Incredible Fabric Womb Mannequin Designed by Angelique Marguerite Le Boursier du Coudray in the 18th Century

In the 18th century, childbirth remained a harrowing and often deadly experience. Across Europe, countless women and infants died due to the absence of medical knowledge and skilled care. Against this backdrop, Angélique Marguerite Le Boursier du Coudray emerged as a bold and transformative figure.

Born in 1712, she became one of France’s most respected midwives at a time when few women had access to formal education. But rather than limit her work to private practice, du Coudray made it her mission to train others, aiming to bring safe childbirth techniques to the most underserved corners of the country.

With the support of King Louis XV in 1759, du Coudray embarked on a nationwide campaign to educate rural midwives and surgeons. For over two decades, she traveled from village to village, teaching practical childbirth skills through demonstrations and lectures. Most revolutionary of all was her invention of a life-sized birthing mannequin, crafted from fabric and leather, which allowed students to practice procedures in a realistic yet safe setting. This innovation marked one of the earliest uses of simulation in medical training and dramatically improved the quality of maternal care.

Her influence was both immediate and lasting. Du Coudray’s teachings helped reduce maternal and infant deaths, and her 1773 publication, Abrégé de l’Art des Accouchements, became a foundational text for generations of midwives. Though largely forgotten in popular history, she stands as a pioneer in medical education, a champion of women’s health, and a figure who reshaped childbirth practices with compassion, intellect, and ingenuity.

Angélique Marguerite Le Boursier du Coudray

In the 1930s, Robert E. Cornish Constructed a Bizarre Tilting Table to Reverse Death

Born Robert Edwin Cornish on December 21, 1903, in California (often associated with San Francisco or Berkeley), Cornish showed exceptional intelligence from a young age. He graduated from high school at 15, earned honors from the University of California, Berkeley at 18, and received his doctorate (Ph.D. or medical-related degree) by age 22. He was licensed to practice medicine around age 21.

Early in his career, Cornish worked as a researcher at Berkeley, exploring topics like reading glasses, heavy water isolation, and other scientific projects. However, by around 1932, he became obsessed with the idea of resuscitating the dead. He believed that clinical death was not necessarily irreversible if circulation and oxygenation could be restored quickly enough before irreversible brain damage occurred. His work was partly inspired by contemporary experiments in Russia and elsewhere on resuscitation, but his approach was highly unorthodox.

The See-Saw (Teeterboard) Method

The cornerstone of Cornish’s technique was a large teeterboard or see-saw-like tilting table (sometimes called a teeter-totter). The idea was to use gravity and rhythmic rocking to artificially circulate blood in a body whose heart had stopped. The subject (human cadaver or animal) was strapped supine (on their back) to the pivoting board.

The board was rocked vigorously back and forth, alternating the head-up/feet-down and head-down/feet-up positions. This created a pendulum-like effect to move blood toward the brain and vital organs. At the same time, he injected a mixture into a vein (often in the thigh), typically including: epinephrine (adrenaline) to stimulate the heart; anticoagulants like heparin (or liver extract) to prevent blood clotting; oxygenated saline solution mixed with some blood or other stimulants.

Additional steps often included artificial respiration (e.g., breathing into the mouth) and manual rubbing of the body.

Cornish theorized that if intervention happened within minutes of clinical death (before full rigor or extensive brain damage), revival might be possible.

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Polio Patient Flossie Rogers Looking at the World Through the Mirror of Her Iron Lung in June 1957

In June 1957, a nurse gently held a mirror for Flossie Rogers, a young woman recovering from the debilitating effects of polio. At a time when the disease still struck fear across communities, Flossie was one of many whose life had been dramatically altered. Confined to a hospital bed and facing an uncertain future, the simple act of seeing her own reflection symbolized a moment of hope and humanity during a long and painful journey toward recovery.

Flossie’s battle with polio was not just physical, it was emotional and deeply personal. Long months of therapy, isolation, and dependence on others marked her experience. Yet it was the compassion of nurses, their tireless care and quiet strength, that left the most lasting impression on her. That mirror held up by a nurse wasn’t just about vanity; it was a gesture of dignity, reminding Flossie that she was still herself, still whole, even in the midst of suffering.

