I read that 'Lee has lost his chance to study medicine'. I was robbed
of that long ago
I made a clear and conscious decision to enrol at school as it was the
only course of action
LET ME state first of all that I did supply Dundee University with
false information when I applied for entry to the medical course in
1994. Specifically, I presented myself as Brandon Lee, ne June 4, 1977,
whereas I was in fact born on June 3, 1963, and christened Brian Lachlan
MacKinnon.
I originally left school (Bearsden Academy) after my fifth year in
1980 and went up to Glasgow University to study medicine. I was happy
and I felt sure that medicine was the right path for me.
I cannot remember an exact date, but I remember that it was in the
winter of 1980 that I began to feel unwell. At first, I thought it was
some minor flu bug, but on the very few occasions that I had had flu, I
had usually felt heavy-headed for a couple of days, then taken a Disprin
and sweated it out of my system. However, these symptoms progressed
differently. I was thirsty much of the time; I was losing weight (almost
three stones until my lowest ebb). Increasingly I could concentrate on
neither book learning nor conversation; and most memorably of all I
seemed to want to sleep much of the time.
I remember first infectious mononucleosis and then a virus called
coxsackie being mentioned by my GP, but I do not believe that any blood
test was undertaken during that period. In any case, I chose, perhaps
mistakenly, to keep my head down and try and get on with things. I felt
that by broaching such a matter with my adviser of studies, in my first
year, would do me no favours.
In the summer term of the 1980/81 academic year, I failed all three of
my first MB Ch B Professional examinations. At that time, I felt
seriously unwell for the first time in my life and I was not sure what
would become of me. I think that what helped me most was being called to
the then Dean's office. He read me glowing excerpts from my school
report, smiled kindly, and told me to go off and show what I could
really do. His name was (Professor) McGirr, but mostly I remember his
eyes; old and wise and benign and framed under bushy eyebrows.
For the duration of the summer, I timetabled myself to take as much
sleep as I might. Beyond that, I devoted all the time I could to forcing
myself to study. Whereas before, I had been quick to learn, I now found
it almost impossible to focus on anything; but I was inspired by what
this old man had said and how he had said it. In September, I passed all
three resit examinations.
Shortly afterwards, and before the second year began, I have a vivid
recollection of being driven to Loch Fyne with my family. I am only very
occasionally given to strong emotion, but I remember crying to myself
when I saw the sea and the hills. I realised that I had seen neither all
summer and my heart felt low and I was sure that I would die.
However, I did not die. I sense that what saved me was that the
experience of the summer had somehow broken my will, thereby whatever
pathology afflicted me was able to run its course and eventually be
dealt with by my immune system, itself now unhindered by the stress of
self-concern.
I became like a zombie, still losing weight, enervated, and sleeping
for long periods.
From more or less the beginning of the second year I could not attend
classes. I do not remember much about the following year to 18 months,
although the memory of a few events stay with me. At one point I was
asked for an interview with the new Dean, Professor Jennett, and the
Adviser of Studies, Dr Holmes. Physically, it was a tremendous effort to
leave my house and go and see them, but I managed it; perhaps motivated
by the expectation that having seen how I actually was (and not just the
report from my GP) they would afford me the leave that I required to
recover.
It was immediately apparent to me that their adopted position was
quite in contrast to my expectations. They were aggressively
unsympathetic. What marks that interview out as one of the worst
experiences of my life -- worse even than the position in which I now
find myself -- is the frustration at not being able to defend myself
against the verbal equivalent of being set upon by hyenas. Before
becoming unwell, I had always been blessed with quick wits and strong
articulation; but these qualities were far removed from me at that time.
All I remember clearly was their repeated demand for me to withdraw
from the course and my oft-repeated ''No!''. In fairness to them, they
may have thought, on the basis of my lack of lucidity, that they were
dealing with a simpleton; but they surely knew that I was not well. They
were nevertheless insistent that if I did not voluntarily withdraw from
the medical course, I would be excluded on the spot with no chance of
future re-admission.
Unable to tolerate any more browbeating, I eventually signed the
document that they had put in front of me. Thereafter, I was shunted
first to a clinician (Mr Brebner), then a psychiatrist (Mr Cheyne), and
finally, far from fully recovered, I was excluded from medicine.
Some time later, I remember seeing another psychiatrist (suggested to
me, I believe, by a local politician -- I pursued as many avenues as I
might to redress the decision to exclude me) in order to try to gain
some manner of restoration of my position, following its dismemberment
by the university psychiatrist.
I had to travel by train to near Edinburgh in order to meet this man.
I do not recall his name but what he promised to be a most favourable
re-evaluation of my mental state is probably still on record at Glasgow
University Medical Faculty. I seem to recall that it was with him that I
discussed my horror at labelling me obsessional.
