Medicine in Chicago, 
Vol. 14, 1942, 284-287 

Samuel G. Taylor III, M.D., "Reminiscing about Medicine's Progress," The 
Magazine, Fall, 1977, 25-26, reprinted from American Medical News 

The University of Chicago, the President's Report, July 1892 to July 1902, University 
of Chicago Press, 1903; succeeding editions, 1906-1924 

Ilza Veith, "Medicine as an Academic Discipline at the University of 
Chicago," Bulletin of the Alumni Association, School of Medicine, University of 
Chicago, Vol. 32, No. 2, Spring, 1977, 13-18 

Patricia Spain Ward, "The Other Abraham: Flexner in Illinois," Caduceus 
Vol. 2, No. 1, Spring, 1986, 1-66 

George H. Weaver, M.D., Beginnings of Medical Education in and Near Chicago, 
the Institutions and the Men, reprinted from Proceedings of the Institute of Medicine 
in Chicago, Vol. V, 1925, Chicago, Press of the American Medical Associa- 
tion, 132 pp. 

H. Gideon Wells, M.D., Ph.D., "Investigative Work at Rush Medical Col- 
lege," Bulletin of the Alumni Association of Rush Medical College, August 1922, 
15-19 



UNPUBLISHED MATERIALS 

Arthur Andersen & Co., "Hospital Organization Study" of Presbyterian- St. 
Luke's Hospital, November, 1965, 26 pp. 

Robert Cunningham, "The Making of a Medical Center," Chicago, 1980, 
113 pp. 

Frederic A. de Peyster, M.D., "The Great Medical Department of Lake 
Forest University, 1887-1898," Presidential address read before 71st an- 
nual meeting of the Chicago Surgical Society, May 21, 1971 



Bibliography 209 

R. Kennedy Gilchrist, M.D., Its Been Fun: 1904-1984, Memoirs, 294 pp. 
Dora Goldstine, draft of projected history of St. Luke's School of Nursing, 

September, 1931, 82 pp. 
Mark H. Lepper, M.D., transcript of interviews on April 24 and May 15, 

1984, by Janis Long Harris 
Rev. D. Clinton Locke, "History of St. Luke's Hospital to 1893," David 

Evans, editor, 1929, 30 pp. 
Madeleine McConnell, R.N., B.S., The Development of Nursing, St. Luke's 

Hospital, Chicago, a Memoir (not dated) 
Joan WUlard Moore, "Stability & Instability in the Metropolitan Upper 

Class," a comparative study of the woman's boards of St. Luke's and 

Presbyterian hospitals, unpublished Ph.D. thesis. University of Chicago, 

1959. 
Presbyterian Hospital, Minutes of Board of Managers, June 15, 1938; 

June 9, 1939; September 7, 1939; February 26, 1941 
Rush Medical College Alumni Association meeting, Atlantic City, June 

18, 1963, audiocassette 
Rush Medical College trustees' meeting (with meeting of medical staff, 

Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital), September 3, 1969, audiocassette 
Francis H. Straus, M.D., "Some Medical Reminiscences," transcript of 

conversation with Dr. Stanton A. Friedberg, March 29 and April 1 and 

2, 1980, 36 pp. 
Andrew Thomson, M.D., "Remarks at Medical Staff Dinner," Nov. 1, 

1984, 7 pp. 



INTERVIEWS 

Ralph A. Bard, Jr. 

Evan M. Barton, M.D. 

John P. Bent 

Edward McCormick Blair, Sr. 

John Brewer, M.D. 

Mrs. James A. Campbell 

Robert W. Carton, M.D. 

Mrs. George Chappell 

Luther P. Christman, R.N., Ph.D. 

David W. Dangler 

Frederic A. de Peyster, M.D. 

Mrs. Herbert C. De Young 

Albert B. Dick III 

Stanton A. Friedberg, Jr., M.D. 