Inspired by the care she received, especially the compassion shown by nurses, she went on to become a nurse herself in the same hospital where she had been treated. She reportedly worked as a nurse for about 35 years, focusing on patient dignity and providing the kind of empathetic care that had helped her.

One circulating detail notes that she died in 2018 at the age of 84, and her obituary highlighted her long nursing career and survival of polio, though it did not specifically mention the mirror incident.

Vibration Therapy Treatment for Headaches, ca. 1895

Headaches have troubled humans for millennia, long before modern medicine provided effective treatments. One of the strangest historical remedies comes from the 1890s: vibration therapy. This involved placing a patient’s head inside a helmet and then striking a metal anvil beneath it with a mallet, sending vibrations through the skull. Whether this method actually eased pain or simply stunned the sufferer into silence remains unclear, but it highlights the desperate and sometimes bizarre lengths people went to in order to find relief from chronic headaches.

In the Middle Ages, treatments were equally harsh. Migraines were often addressed by applying opium soaked in vinegar to the patient’s nostrils or temples using a sponge. This method aimed to sedate the sufferer, not only dulling the pain but inducing unconsciousness. Such treatments were risky and reflected a time when managing pain meant suppressing symptoms rather than curing the underlying causes. The line between healing and harm was thin, and relief often came at a significant cost.

Going even further back, ancient cultures practiced trepanation, a procedure that involved drilling or scraping a hole into the skull to “release evil spirits” or relieve pressure believed to cause headaches. Dating back as far as 7000 BCE, trepanation was performed across various continents despite its dangers and high fatality rates.

Today, by contrast, a simple dose of paracetamol or ibuprofen can relieve headaches quickly and safely. This stark evolution from anvils and opium to over-the-counter painkillers reflects humanity’s enduring struggle with pain and the gradual advancement of medical science.

Tsar Nicholas II’s Daughters Proudly Showing Their Bald Heads in 1917

During World War I, the four daughters of Tsar Nicholas II — Olga, Tatiana, Maria, and Anastasia — contracted measles in early 1917, which caused them to lose their hair. They shaved their heads as a practical response to the hair loss caused by the illness.

This happened during an already tumultuous time: the family was under enormous strain as the war dragged on and revolutionary pressure mounted in Russia. The girls were photographed bald, and these images became some of the more striking personal records of the Romanov family in their final years.

It was a fairly common practice at the time to shave the head when recovering from illnesses like measles or typhus, as it made caring for the patient easier and avoided the patchy, uneven hair loss that the fever caused. The photographs, taken by their French tutor Pierre Gilliard, show the princesses looking quite cheerful despite everything. In his diary, Gilliard noted that the sisters typically wore scarves to hide their heads, but on this day, they playfully whipped them off at a signal from Olga to surprise him and their parents.

By the time the family was executed in July 1918, their hair had grown back to roughly shoulder length.

The “Death Diary” of Renowned Herpetologist Karl P. Schmidt in 1957

In 1957, renowned herpetologist Karl P. Schmidt documented his own death in a meticulous scientific account that newspapers later dubbed his “death diary.” After being bitten by a juvenile boomslang (Dispholidus typus), he refused medical treatment, choosing instead to record the clinical progression of the venom's effects until he lost consciousness.

On September 25, 1957, while identifying a 30-inch snake at the Chicago Natural History Museum (now the Field Museum), the snake bit Schmidt on the fleshy part of his left thumb. Schmidt wrongly believed a juvenile, rear-fanged snake could not deliver a lethal dose to a human. When colleagues urged him to seek help, he reportedly replied that medical intervention would “interfere with the symptoms” he was observing.

“I took it from Dr. Robert Inger without thinking of any precaution, and it promptly bit me on the fleshy lateral aspect of the first joint of the left thumb,” Schmidt wrote in his journal. 

Over the next day, he documented a terrifying sequence of symptoms: nausea, chills, gum bleeding, fever, and urination of blood. He maintained his routine, eating meals and taking the train home while recording every detail with meticulous precision. Even his breakfast the following morning was logged, complete with a note about continued bleeding from his mouth and nose, which he understated as “not excessive”—a chilling understatement, as it would be the last word he ever wrote.

September 25, afternoon: He noted the bite, described the snake, and recorded early mild symptoms before taking the train home.