Words, used skilfully, are tremendously powerful. Indeed I, myself, am
using them as best as I might here, in some tenuous (and probably
forlorn) hope that I might hold to the path that I feel, so strongly, is
right for me; however, few words hold such sway in our culture as do
psychiatric terms. Their connotations for the lay person are potent and
if one is even known to have visited (or in my case, in the first
instance, to have been, most conveniently, ''sent to'') a psychiatrist,
one is thereafter precluded from much.
The detail of our conversation now elude me, but I trust that I made
it manifestly clear to him that I was not interested in trying to ''be
someone'' -- Dr, Mr, Professor, or whatever -- I simply felt that in
considering my talents and my strong vocation to somehow help others
some area of medical practice was the destination towards which I ought
to head.
Three years later, in 1986, while working as a library assistant at
Glasgow University main library I heard that the university science
faculty had a dearth of applications. I took no pleasure in my work, but
I performed it diligently, and the head librarian was kind enough to
write me a glowing report, when I went for interview at the Science
Faculty.
I undertook the science degree (financing myself without grant for the
first two years) with the sole aim in view of performing well enough to
re-route back into medicine at the earliest opportunity, either at
Glasgow or elsewhere.
With the advantage of hindsight, I realise that this was foolhardy. In
previously refusing to acquiesce to the combined wills of Professor
Jennett and those around him, I had contributed to a situation in which
my name was mud. In any case, I performed very well throughout the first
two years, gaining certificates of merit (some first class), where
available. I had one fail in the third term of second year, in half
Higher Ordinary Chemistry.
Sometime before the exam, the chemistry department had encouraged me
to enter an essay competition run by Spillers Foods and open to all
undergraduates studying science subjects in British universities. I
suppose I spent too much time on researching and writing the essay and
somewhat neglected to study for what seemed to be a minor examination.
In any case, I passed the resit with flying colours and won (jointly)
the essay competition. I received #500 and had it published in Food
Science and Technology Today.
Despite my academic record and glowing reports from the science
faculty adviser of studies I still received no offers of a place in any
of the medical schools to which I applied. At the end of the second year
I applied to specialise in immunology, beginning the following term. I
imagined that this might be the subject most commensurate with going on
to study medicine. I was however, refused a place. The reason given was
that despite an otherwise outstanding academic record, I had failed half
Higher Ordinary Chemistry and it was not departmental policy to accept
students who had failed in any subject.
Hence, with third year soon to begin, I found myself with no place in
any course. I almost walked away at that point. However, via a meeting
with Dr Lackie, a cell biologist, I was introduced to Professor Whaley,
who ran the then newly-offered Experimental Pathology course. He was
glad to offer me a place. At the end of the third year one is simply
told whether one has passed or failed (no merit system). I passed.
Still, there came no interviews or offers of a place in medicine from
any of the schoools to which I applied.
In the fourth year, I applied again to Glasgow and other universities
and I think that it was in that year that Glasgow finally asked me for
interview. The aforementioned reality of my name being ''mud'' had long
since dawned upon me and my hopes of readmission were diminishing.
Today, I read from Wednesday's Herald, the headline '' 'Lee' has lost
his chance to study medicine''. I was robbed of that chance a long time
ago .
Approximately one month before my final exams I discovered upon
visiting the faculty office that my application had been unsuccessful. I
had not even received a letter from them. At that point I did give up
and informed Professor Whaley of my decision. Professor MacSween, the
head of pathology, called me at home soon afterwards and was insistent
that I take the finals, as a first or an upper second would yet provide
me with the possibility of going on to study medicine.
I took his advice and felt very good about my performance in the
finals. Immediately afterwards, by way of winding down, I went climbing
in Skye and then in the far North of Scotland (Ben Hope) with three
friends.
Upon calling home one day, my mother told me that Professor MacSween
had called and wanted to see me. At interview, he told me that there was
a problem with the comprehension of my handwriting in one of my papers.
I thought he was joking at first and that he had really called me to
discuss something else. However, he seemed to be in earnest. I conceded
that I had been up late studying the night before and I may have been a
little tired, but there was surely no way my handwriting could not be
read.
Later, Professor Whaley spoke with my mother on the telephone and said
that aside from this point of contention, much else of my work in the
exam was of the standard of a good first.
Later in the summer of 1990, our car was hit by a driver who had been
drinking. My grandmother lost her eye and died 12 days later, my mother
had three fractured ribs. I had whiplash and was largely housebound for
some months.
During that time, I considered what else I might do with my life, but
nothing would come to me except to try to study medicine abroad. I
enrolled in a biosciences B Sc course at Caledonian University. I
performed well and Dr Kinsman, who organised the course, wrote me a
report. I applied to many universities around the world. Two showed
interest, but no firm offers were forthcoming.
During the spring of 1991 my father began to have problems with
swallowing his food. He was treated by his GP for indigestion, but the
problem worsened to the point where he could no longer retain his food.
