pulses,” he enthused, “without being struck by the extraordinary diversity of frequency, size, character, tension, and force met with.” Of course, Broadbent’s contribution to his field went beyond the crafting of a glossary. During his nearly four decades at St. Mary’s Hospital, he was able to confirm definitively the link between high blood pressure and disease, paying particular note to hypertension in late-stage kidney disease. He was also among the first researchers to elucidate the risks of low blood pressure. In his midsixties William Henry Broadbent was recognized as one of Great Britain’s leading clinicians.
A year after
The Pulse
was published, he was contacted by officials at Buckingham Palace. The queen’s grandson, Prince George of Wales, had come down with typhoid fever, and the doctor’s expertise was requested. He remained in attendance at the prince’s residence for a month, seeing the twenty-six-year-old through to a complete recovery. Not a week had passed before he was summoned yet again. Now one of George’s brothers had been stricken by influenza, and he died in a matter of days. Word reached Dr. Broadbent that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria herself, wished to see him. Somehow I doubt he was expecting a promotion.
“The Queen sent for me about 3, and I had to tell her the whole story of the illness,” he wrote in a letter to his sister, dated January 17, 1892. “She was sitting in an ordinary chair at a writing table, and of course I had to stand. I was there almost exactly an hour and a quarter.” Though he betrays not a whit of emotion in this retelling, the royal visit did go well. Soon thereafter he was appointed Physician Extraordinary to Queen Victoria.
William Broadbent held the queen’s wrist. Now a queen holds mine: one named Ernesto, the physician’s assistant in my doctor’s office. Up to this point on a recent visit, nothing extraordinary has occurred. A good forty minutes after my arrival, Ernesto flung open the inner office door and sang out,
“Willlllllyaaaammm!”
He then weighed me in the hallway, led me into a stuffy cubicle, quizzed me about why I’d come, and just as I was beginning to regret making the appointment—to broach the topic of anti-anxiety medication, no less—something relatively pleasant happened: The room went quiet. It was time for Ernesto to check my pulse.
At that moment it seemed as if a tiny Dr. Broadbent perched atop Ernesto’s hooped earring, whispering instructions in his ear: “Three fingers should be placed on the artery, and it will not be amiss to observe the old-fashioned rule of letting the index finger always be nearest to the heart; the different points with regard to the pulse should then be ascertained, each by a distinct and separate act of attention.”
Ernesto’s technique is flawless: his grip, firm yet gentle; his bare hand warm. Utterly focused, he studies his wristwatch. He stands so close to me, I can feel his pillowy belly at my arm. I have the sensation of being anchored by this heavyset man as he listens with his fingers to my heart. I stop thinking about what brought me here and what Dr. Knox might say. For thirty seconds I am absolutely grounded in present tense.
Then Ernesto looks up from his watch, releases his grip. “Sixty-eight. Heart rate’s sixty-eight,” he says. “Perfectly normal.”
At which point I feel tempted to compliment him back:
How fashion-forward of you to be wearing white clogs,
for instance. But no, I could never say that with a straight face. Anyhow, the moment is lost. He’s already jammed a thermometer into a plastic sleeve and has placed it under my tongue. My pulse appears on my chart as a scribbled number at which Dr. Knox will scarcely glance. Dr. Broadbent would’ve been disappointed.
Today pulse palpation is a central part of an exam only in cases of serious cardiovascular disease. What’s more, in hospitals and many doctors’ offices, beats-per-minute is often
A year after
The Pulse
was published, he was contacted by officials at Buckingham Palace. The queen’s grandson, Prince George of Wales, had come down with typhoid fever, and the doctor’s expertise was requested. He remained in attendance at the prince’s residence for a month, seeing the twenty-six-year-old through to a complete recovery. Not a week had passed before he was summoned yet again. Now one of George’s brothers had been stricken by influenza, and he died in a matter of days. Word reached Dr. Broadbent that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria herself, wished to see him. Somehow I doubt he was expecting a promotion.
“The Queen sent for me about 3, and I had to tell her the whole story of the illness,” he wrote in a letter to his sister, dated January 17, 1892. “She was sitting in an ordinary chair at a writing table, and of course I had to stand. I was there almost exactly an hour and a quarter.” Though he betrays not a whit of emotion in this retelling, the royal visit did go well. Soon thereafter he was appointed Physician Extraordinary to Queen Victoria.
William Broadbent held the queen’s wrist. Now a queen holds mine: one named Ernesto, the physician’s assistant in my doctor’s office. Up to this point on a recent visit, nothing extraordinary has occurred. A good forty minutes after my arrival, Ernesto flung open the inner office door and sang out,
“Willlllllyaaaammm!”
He then weighed me in the hallway, led me into a stuffy cubicle, quizzed me about why I’d come, and just as I was beginning to regret making the appointment—to broach the topic of anti-anxiety medication, no less—something relatively pleasant happened: The room went quiet. It was time for Ernesto to check my pulse.
At that moment it seemed as if a tiny Dr. Broadbent perched atop Ernesto’s hooped earring, whispering instructions in his ear: “Three fingers should be placed on the artery, and it will not be amiss to observe the old-fashioned rule of letting the index finger always be nearest to the heart; the different points with regard to the pulse should then be ascertained, each by a distinct and separate act of attention.”
Ernesto’s technique is flawless: his grip, firm yet gentle; his bare hand warm. Utterly focused, he studies his wristwatch. He stands so close to me, I can feel his pillowy belly at my arm. I have the sensation of being anchored by this heavyset man as he listens with his fingers to my heart. I stop thinking about what brought me here and what Dr. Knox might say. For thirty seconds I am absolutely grounded in present tense.
Then Ernesto looks up from his watch, releases his grip. “Sixty-eight. Heart rate’s sixty-eight,” he says. “Perfectly normal.”
At which point I feel tempted to compliment him back:
How fashion-forward of you to be wearing white clogs,
for instance. But no, I could never say that with a straight face. Anyhow, the moment is lost. He’s already jammed a thermometer into a plastic sleeve and has placed it under my tongue. My pulse appears on my chart as a scribbled number at which Dr. Knox will scarcely glance. Dr. Broadbent would’ve been disappointed.
Today pulse palpation is a central part of an exam only in cases of serious cardiovascular disease. What’s more, in hospitals and many doctors’ offices, beats-per-minute is often
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