September 26, 6:30 AM: He ate cereal, poached eggs on toast, applesauce, and coffee for breakfast, and noted continuous bleeding from the mouth and nose, though “not excessively.” “Excessively” was the last word Schmidt wrote.

After lunch, he vomited, called his wife, and soon became unresponsive. Despite attempts to revive him, Schmidt was pronounced dead at 3 PM. Schmidt was advised to seek medical help just hours before he died, but refused, saying “No, that would upset the symptoms.”

Boomslang venom causes disseminated intravascular coagulation, a condition in which so many small clots form in the blood that the victim loses the ability to clot further and bleeds to death. Schmidt’s autopsy revealed extensive internal bleeding. When he was brought into the hospital, he was bleeding from his eyes, lungs, kidneys, heart, and brain.

Boomslang antivenom is monovalent, it only works for boomslangs, and it certainly was not available in Chicago in the 1950s. However, in 2017, venom researchers tested a modern antivenom similar to what would have been available to Schmidt at the time and found it did a decent job neutralizing several deadly proteins in the boomslang venom. They noted that reducing the activity of a venom by even 25 percent can mean the difference between life and death.

Schmidt’s death raised awareness of the potential toxicity of rear-fanged colubrid snakes to the scientific community, resulting in a number of important studies in the 1960s and 1970s. His meticulous final diary remains one of the most extraordinary first-person scientific documents ever recorded — a scientist, true to his calling, observing nature even as it killed him.

Paul Karason, a Man Made Famous After His Skin Turned Permanently Blue in the 1990s

Paul Karason, famously known as the “Blue Man” or “Papa Smurf,” began his transformation in the early to mid-1990s due to self-medication with colloidal silver.

In the early 1990s, Karason was fair-skinned and freckled. Seeking a cure for various ailments, including chronic sinusitis, dermatitis, and acid reflux, he began consuming homemade colloidal silver. Using a battery-powered device, he brewed a solution of silver particles suspended in water. He drank approximately 10 ounces of this liquid daily and also applied a silver-based preparation topically to his face.

Over several years, the silver particles accumulated in his body tissues. When exposed to light, these silver deposits underwent a chemical reaction similar to photography, permanently turning his skin a deep bluish-gray.

Karason claimed he did not realize his skin had changed color until an old friend visited in the late 1990s and asked what he had on his face, thinking it was “camouflage makeup.” While the condition developed in the 1990s, he remained a recluse for years. He gained international fame in 2008 after appearing on the Today show and The Oprah Winfrey Show to discuss his condition.

Paul Karason died in 2013 at the age of 62. His death was caused by a heart attack that led to pneumonia and a severe stroke, which doctors stated was unrelated to his blue skin.

The Tragedy Story of Mary Mallon, aka “Typhoid Mary”

Mary Mallon (1869–1938), better known as Typhoid Mary, was the first person in the United States identified as an asymptomatic carrier of typhoid fever. An Irish immigrant and talented cook, she spent nearly three decades in forced isolation after being linked to multiple deadly outbreaks of the disease.

Mallon (foreground) in a hospital bed in 1909.

Born in Ireland in 1869, Mary Mallon immigrated to the United States in 1883. She was a talented cook for wealthy families in New York, a profession she took great pride in. Between 1900 and 1907, she worked for several households; in almost every one, family members and staff fell ill with typhoid fever shortly after her arrival. What made Mallon unique was that she never showed symptoms. While her employers suffered from high fevers and delirium, Mallon appeared perfectly healthy.

In 1906, after an outbreak in a vacation home in Oyster Bay, Long Island, a sanitary engineer named George Soper was hired to find the source. Soper eventually linked the various outbreaks to one common denominator: the cook.

Soper famously deduced that Mallon’s peach ice cream was likely the culprit. Because the dessert was made with raw fruit and not heated, the bacteria she carried (Salmonella typhi) remained alive and was passed to those who ate it. When Soper finally confronted Mallon, she was outraged. To her, a woman who had never been sick, the idea that she was a “walking germ factory” seemed like a malicious lie or a religious persecution.

Poster depiction of “Typhoid Mary” (1909).

Mallon did not go quietly. When health officials and police arrived to take her for testing, she reportedly fought them off with a carving fork and had to be physically restrained. Tests eventually confirmed she was shedding massive amounts of typhoid bacteria from her gallbladder.