2 1 GOOD MEDICINE 

Sheldon Garber 

William F. Geittmann, M.D. 

John S. Graettinger, M.D. 

William Grove, M.D. 

Sue Thomas Hegyvary, Ph.D., R.N. 

William F. Hejna, M.D. 

Leo M. Henikoff, M.D. 

Ruthjohnsen, R.N. 

Philip N.Jones, M.D. 

Janet R. Kinney, M.D. 

C. Frederick Kitde, M.D. 

Joyce Lashof, M.D. 

Mark H. Lepper, M.D. 

Wayne M. Lerner, M.H.A. 

Joseph J. Muenster, M.D. 

Donald R. Oder, M.B.A. 

Rhoda S. Pomerantz, M.D., M.P.H. 

Henry P. Russe, M.D. 

Barbara Schmidt, R.N. 

Theodore B. Schwartz, M.D. 

Charles Sheaff, M.D. 

William D. Shorey, M.D. 

Harold Byron Smith, Jr. 

Irene R. Turner 

John E. Trufant, Ed.D. 

George B. Young, Ph.D., J. D. 



Index 



Academic Facility, 170 
Access Health, 189 

Adams, Mrs. Robert McCormick, 104 
Admissions requirements, 15, 72 
Allen, J. Adams, 20, 30, 48, 59 
Alzheimer's Disease Clinical Center, 172 
American Medical Association, 93-94, 161-62 
Amerman, George K., 21 
ANCHOR Health Maintenance 

Organization. 182, 188-89 
Andrews, Edmund, 11, 13 
Anna W. Durand Hospital, 95, 102 
ArcVentures, 189 
Armour, Barbara, 25 
Armour, George, 45 
Armour, Mrs. William, 25 
Armstrong, Horace W., 83 
Armstrong, S. Howard, Jr., 125, 128 
Atrium Building, 180 

Bacon. Asa, 98 

Bacteriology, 35 

Bailey, Percival, 143 

Bard, Ralph A., Sr., 139 

Barton, Evan, 107, 108 

Bay, Emmett B., 80, 90 

Beattie, Edward, 126 

Belfield, William, T., 35 

Bennett, Granville, 163 

Bent, John P., 138, 139, 145, 146, 156 

Bevan, Arthur Dean, 72, 93, 110, 111 

Billings, Frank, 36, 66, 71, 81, 91-92, 

105, 110 
Billings Hospital, 78, 80 
Blacklow, Robert S., 169 
Blackwell, Emily, 5 

Blair, Edward McCormick, 148, 156, 179 
Blair, William, 23 

Blaney, James Van Zandt, 4, 7, 20, 54, 59 
Blettner, Edward, 156 
Blue Cross Society, 47 
Bogdonoff, Maurice L., 157 
Boone, Levi, 8, 14 
Borwell, Robert C, 179 
Bowman Center, 171 
Brady, Norman A., 139, 144 
Brainard, Daniel, 1, 3, 12, 14, 15, 16, 53 
Brewer, John, 109 



Bridge, Norman, 29, 32, 59 
Brown, Ralph C, 105 
Byford, William, 13, 25, 31, 32 
Byrne, Jane, 181 
Byron, Charles L., 162 

Camp Douglas Ladies Aid Society, 39 
Campbell, James A., 127-49, 150, 152, 

156, 157, 159, 164, 176, 181 
Campbell Report, 164 
Capps, Richard B., 131 
Cardiac catheterization, 128, 131 
Cardiovascular medicine, 12,7 
Carlson, A. J., 82 
Carton, Alfred T,, Sr., 81 
Carton, Robert W., 168 
Castle, William B., 132 
Caton, John Dean, 2 
Central Free Dispensary, 99, 117 
Chamberlain, George, 43 
Charter for Rush Medical College, 3, 5 
Chicago, 1,2, 11 

