Past and present: Sir Ian Hill (1904–1982). A vignette

In 1972, as an aspiring medical student in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, I knocked on the closed door of the Dean’s office at Emperor Haile Selassie I University School of Medicine (a name that would change when the Emperor was deposed midway through my medical studies). The Dean was Sir Ian Hill. As I stood awaiting entry, I could not have imagined that I would 1 day become a fellow of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, an institution that Sir Ian Hill had served as President. Nor could I have imagined that its current President, Andrew Elder, would be a colleague and friend – indeed, I am writing this recollection at his invitation. At the time I met Sir Ian Hill, he had retired from the University of Dundee. Post retirement he had gone on to serve first in Tehran and then in Addis Ababa. At that point he was in his late sixties. There were other British professors at the medical school, heading the anatomy, physiology, and pharmacology departments, and also teaching in the clinical specialties; they had all retired from academic careers in the UK and then come out to teach in Africa, an arrangement that I think was supported by the British Council.

I was born in Ethiopia but of Indian parents who were hired there as teachers. I had all my schooling in Addis Ababa. On finishing my ‘O’ levels, I left for Madras, India, for 2 years of pre-med, and then returned to Ethiopia to rejoin my parents who during that time had been away from Ethiopia on a sabbatical in the United States. I applied to the medical school. The registrar decided that I should repeat the premed course in Ethiopia before entering the medical school class. To me this seemed unreasonable and unnecessary, a waste of a year. I had worked up the courage to see Sir Ian hoping I could appeal a bureaucratic decision made by someone in the registrar’s office. For all I knew, I could be thrown out of Sir Ian’s office for what he deemed an unreasonable request.

The ‘Sir’ in front of the Dean’s name had much to do with my nervousness. I had never seen a knight before, other than the kind in the movies who wore chainmail armour and swung swords and maces. I’m sure I knew nothing of his distinguished career then other than it was distinguished. It was much later that I learned that he studied medicine at Edinburgh, graduating in 1928, and then worked in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with Frank Wilson, laying the foundation for the analysis of ECG evidence of infarction. He also worked with Karl Wenckebach in Vienna before returning first to the University of Aberdeen, then to the University of Edinburgh. During the Second World War, he served in the Middle East and India, rising to the rank of Brigadier. After the war, he spent most of his academic career at the University of Dundee till he retired in 1969.

A voice bid me to enter. I did so with great trepidation. The person behind the desk rose up energetically and held out his hand. Sir Ian was a small man. That was my first impression. I think I naively expected one’s height to be proportional to one’s titles (a rule that applies to the College’s current President!). He wore a neat grey suit, but even so one could see that he had the compact physiognomy of a jockey, and with it the mischievous smile of one who knows the last horse was a nag but the confidence that his next ride will get him into the winner’s circle, a space he was used to occupying. He was grey-haired, with a large nose and a broad forehead that seemed even more expansive because his elegant comb-over left considerable scalp exposed. In any case, the overall effect made me feel a little more at ease. If I had imagined a ‘Sir’ would be haughty, imperial and distant, this one was not. He invited me to sit. I did so. I stammered through my prepared plea. I suspect I pushed some documents across his desk. I wish I recalled every bit of the conversation, but the upshot was that he picked up the phone and spoke to the anatomy professor – another retired British academician – and said he was admitting me to the medical school. Medical school classes were just about to begin. I sensed that the professor at the other end of the line wasn’t particularly pleased. But Sir Ian was firm.

I’m sure I said thank you several times, perhaps too effusively. I left, somewhat dazed by the turn of events. On my way out of the building, I saw a very determined and red-faced man who I later learned was the anatomy professor, marching to the Dean’s office; he glared at me, and I am sure he’d guessed that I was the troublemaker, the last-minute add-on to his class list.

I began that week. We were assigned our bone boxes, our cadavers and classes started. The anatomy professor, Dr. Braithwaite, was one of the best lecturers I ever heard. I still recall his embryology talks. I worked very hard. I had something to prove, and I didn’t want to let Sir Ian down. Six weeks after the first class, after completing the dissection of the upper limb, we had our first oral examination in anatomy. There were two stations, and I arrived at Professor Braithwiaite’s station, where he stood next to a few dissected specimens. He pointed to a long cord like structure in the flayed open forearm, lifting it up with his pencil. ‘What is this?’ I had absolutely no idea! It seemed to start mid-humerus and split into two and run all the way down –it wasn’t a muscle, that much I knew. A nerve? No. ‘It looks like an artery but . . .’

Where does the brachial artery usually divide?

It usually divides at the head of the radius, I said, but it can divide higher up.

‘Yes’. He seemed pleased with that response. He pressed me further and longer than most other students, his countenance lightening as I managed to respond to his questions. I did well at the second station with the other anatomy instructor. When the results were posted that evening, I saw I had the highest marks in the class, alas, a feat I never repeated in subsequent section exams. But at that moment I felt I had vindicated Sir Ian Hill’s judgement.

I had no further interactions with Sir Ian. He was, from what I have read, an extraordinary clinician, but I never saw that side of him. He left within a year, retiring to Scotland for good. I thought about that meeting with him often. Many years later, when visiting the College and being given the tour by Andrew Elder, who was not yet President, I came across a familiar portrait: Sir Ian Hill. He was looking down, smiling. And here I was, come to the College to sign the roll. I like to think that he was pleased that his intervention had paid off.