Mallon was forcibly quarantined on North Brother Island in the East River for three years (1907–1910). She was eventually released by a new health commissioner under one strict condition: she must never work as a cook again. However, she struggled with the low wages of laundry work and remained unconvinced of her “carrier” status. She disappeared from the authorities’ radar and returned to cooking under the alias “Mary Brown.” In 1915, she caused a major outbreak at Sloane Maternity Hospital in Manhattan, infecting 25 people and killing two.

Mary Mallon, better known as Typhoid Mary, sits fourth from right among a group of inmates quarantined on an isolated island on the Long Island Sound.

After the hospital outbreak, public sympathy for Mary evaporated. She was returned to North Brother Island, where she remained in forced isolation for the rest of her life, another 23 years. She was quite active until 1932, when she suffered a stroke; afterwards, she was confined to the hospital. She never completely recovered, and half of her body remained paralyzed.

On November 11, 1938, she died of pneumonia at age 69. Mallon’s body was cremated, and her ashes were buried in at Saint Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx. Nine people attended the funeral. Some sources claim that an autopsy found evidence of live typhoid bacteria in Mallon’s gallbladder. Soper wrote, however, that there was no autopsy, a claim cited by other researchers to assert a conspiracy to calm public opinion after her death.

Civil War Veteran Samuel Decker Posing With Prosthetic Arms He Designed Himself, ca. 1867

Samuel H. Decker (1813–1894) was a Union artilleryman during the American Civil War who became famous for designing his own highly functional prosthetic arms after a devastating combat injury.

In October 1862, during the Battle of Perryville, Kentucky, Decker was serving in the 4th U.S. Artillery when his gun prematurely exploded while he was reloading. The accident resulted in the traumatic loss of both his forearms.

Dissatisfied with the simple, non-functional prosthetics available at the time, Decker spent three years (1862–1865) conceptualizing a superior alternative. While he could not physically build them himself due to his injury, he sketched the designs and supervised their construction, reportedly guiding his wife or other skilled craftsmen to complete the mechanical limbs.

His prosthetics were mechanical and functional rather than merely cosmetic. They allowed him to perform delicate daily tasks, including feeding and dressing himself, carrying packages, and even picking up objects as small as a pin. Remarkably, he used the devices to relearn how to write legibly.

In 1867, the Army Medical Museum in Washington, D.C., invited him to demonstrate his invention, which was officially documented as “hitherto unrivaled for ingenuity and utility.”

Decker’s independence and the dexterity afforded by his prosthetics led to a long post-war career as a doorman (doorkeeper) for the U.S. House of Representatives. Historical accounts note that he was once a “formidable police officer” in the Congressional gallery, successfully handling disorderly individuals despite his disability. 

In the Late and Early 20th Centuries, Hospitals Often Featured Sun Decks Where Patients Could Bask in Natural Sunlight

Old hospitals, especially those built from the late 19th century through the mid-20th century, often had sun decks, rooftop terraces, or open verandas because of the then-prevailing belief in the healing power of sunlight and fresh air.

Before antibiotics and advanced medical treatments, sunlight therapy (heliotherapy) was widely believed to help patients recover from a range of illnesses — especially tuberculosis, pneumonia, and skin diseases. Doctors thought that exposure to sunlight could kill germs, strengthen the body, and improve mood. Hospitals often placed beds and reclining chairs on sun decks so patients could rest outdoors daily.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, medical architecture emphasized fresh air circulation to reduce infection and “stale air” — thought to spread disease. Sanatoriums for TB patients were often built in mountains or seaside areas, with wide balconies and open porches. General hospitals copied this design, incorporating open-air wards or roof gardens.

Architects and doctors worked together to design hospitals that were bright, airy, and uplifting — a reaction against the dark, crowded hospitals of earlier times. You’ll see sun decks on hospitals built between the 1900s and the 1940s, often with south-facing terraces for maximum sunlight. This was part of the “pavilion plan” — separating wards to improve airflow and prevent cross-infection.

By the 1950s–60s, antibiotics, air conditioning, and modern infection control made sun decks less necessary. Hospitals moved toward enclosed, climate-controlled designs, prioritizing equipment and efficiency over open-air recovery spaces.