Chicago Academy of Medical Sciences, 14 
Chicago Medical College, 13, 15 
Chicago Medical Journal, 9 
Chicago Medical Society, 14 
Chicago Relief and Aid Society, 42 
Chicago Technology Park, 185 
Chicago fire of 1871, 18-19, 42. 56 
Children's Memorial Hospital. 97 
Children's clinic at Rush, 99 
Christman, Luther P., 155, 172, 174 
Clark, Elbert, 106 

Clerkships at Presbyterian-St. Luke's. 167 
Clinical education, 22, 31, 70 
Clinics at University of Chicago, ,80-81 
College of Health Sciences, 169 
Conger, Cornelia, 104 
Cook County Hospital, 8, 19, 21, 87 
Coronary artery thrombosis, 89 
Corwith Memorial Operating Room. 60 
Cotton, Alfred C, 30 

County Hospital. See Cook County Hospital 
Craig, Willis, 23 
Curriculum at Rush, 5, 12, 14, 69-70 

Daley, Richard J., 145 
Danforth, Isaac N.. 41 



212 



GOOD MEDICINE 



Dangler, David W., 171 

David, Vernon, 103, 123, 166 

Davis, Loyal, 143 

Davis, Nathan, 6, 8, 10-17, 27, 32, 55 

Day, Albert M., 98 

de Koven, John, 41 

de Peyster, Frederic, 108, 123, 157, 162, 166 

De Takats, Geza, 140, 142 

Departmental organization, merger and, 140 

Diabetes, 102 

Dick, A. B., 146, 156, 164 

Dick, George F., 80, 96, 101 

Dick, Gladys Henry, 80, 96, 101 

Dienhardt, Friedrich, 162 

Diphtheria, 102 

Dodson, John Milton, 70 

Donnelley, Elliott, 164 

Douglass, Elizabeth, 24 

Dovyie, John Alexander, 86 

Dowling, Harry, 129 

Durand Hospital, 95, 102 

Electrocardiograph, 99, 117 
Engel, Frank, 130 
Etheridge, James, 25, 41, 59 
Evans, John, 8, 10-11 

Faber, Penfield, 143 
Fairbank, Nathaniel K., 42, 44 
Favill, Henry Baird, 50 
Fell, Egbert, 132, 142 
Fellowships at Presbyterian, 135 
Fenger, Christian, 29, 32-35, 57 
Field, Marshall, 42 
Field, Marshall, III, 137 
Flannery, Marvin, 109 
Flexner Report, 93 
Flint, Austin, 5, 7, 9 
Foerster, Alma, 105 
Ford, Gerald R., 156, 180 
Freer, Joseph W., 18, 59 
Friedberg, Stanton A., Sr., 96, 157 
Friend, Hugo M., 162 
Fuller, Melville, 40 

Garber, Sheldon, 179, 180 

Gary, Mrs. John W., 103 

Gatewood, L. C. , 107 

Geriatric Assessment Program, 171 

Germ theory of disease, 25, 26, 27 

Gilchrist, R. K., 103, 107, 123, 162 

Glaser, Robert J., 166 

Goodhue, Josiah, 2 

Graettinger, John, 130, 147, 160, 168 

Greek, Dessie, 102 

Grove, William, 123, 165 

Gunn, Moses, 25-26, 27, 41, 57, 59 



Hagenah, William J., 161, 166 

Haines, Walter S., 29 

Hamill, Robert C., 23 

Harper, William Rainey, 66, 71, 110. 

