As regular readers of this blog know Leonard O. Coleman, MD of Navasota, Texas shaped my life as a physician. Leonard came from a family of physicians dating back to the Civil War. Some may find the lives of his pedigree fascinating as we trace the history of American medicine through his family. To set the stage, I will begin with a previously published blog.

He began shaping my life when I was seventeen. My uncle, Binford Weaver, one of his best friends, told him I wanted to be a doctor. A few weeks later, just after midnight, Binford awakened me. “There has been a terrible accident. A man is badly hurt. Do you want to help in surgery?”

Entertain conjecture of a time unburdened by paperwork, a time free of medical malpractice suits, a time when physicians, not the government or insurance companies, determined what was best for the patient, a time when a good history and physical examination preempted diagnostic tests. Contemplate when a simpler time rendered medicine fun and fulfilling.

The push and pull of progress attest that simpler times may be marred by inconvenience. The era you have just imagined had no pagers, no cell phones, no fax machines, no computers, no copiers, and no highway patrol with radar guns. The roads were narrow and poorly marked. The cars had no seat belts.

Under this veil of simplicity, a middle-aged man, taking a curve in a country road too fast, was thrown from his car. A telephone pole made him a wishbone. He entered the operating room with a ripped pelvis, two fractured hips, a ruptured spleen, and assorted other injuries considered major on an ordinary Saturday night. This man’s misadventure introduced me to the mystery, majesty and magic of surgery as, while helping whenever possible, I watched Leonard Outlar Coleman, MD perform miracles.

After that I worked as his surgical assistant for four summers. In addition to performing routine gall bladders, appendectomies, and bowel and bladder surgery, we also repaired abdominal aneurisms, and patched those gored by bulls, thrown from horses, flipped by tractors, bit by mules and hit over the head with beer bottles.

I went with him on house calls. I sat up with him at night watching over gravely ill patients. I was there when he told the family that their loved one had inoperable cancer and when we visited the homes of those who had died. I helped with autopsies and worked in his lab. By the time I was in medical school, I had seen and done more than a first year surgical resident.

Leonard Outlar Coleman, MD, trained at Barnes Hospital and Washington Medical School, was the best surgical technician I ever knew. I saw him perform miracles just about every week. His hands were powerful and steady, always steady.  He worked methodically and meticulously. Like a chess master, he had five or six moves planned ahead.

He was always on the offensive, defeating disease, death, and destruction. He never hurried, yet he finished his cases in record time. I never saw him flustered or tired. After a long night of trauma surgery, I, a vigorous and robust teenager, had a sore back and aching legs crying for bed. His power of endurance engendered eagerness for beginning the daytime scheduled surgery.   

I have seen him disappointed and sad when the cancer won or a family grieved. He felt, I think, misunderstood and unappreciated at times. Or perhaps those were my sentiments. I knew that the community had no idea that a surgical Michelangelo lived among them. He was such a humble man that I doubt even he knew his greatness.

I was not blinded to his faults. He was sloppy. Each new day his hair competed with his clothes for most rumpled. He slumped. He chain-smoked. You could find him by following his cigarette ashes. He managed time haphazardly.

He was inarticulate at times and outside of the surgical suite perhaps a little too passive. No that’s not correct–his humility made him seem passive. Although he pioneered several surgical techniques and treatment approaches, no one ever knew it because he was the least of self-promoters, if that’s a fault.   

But just about everyone loved him. He was so warm, so unassuming, and so funny, so dedicated to his craft that he enchanted all he met. He had a hint of family gentility, a trace of romantic idealism and an ingrained courtesy that emanated from him towards everyone. A Christian who lived his creed, he believed that human beings were immortal sacred souls.

Leonard’s genetic pool was of the highest sort. Both maternal and paternal sides of the family possessed the values found in deep Christian commitment made manifest in public service. From the practice of medicine, Leonard’s family brought the rich lode of Christian ideas of service, Christian imagery, and biblical knowledge.

In the next blog I will begin with the history of early American medicine and after tracing medicine through Leonard’s family, I will conclude with stories from Leonard’s remarkable career.