Traditional African Cupping Therapy Using Buffalo Horns

In traditional African medicine, a form of cupping therapy was practiced long before modern glass or silicone cups were introduced. Instead of using cups, healers used hollowed-out buffalo horns. These horns were heated and then placed on the skin to create suction, drawing out what was believed to be toxins or bad energy from the body. This method not only reflects the deep medicinal knowledge of ancient African cultures but also highlights how natural materials were skillfully adapted for healing purposes.

Here’s a few facts on the history of Cupping Therapy and Hijama Therapy:

• Cupping therapy is mentioned in the Ebers Papyrus, an Egyptian compilation of medical texts dating around 1550 B.C & it's practice is documented in hieroglyphics.

• Hippocrates, the father of medicine, and Galen, the greatest physician of Ancient Greek medicine, mentioned wet cupping in their teachings for its benefits of removal of toxic substances from the body.

• Animal horns, bamboo, glass and bronze were materials historically used for the therapy. Fire often used to create negative topical pressure or suction created with the mouth. In the modern day mechanical pumps and plastic cups are commonly used.

• Cupping therapy is part of the Ancient Chinese Medicine tradition. The earliest records of cupping in ancient China was found written in Bo Shu ancient book written on silk. The text were buried 186 BC found in a tomb of the Han Dynasty.

• Ojibwa women of Native America performed wet cupping for headaches and body using cattle horns. Whether or not the therapy was introduced by Euro-American physicians is unknown.

• Although it predates Islam, Al-Hijama Therapy or wet cupping was practiced & emphasized in the Sunnah or Prophetic Teachings of Muhammad:

“I did not pass by an angel from the angels on the night journey except that they all said to me ‘upon your nation is Hijama.’” (Sunan ibn Maajah, 3477)  

“The best medicine with which you treat yourselves is Hijama.” (Al Bukhari, 5371)

A Medicine Man With His Wagon Traveling Farm to Farm Across the Prairies in the US, ca. 1900s

At the dawn of the 20th century, long before modern medicine reached the far corners of the countryside, a solitary figure would appear on the horizon, his silhouette outlined against the setting sun. He was the medicine man, a wandering healer who traveled from one lonely farm to the next, his horse-drawn wagon creaking under the weight of mysterious tinctures, herbs, and age-old wisdom.

In those days, life on the farm was a world unto itself, where families often lived miles from the nearest town and even farther from any doctor. Illness, injury, and the hardships of rural life were ever-present threats, but few could afford—or even find—conventional medical care. That’s where the medicine man came in, a beacon of hope for those who had little else to rely on.

When the medicine man arrived at a farmstead, he brought more than just remedies; he brought stories of healing passed down through generations, knowledge gleaned from the earth itself. He was a blend of science and folklore, with a touch of the mystical. His remedies were often simple—a poultice made from local plants, a tonic brewed from wild herbs—but they carried the weight of tradition and the promise of relief.

Word of his arrival spread quickly, carried by the wind through fields of wheat and whispered among neighbors. Families would gather, bringing with them their aches, fevers, and worries. The medicine man would listen carefully, his weathered face creased in concentration, before offering a remedy or a piece of advice. Sometimes it was a cure for a common ailment; other times, it was simply a reassurance that the body, like the land, had its own cycles of healing.

But his role was more than just medicinal. He was a link to a broader world, a storyteller who wove tales of other places and people into the fabric of rural life. He understood the rhythm of the seasons, the language of the land, and the deep-rooted fears and hopes of those who tilled it. In a time when isolation could feel like a prison, the medicine man was a bridge to something larger—part healer, part sage, part friend.

As the years passed and modern medicine slowly began to reach these remote areas, the need for the traveling medicine man faded. Yet his legacy endured, a reminder of a time when care and community were bound together by the dusty roads he traveled. The medicine man was more than a healer; he was a lifeline, a symbol of resilience in a world that often felt vast and unforgiving. His memory lives on in the stories of those who, in their darkest hours, found comfort in his remedies and his presence.

Elton John Served as a Pallbearer at the Funeral of 18-Year-Old Ryan White, Who Tragically Passed Away From an AIDS-Related Illness

On April 11, 1990, Elton John, Howie Long and Phil Donahue acted as Ryan White’s pallbearers after the 18yr old’s death due to AIDS-related illness. Ryan had caught the disease via a blood transfusion while still a baby. He was ostracized by his community in Indiana and barred from attending school.