See also University of Chicago 
Harvey, Basil C, 79, 105 
Hass, George M., 125, 140 
Hay, Walter, 39, 41, 59 
Health Maintenance Organization, 

ANCHOR, 182, 188-89 
Hegyvary, Sue Thomas, 172 
Heidenreich, Dorothy Jane, 144 
Hejna, William, 143, 167, 168 
Hektoen, Ludvig, 36, 86-88, 114 
Henikoff, Leo M., 160, 169, 186-94 
Henry, David D., 165 
Herbst, Robert H., 83 
Herrick, James, 18, 28, 36, 87-91, 113, 

114, 194 
Herrick, William, 7, 9 
Heydock, William O., 41 
Hibbard, Mrs. Frank, 104 
Holmes, A. William, 162 
Holmes, Edward Lorenzo, 16, 29, 30, 59 
Homeopathic medicine, 13 
Hubbard, E. K., 43 
Hutchins, Robert Maynard, 79, 81 
Hyde, James Nevins, 29 

Illinois Cancer Council, 100 

Illinois general Hospital of the Lakes, 8 

Illinois Medical and Surgical Journal, 8 

Illinois Training School for Nurses, 98 

Ingals, E. Fletcher, 66, 110 

Intubations, 103 

Irons, Edwin, 128 

Irons, Ernest E., 76, 89 

Isham, Ralph, 13 

Jaicks, Frederick G., 157 

Jane Murdock Memorial Building, 24, 95 

Jelke Memorial, 145 

Jensik, Robert J., 157 

Johnson, Hosmer, 13 

Johnston, Samuel, 49 

Jones Building of Presbyterian Hospital, 

64, 95 
Jones, Daniel A., 24 
Jones, Josephine, 144 
Judson, Harry Pratt, 72, 106 
Julian, Ormond, 109, 126, 142 

Kara, John M., 105 

Kark, Robert, 130 

Kelly, Frank B., Sr., 162, 163 

Kidston building, 145 

Kimberley, Edmund S., 3 



King, Tuthill, 23 
Klebs, Edwin C, 35 
Klicka, Karl, 132, 144 
Knapp, Moses, 7, 9 
Knox, J. Suydam, 30 
Koch, Robert, 35 
Kretschmer, Herman, 102 

Ladies Aid Society, 24 

Lake Forest University, 36-37, 66 

Lang, Mrs, Gordon, 104 

Lanier, Lyie, 165 

Lashof, Joyce, 175, 176 

LeCount, E. R., 97, 98 

Leiter, Louis, 80 

Lepper, Mark H., 149, 154, 164, 168, 176, 

183 
Lerner, Wayne M., 190 
Lett, Catherine L., 46 
Lewis, Dean, 75, 91, 105 
Locke, Clinton, 38-52, 64 
Lowther, Thomas, 45 
Lyman, Henry, 23, 27-28, 59 
Lyons, Leo, 104 

McArthur, L. L., 33, 106 

McConnell, Madeleine, 119 

McCormick, Cyrus H., 23 

McCormick, John Rockefeller, 95 

McElwee, Nancy Adele, 81 

McFadyen, Douglas A., 125 

McLean, Franklin, 75, 79 

McLennan, Donald R. Jr., 145 

McMillan, Foster, 109, 142 

McMillan, M. Helena, 98, 115 

Medical Enlisted Reserve Corps., 106 

Medical technology, programs in, 174 

Medicine department at Rush, 80, 178 

Melby, Sylvia, 144 

Memorial Institute for Infectious Diseases, 

88, 95 
Merz, Earl, 109 

Mile Square Health Center, 176 
Miles, Sarah, 41, 45 
Miller, C. Philip, 80 
Miller, De Laskie, 29, 30, 59 
Miller, Edwin, 107 
Mitchell, Aha, 26 
Montgomery, Kenneth, 180 
Morse, Mrs. Charles H., Jr., 104 
Muenster, Joseph, 130, 157 
Murdock Memorial building, 24, 95 
Murphy, John B., 29, 32, 33, 34, 118 