At my mother's insistence, he was sent for tests at Glasgow's Western
Infirmary. There, a stricture was discovered and his oesophagus was
widened by mechanical means. The pathology report (of the biopsy) from
the department where I used to study came back negative. My father was
sent home and my mother told to stop worrying, as ''there was absolutely
nothing wrong with him''.
As you know, I have no medical qualifications (although I did study
oncology, as part of the experimental pathology course), but even I
could see that there was something seriously wrong with him. One week
later, my father was again sent for tests at the Western accompanied by
a letter from his GP ('' . . . at the insistence of his wife I am
sending him for re-examination''). The following day we were told that
he had cancer of the oesophagus. One can only conclude that the
diagnosis had been missed first time around.
A prognosis of three months' survival time was intimated to my mother
-- he died 11 months later. With respect to what I have done since then
I feel that there are three events relating to this episode which
provided me with the impetus to proceed as I did.
In the first instance, I lived with my parents in a sheltered housing
complex at 15 Jedworth Court in Bearsden, after I returned from Canada.
There my mother worked for some 16 years as warden. When the dosage of
morphine given to control my father's pain was increased to a level
where he became bedridden, we converted the downstairs room, adjacent to
the living-room, into a bedroom for him. The onset of my father's
illness coincided with the time of my mother's retirement. Shortly
before his becoming bedridden they were offered a flat up two flights of
stairs. At this time my father, who had already had a hip replacement,
could walk on flat ground only with difficulty. Stairs were
insurmountable.
Soon afterwards representatives of Strathclyde Regional Council came
to visit my mother. I was sitting by my father's bed and through the
thin walls I overheard them serve an eviction notice on her -- this in
spite of her having, earlier in the conversation, explained that my
father was dying of cancer. As it was, she later successfully resisted
the eviction action at Dumbarton Sheriff Court and won reasonable
accommodation at 11 Whitehurst. My father died before he moved here.
In the second instance, my mother was concerned that my dad should not
be told bluntly of his prospects. There was little doubt that he knew
his cancer was inoperable (a bypass tube was fitted around part of his
oesophagus, as a temporary measure), but having been married to him for
more than 40 years she knew how his plight should be managed.
The consultant surgeon was sensitive to this, but when she phoned to
discuss the matter with one of the GPs in the local practice he was
adamant that any inquiry from my father, as his condition worsened,
would meet with a forthright response.
These first two events moved me to consider that the so-called
''caring'' professions -- my mother worked for the social services
department of SRC -- were populated by many people who were neither
caring, nor particularly professional.
I determined to make one last attempt to study for a medical degree;
however, aged 29 and with my particular background I realised that there
was no realistic possibility of my so doing in straightforward fashion.
It was at that point that I undertook to employ essentially dishonest
means to achieve this purpose.
''Falsification'' always has an unsavoury ring to it. I was willing to
falsify documents in order to clear a way on my chosen path, which had
hitherto been blocked by a bludgeoning and unconcerned system. Medical
ethics, however, constitute a code of conduct for those who have been
afforded a fair opportunity (as I believe I have not) to complete their
medical studies.
My resolve along these lines was consolidated by a third important
event during this time.
Shortly before morphine finally robbed him of his ability to
elucidate, my father started to speak to me about confidence. He was
rambling somewhat, but he said that he had never lost confidence, except
once. It was the morning after the Cheapside whisky bond disaster when,
as a fireman coming on early duty, he discovered some of his friends'
bodies in the aftermath of the explosion.
Our natures were so different in several ways that I could not fully
understand what he meant. I asked him if he thought that I might yet
fulfil some purpose in life which was meaningful for me. He replied: ''I
think that everybody has their day''. To the outside listener this might
have been interpreted as meaning that I had already had mine. But I
would stress that I was intensely cognisant that I was having my final
conversation with my Dad and hence I was listening more with my heart
than my ears. I saw with clarity that I should proceed with this idea
that I had been entertaining. Much of the rest is a matter of record.
There remain of course a number of points which I feel obliged to
clear up:
(A) I made a clear and conscious decision to re-enrol at school as I
felt it was the only course of action left open to me to resume my
studies in medicine.
(B) Of the secondaries within reasonable commuting distance none
seemed interested in taking pupils from outwith their catchment area.
With May drawing to a close I had no option but to return to my original
school.
(C) I do not possess two passports, I did not have a brawl in a
Tenerife bar, and I was not and have never been arrested.
I am truly sorry for any adverse effect caused by me to the university
and Bearsden Academy. I appreciate the kindness shown me both at the
school and at Dundee University. My family have been, and as I write,
still are, under siege by the media -- I was on holiday abroad when this
story broke and returned as soon as I could -- and to put an end to this
I have decided to speak to one newspaper -- for no payment.
[CPYR] Caledonian Newspapers Ltd 1995 and Brian MacKinnon 1995. All
rights reserved. No part of the material on this page may be recorded or
transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the copyright holders.
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