As a hemophiliac, White became infected with HIV from a contaminated factor VIII blood treatment and, when diagnosed in December 1984, was given six months to live. Doctors said he posed no risk to other students, as AIDS is not an airborne disease and spreads solely through bodily fluids, but AIDS was poorly understood by the general public at the time. When White tried to return to school, irate parents and teachers in Howard County rallied against his attendance due to unwarranted concerns of the disease spreading to other students and staff. A lengthy administrative appeal process ensued, and news of the conflict turned White into a popular celebrity and advocate for AIDS research and public education. Surprising his doctors, White lived five years longer than predicted. He died on April 8, 1990, one month before his high school graduation.

Over 1,500 people attended White’s funeral on April 11, a standing-room only event held at the Second Presbyterian Church on Meridian Street in Indianapolis. White’s pallbearers included Elton John, football star Howie Long and Phil Donahue. Elton John performed “Skyline Pigeon” at the funeral. The funeral was also attended by singer Michael Jackson, and then-First Lady Barbara Bush. On the day of the funeral, Ronald Reagan wrote a tribute to White that appeared in The Washington Post. Reagan’s statement about AIDS and White’s funeral were seen as indicators of how greatly White had helped change perceptions of AIDS.

John has cited White’s death as the major impetus behind his decision to fight his long-standing alcohol and cocaine addiction; he went into rehab shortly afterwards.

“I think the catalyst was Ryan White’s funeral and seeing what Ryan went through,” John shared on Today of his decision to get sober, adding that White, without a doubt, saved his life.

“When he died, being there in Indianapolis and coming back to the hotel and complaining about the wallpaper, the décor in the room,” John continued. “[I’m] thinking, ‘You are the most ungrateful little bastard. You complain about everything. This boy has never complained about contracting HIV and AIDS from a blood transfusion. He’s never complained, he’s only encouraged people to get tested. You are a piece of sh*t.’ And that’s what I felt about myself.”

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Portrait of Matilda Crawford, a Pioneering Anesthesiologist

Matilda Crawford (born 1894) was a pioneering anesthesiologist who made significant contributions to the field of medicine, particularly in the development and administration of anesthetics.

Born at the close of the 19th century, she was part of a wave of early female medical professionals who broke barriers in what was largely a male-dominated field. After earning her medical degree, she became one of the few women to specialize in anesthesia during a time when women were often discouraged from pursuing advanced medical careers. Crawford was known for her meticulous approach to patient care and her deep understanding of the effects of anesthetics on the human body.

Crawford’s work came at a crucial time in medical history, as anesthesia techniques were advancing rapidly with the introduction of new drugs and technology. She was involved in refining anesthesia practices and improving the safety and comfort of patients undergoing surgery. 

Her expertise extended beyond just the administration of anesthesia, she also conducted research into the physiological effects of anesthetics, making her a valuable contributor to both clinical and academic medicine. Crawford’s work helped shape anesthesiology as a recognized medical specialty, gaining her respect among her peers.

In addition to her professional achievements, Matilda Crawford was a role model for women in medicine. She overcame societal and institutional barriers to build a successful career and inspire future generations of female doctors and specialists. 

Although she was not widely known in popular history, her legacy continues to influence the field of anesthesiology today. Her contributions laid the groundwork for the advancements in anesthesia that are integral to modern surgery and patient care.

What Was the Early Sign of Civilization in Ancient Times?

Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was posed an intriguing question by a student: What, she was asked, was the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture? The student anticipated an answer focused on material artifacts—perhaps fishhooks, clay pots, or grinding stones.

But Mead’s response was far more profound. She said that the true marker of early civilization was a healed femur, a thighbone that had been broken and then mended. She explained that in the animal kingdom, a broken leg typically means death. Without the ability to flee from predators, access water, or hunt for food, an injured animal becomes easy prey. Survival with a broken bone is virtually impossible without aid.

A healed femur, Mead explained, signifies something extraordinary: it means that someone stayed behind to help the injured. Someone had bound the wound, transported the person to safety, and cared for them throughout their recovery. This act of compassion and cooperation, Mead argued, is the true beginning of civilization.