Nelson, Bertram G., 166 
Newberry, Walter, 6 
NicoU, Holmes, 107 



Nursing 

merger and, 143-45 

at Presbyterian Hospital, 98-99, 102 

at St. Luke's Hospital, 45-49 

at Rush University, 172 

U.S. Cadet Nurses Corps and, 107 

Oder, Donald R., 149, 160, 184-86 

Ogden, William B., 6 

Oldberg, Eric, 104, 142-43 

Oldberg, Mrs. Eric, 104 

Open-heart surgery, 132 

Organ transplantation, 190 

Otho S. A. Sprague Memorial Institute, 96 

Ott, Mrs. Fentress, 104, 142 

Owens, John E., 41, 47 

Palmer, Walter L., 80 

Parkes, Charles, 25, 26-27, 59 

Pathology, surgery and, 35 

Patients, paying vs. nonpaying, 132, 175 

Payne, Edith, 143, 151 

Pearsons, D. K., 24 

Peck, David Jones, 5 

Phemister, Dallas, B., 80, 94 

Plummer, Samuel, 106 

Pomerantz, Rhoda, 171 

Post, Wilber, 83, 105, 166 

Powell, Edwin, 21 

Preble, Robert B., 50 

Preferred Provider Organization, 188 

Presbyterian Hospital of Chicago, 23-25, 

31, 101, 105-9, 116, 125, 127, 131, 

132, 134, 135, 150, 151 

merger with St. Lukes, 137-49 

nursing at, 98-99 

Rush-University of Chicago merger and, 

82-84 

surgical research at, 126 

University of Illinois and, 121 
Presbyterian Hospital School of Nursing, 

98-99, 143 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's Hospital, 139, 149 
Professional Building, 135, 170 
Pullman, George M., 49 

Quine, William, 29 

ROTC at Rush, 106 
Rafelson, Max E., 168 
Rawson, Frederick H., 74 
Rawson building, 77 
Rea, R. L., 59 
Rehabilitation facilities, 171 
Rhoads, Paul S., 91 
Richter, Richard B., 80 
Ricketts, Howard Taylor, 105 



214 



GOOD MEDICINE 



Rockefeller, John D., 67, 73 

Ross, Joseph Presley, 21, 25, 58, 59 

Rowan, P. J., 29 

Rush Cancer Center, 100 

Rush Home Health Services, 189 

Rush Medical College, 3, 6-7, 13, 15, 19, 

54, 55, 56, 57, 61, 62, 63, 152, 153 

clinical education and, 22, 31, 70, 78 

curriculum of, 5, 12, 14, 69-70 

entrance requirements for, 15, 72 

facilities redevelopment in, 170 

hospital created by, 23 

Lake Forest University and, 36-37, 66 

postwar development of, 122 

reopening of, 164 

South Side campus of. See South Side 

campuses 

student behavior at, 28 

teacher recruiting for, 1 1 

University of Chicago and. See University 

of Chicago 

women's admissions at, 69 

See also Cook County Hospital; 

Presbyterian Hospital 
Rush Model for Nursing, 173 
Rush Occupational Health Network, 189 
Rush University, 154, 155, 192 

nursing program of, 172 
Rush University Academic Facility, 170 
Rush, Benjamin, 2 
Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical 

Center, 158, 159, 165, 166, 168, 179, 

188, 192 
Russe, Henry P., 170, 190 
Rutter, David, 13 
Ryerson, Martin, 72 
Ryerson, Mrs. Joseph T., 44 

Schmidt, Barbara, 144 

Schwartz, Theodore, 130, 136, 140 

Schweppe-Sprague building, 143 

Sedwick, Herbert, 147 

Senn, Nicholas, 31-32, 58, 115 

Shambaugh, George E., Jr., 83 

Shaw, Charles H., 186 

Sheridan Road Hospital, 175 

Shorey, Mrs. Clyde E., 24, 104, 109 

Sickle-cell anemia, 89 

Simpson, John M., 138 

Sippy, Bertram W., 94, 114 

Smith, Harold Byron, Jr., 156, 157, 160, 

179, 184 
South Side campuses, 69, 73, 76-84 
Southwick, Harry, 126 
Speed, Kellogg, 101 
Sprague Institute, 96 
Sprague, Albert A., 96 



