MEDICAL MATTERS: Growing up in a household that subscribed to Reader's Digest meant I quickly developed an affinity for its long-running series Laughter - The Best Medicine.
Being Reader's Digest, the humour was gentle, never rude and generally empathetic.
As a medical student, I sought out Doctor In The House and Richard Gordon's other Doctor books, which explored the often humorous interface between doctors and their patients. Although A. J. Cronin and others have emphasised the sometimes grim realities of chronic disease in impoverished populations, a genre of 1980s medical writing continued what might be referred to as the James Herriot school of prose.
Humour, like other facets of life, has moved on. Stand-up comedians would not survive long unless they explored a harder-edged humour. The TV series Scrubs offers a sharper type of medical humour than would have been tolerated even 10 years ago.
I have to admit I am a great believer in the value of the gentler forms of medical humour. It can break the ice in difficult clinical situations. In my experience, patients generally appreciate it, some remarking afterwards on its therapeutic benefits for them. It is not for everyone, of course: the use of clinical humour is definitely a case of the right dose of the right type at the right time.
Rather than spend the rest of this column exploring the growing scientific evidence for the medical benefits of humour - and remembering that it is yet again a bank holiday - I thought some examples might set the tone for a day of rest and relaxation.
About four years ago, a Sligo GP, Dr Patrick Henry, published a book of observations on his life during 45 years as a general practitioner. Significantly, he called it The Healing Power Of Humour. It is peppered with anecdotes leavened with gentle humour. Here is one.
"The following is a true story of a doctor who was a very able diagnostician in the normal course of events. However, he was also rather fond of the juice of the grape, and at these times his judgment could be clouded, to say the least. The story concerned a farmer who called the rather inebriated medic to see his wife. 'Where is the patient?' the doctor roared. 'It's Theresa, the wife,' says the farmer, 'she's not near well!' The doctor looked at her and cried: 'I'm too late . . . she's dead.'
"At which point, the women opened one eye and whispered: 'I'm not dead.' Her husband hastily put his finger to her lips and said: 'Hush, Theresa, don't contradict the doctor.' "
Patients' charts are a ready source of medical faux pas. My fellow medical journalist Dr Maurice Guéret is assembling a collection. Here are some of them:
The psychiatrist who, writing back to a male patient's GP, explained: "He has been very depressed since he began seeing me in 1993."
The intern who hurriedly wrote in a female patient's chart: "She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night."
The intern who wrote: "Examination of external genitalia reveals that his is circus sized."
My favourites were given to me by a local active-aged group. I have used them to illustrate talks to patient groups, where they were well received. As I told them, you know you're getting old when:
You are cautioned to slow down by the doctor instead of the police.
"Getting a little action" means you don't need to take any fibre today.
An all-nighter means not getting up to pass water.
... Your friends compliment you on your new alligator shoes while you are barefoot.
Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the weather forecast.
Your investment in health insurance is beginning to pay off.
Have a nice bank holiday.
You can e-mail Dr Muiris Houston at mhouston@irish-times.ie. He regrets he cannot answer individual queries