According to Mead, our greatest moments of civilization arise when we extend our care and support to others in their time of need. In essence, we truly exemplify our humanity when we serve one another. This, Mead suggested, is the essence of what it means to be civilized.

In the words of Ira Byock, “We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized.”

Visiting Quarantined Family and Friends at Ullevål Hospital, Oslo, Norway in 1905

In the spring of 1905, Ullevål Hospital in Oslo stood as a sentinel against the spread of illness, its walls a barrier between the afflicted and the outside world. The hospital, with its stately architecture and solemn atmosphere, had become a focal point of hope and concern for the city’s residents, as quarantine protocols were strictly enforced to manage the outbreaks that occasionally swept through the region.

(Photo by Anders Beer Wilse)

On a crisp day in early spring, the grounds of Ullevål Hospital were abuzz with an unusual blend of anxiety and determination. Families and friends gathered outside the hospital’s imposing gates, their faces pressed against the iron bars as they tried to catch glimpses of loved ones inside. The air was thick with the mingled scents of spring blossoms and antiseptic, a reminder of the delicate balance between life and health.

Visitors, each with a story of their own, came to offer comfort and solidarity. They carried with them not just parcels of food and letters, but also messages of encouragement wrapped in small, handmade gifts—a knitted scarf, a jar of honey, a cherished book. These tokens, carefully prepared and wrapped, were a testament to the enduring human spirit that transcended the barriers of quarantine.

The scenes at Ullevål were poignant and hopeful. Families held brief, often muted conversations through the windows, their words carried on the breeze between the glass panes. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices occasionally rising with laughter or falling with concern. The visitors' eyes, often teary but resolute, reflected the deep bonds of affection that persisted despite the physical separation.

Inside the hospital, the patients, though separated from their loved ones, found solace in the knowledge that their family and friends were outside, steadfast in their support. The medical staff, too, played a crucial role, providing not just care but also a comforting presence to those isolated from their everyday lives.

This daily ritual of visiting, filled with a mix of longing and encouragement, captured the essence of a time when medical advancements were still catching up with human resilience. The quarantine measures, though stringent, could not diminish the warmth of human connection and the indomitable spirit of those who endured them.

In the heart of Oslo, Ullevål Hospital became more than a place of healing—it was a symbol of hope and solidarity, where the distance imposed by quarantine could not sever the bonds of love and care that defined the community.

The First Ever X-Ray Image Was Taken in 1895 by Wilhelm Röntgen

This might be one of the most famous images in photographic history. The first ever X-ray image was taken on December 22, 1895 by Wilhelm Röntgen (1845-1923), who was awarded the first Nobel Prize in Physics in 1901. The original radiograph is at the Deutsches Museum in Munich, Germany.

When Anna Bertha Roentgen’s husband spent seven weeks obsessed in his lab in late 1895, she was supportive. She silently brought him hot meals when he forgot to eat, and otherwise left him to his work. And when he needed a hand, she patiently provided one. In fact, her left hand became the subject of Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen’s most famous image, “Hand mit Ringen,” which helped him win the first Nobel Prize in Physics in 1901.

It is a ghostly picture of her hand, unlike any ever taken before, with long, shadowy finger bones and a large dark wedding ring. The image is the first radiograph, a photograph exposed by X-rays instead of light, ever taken. It was an image that sparked a craze for the invisible rays that could shine through the opaque and illuminate the inner workings of the human body, and it catapulted Wilhelm Roentgen to worldwide fame.

Those seven weeks that produced the image had started when Wilhelm noticed a strange light when he was fiddling with some Crookes tubes. Crookes tubes, glass tubes with a vacuum inside, were a popular scientific apparatus in the late 1800s. Researchers ran electricity through attached cathodes and anodes to create a stream of light called a cathode ray—made up of what we now know are electrons. Wilhelm was investigating something a colleague had noticed, that a small bit of aluminum could be used to redirect some of the cathode ray onto a fluorescent screen next to the tube, which would make the screen light up.