St. Luke's Hospital, 38-52, 65, 100, 

105-9, 118, 119, 124 

closing of, 141 

merger with Presbyterian, 137-49 

nursing at, 45-49, 143 

rechartering of, 44 
Stehman, Henry B., 98 
Stewart, Ellen, 106 
Stickney, Mrs. E. H., 49 
Straus, Francis, 32, 94-95, 107 
Stuppy, George, 107, 141, 151 
Surgery, 35, 80, 112 

Taylor, Samuel G., Ill, 100, 131 
Technology, 174, 187 
Temple, John T., 3 
Tice, Frederick, 92 
Todd, George, 46 
Toll, William, 42 
Transplantation, organ, 190 
Trobaugh, Frank, 130 
Trufant, John E., 190 
Tucker, W. Randolph, 164 
Turner, Irene, 164 

U.S. Cadet Nurses Corps, 107 

Uniforms, 135 

University of Chicago, affiliation with 

Rush, 67, 69-70, 72-75, 76-82, 82-85 
University of Illinois 73, 121, 164-65 

Vandervort, Lynnette L., 106 
Verbrugghen, Adrien, 143 

Watson, Mrs. Hathaway, 104 

Weaver, George H., 95 

Weinberg, Milton, Jr., 157 

Wells, H. Gideon, 96, 97, 105 

West Side campus of Rush, 70, 73, 76-84 

Wheeler, Tolman, 45 

Whitehouse, Henry J., 40 

Wiggins, W. S., 162 

Wilder, Russell M., 80 

Williams, Daniel Hale, 51 

Woman's Auxiliary Board, 24, 60 

Woman's boards, 25, 103, 120, 139, 142, 180 

Woman's admissions, 69 

Wood, Arthur M., 164 

Woodward, Frederic, 78-79 

Woodyatt, Rollin T., 101 

World War I, 105-7 

World War II, 107-9 

Young, George B., 137, 147, 156 



'<W; 



It begins with Dr. Daniel Brainard, 
whose recognition of the need for 
highly professional training for physi- 
cians provided quality health care to 
inhabitants of many frontier towns in 
the expanding west. It moves toward 
the present through the era of Dr. 
James Campbell, the architect of the 
merger that united traditions for pa- 
tient care, education and research of 
three Chicago institutions, to today's 
leaders who, like their predecessors, 
are pioneering new ways for health 
care. 

Like any other great institution. 
Rush has had its share of visionaries, 
crusaders, philosophers, pragma- 
tists — and the occasional oddball. The 
telling of their struggles and triumphs 
in the quest for quality health care 
makes lively reading. 



I' SP;( 



600 SC 
CHIC 



Good Medicine: The First 150 Years oj 
Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center 
is Jim Bowman's third institutional or 
corporate history. His Booz, Allen & 
Hamilton, Seventy Years of Client Service: 
1914-1984 was published in 1984, his 
More Than a Coffee Company: The Story of 
CFS Continental, in 1986. A former 
Chicago Daily News reporter and former 
Chicago Tribune columnist. Bowman has 
written on business and historical mat- 
ters for various periodicals, including 
Chicago History, a publication of the 
Chicago Historical Society. He writes 
from his home in Oak Park, Illinois. 



ISBN: 1-55652-015-8 



Of the more than 6,800 hospitals in the United States, about 
450 are teaching hospitals and, of these, only some 120 are 
joined with medical colleges to form academic health centers. 
Over the course of an often tumultuous 150-year history, 
Rush-Presbyterian-St. Luke's Medical Center in Chicago has 
emerged as one of the nation's leaders in this select group of in- 
stitutions with multiple missions in patient care, education and 
research. 

GOOD MEDICINE is the lively account of the strong medical 
personalities and institutions who, since the medical center's 
founding as Rush Medical College in 1837, have led Rush- 
Presbyterian-St. Luke's to its present eminence. 



RUSH-PRESBYTERIAN-ST. LUKE'S 
MEDICAL CENTER