In early November, he repeated the experiment in the dark in his lab at the University of Würzburg in Germany. But then he noticed something happening far away from the Crookes tube. A screen coated in barium platinocyanide, the fluorescent material that was used on photographic plates, was sitting on a chair near the experiment, and every time Wilhelm turned on the electricity, the screen glowed. Not quite believing what he was seeing, he dedicated his time to rigorously testing and documenting the strange rays, which he called “X,” which denotes something unknown. He put objects made from different materials on photographic plates and exposed them to X-rays, and found that the mysterious rays passed through some but not others. Eventually, a few days before Christmas, he asked his wife to help him in the lab. Anna held her left hand on a photographic plate for 15 minutes while Wilhelm beamed X-rays at it. According to legend, she said, “I have seen my death!” and never set foot in his lab again. He later took a better picture of his friend Albert von Kölliker’s hand at a public lecture.

Anna may not have been receptive to seeing her own bones, but Wilhelm knew a few people who would be. He mailed copies of some of his images, along with a draft of his paper detailing the discovery, to fellow physicists at universities throughout Europe, including Arthur Schuster at the University of Manchester. The potential medical applications are why Wilhelm Roentgen decided not to patent X-rays. The technology was quickly put to use by both the medical community and the general public.

(This original article was written by Mohamed Ali Morsy on LinkedIn)

The Story of Charles Osborne, the Man Who Had the Hiccups Non-Stop for Approximately 68 Years, From 1922 to 1990

When you’re suddenly attacked with a bout of the hiccups, it can feel like they last forever. And for one man, that was almost the case! Charles Osborne (1894-1991) was the victim of the longest attack of hiccups, which lasted a jaw-dropping 68 years, from 1922 to 1990.

Charles Osborne got the hiccups as a young man but it followed him into his elderly years.

Charles, then working as a farmer, was trying to weigh a hog that he was planning to slaughter when he fell and started hiccupping back in 1922. The doctor, Terence Anthoney, believed that when Charles fell, he destroyed a small area in his brain that would have inhibited his hiccup response.

“I was hanging a 350-pound hog for butchering,” he told People in 1982. “I picked it up and then I fell down. I felt nothing, but the doctor said later that I busted a blood vessel the size of a pin in my brain.”

Charles tried again and again to find a cure for the annoying bodily function, but it wasn’t until one morning in February 1990 that they eventually stopped, with the final year of his life bringing him that long-awaited reprieve. Despite this rather frustrating factor in his life, he still managed to lead a normal one.

He got married twice and fathered eight children, all while hiccupping. On average, Osborne experienced 20 to 40 involuntary diaphragm spasms per minute. In total, he hiccupped an estimated 430 million times before his death in May 1991 at age 97.

Charles made headlines many times in his life, including a newspaper story in 1978 which carried the headline “Man still seeking cure for 56 years of hiccups.”

His employer, who perhaps felt some form of responsibility for the never-ending hiccups, even sent Charles for special treatment in Omaha, Nebraska. It seemed to work at first, but then his hiccups would start up again as soon as he returned home. He told La Cross Tribune: “I made four trips to Omaha. But every time I got back home they would start again. I’ve had them ever since.”

A 1978 newspaper article about Charles Osborne.

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Smallpox Illustration, Japanese Manuscript, ca. 1720

Watercolor illustration from a Japanese work on smallpox entitled Toshin seiyo [The essentials of smallpox] consisting of a manuscript in two volumes. It contains numerous colored illustrations of different symptoms of smallpox, which were executed on separate sheets of paper: they were then cut out and pasted into place.

According to the beginning of book two, the author was Kanda Gensen (c.1670–1746) and the text was edited and supplemented by one Enokimoto Gensho, whose dates are unknown and about whom all that is known is that he practiced medicine. Kanda was a doctor who is known for his illustrated explanatory works on natural science and materia medica.

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This Macabre Hat Belonged to a Traveling “Dentist” in London in the Early 19th Century

This cap belonged to a street “dentist” or tooth puller in London from between the 1820s and 1850s. It is made of brown velvet and felt, and decorated with approximately 88 decayed human teeth, once belonging to his patients. The teeth have been drilled and attached with twine.

Wearing a cap like this was supposed to imply the “magician” aspect of the dentists work. As teeth pulling was painful and risky and done without anaesthetic, people needed to have some faith in the “dentist,” even if it was only the evidence, worn on the cap, that he had successfully plied his trade.

(via Southwark Heritage)