A mad idea – orseveral – is just whatthe doctor orderedDr Duncan Campbell provesageing is no barrier to alifetime of medical innovation.He spoke to Meaghan Shaw.Remarkably, Dr Duncan Campbell, 81,who nearly 40 years ago invented theCampbell ventilator which became thest<strong>and</strong>ard for hospitals around Australia<strong>and</strong> <strong>New</strong> Zeal<strong>and</strong>, is still inventing.In January this year, he took out apatent for a non-invasive cardiac outputmonitor that can determine cardiacoutput using optical sensors.It’s the latest in a stream of inventionsby the indefatigable octogenarian,who last month was presented withthe Robert Orton Medal at the <strong>ANZCA</strong>Annual Scientific Meeting in Perth for hiscontribution to anaesthesia, in particularfor the invention of his eponymousventilator.“I thought they had forgotten about melong ago!” was his initial response whenlearning he was to be honoured.With a wry sense of humour <strong>and</strong>turn of phrase, Dr Campbell recountsa remarkable life from a childhood inIran <strong>and</strong> India, to serving in the armyduring the Malayan Emergency, workingwith IVF <strong>and</strong> laparoscopy pioneer DrPatrick Steptoe, <strong>and</strong> creating a series ofanaesthetic-related innovations.An interest in the wireless at a youngage, <strong>and</strong> a desire to take things apart tosee how they worked, perhaps can beseen as the spark that set off his passionfor invention.He was conceived in India, born inBritain, <strong>and</strong> spent his infancy in India<strong>and</strong> early years in Iran, where his Scottishfather was the vice consul.Incredibly, he knows the date of hisconception because his mother, fromYorkshire, was quite the correspondent<strong>and</strong> wrote to a friend the day he wasconceived saying: “Today, I startedDuncan”.His earliest memories are fromZahedan, Iran, near the border ofPakistan <strong>and</strong> Afghanistan, where hisfather once fired a revolver into the airto frighten an intruder in the dead ofthe night.“ The anaesthetists werew<strong>and</strong>ering aroundhaving a whale ofa time, chatting toeverybody <strong>and</strong> laughing.And I thought perhapsthat’s the life!”He recalls the intruder tearing aroundthe compound in distress because hisaccomplice, waiting on the consular wallto pull him up with a rope, disappearedat the sound of gunshots, taking the ropewith him.By the beginning of World War II,Dr Campbell was back in Britain <strong>and</strong>educated in London, the Lake District<strong>and</strong> the Kings School in Canterbury,before delaying national service bystudying for an intermediate bachelor ofscience degree in agriculture – an interestprompted by his parents running a farm.His agricultural studies led to adesire to study medicine – his fatherwas delighted – <strong>and</strong> his first job afterqualifying was as a house surgeonat Charing Cross Hospital, where hecontemplated his future.“I didn’t really relish the idea of goinginto general practice,” he recalls. “Ithought something hospital orientatedwould be more interesting. And I wasalways intrigued by the fact that while Iwas stuck holding retractors <strong>and</strong> thingsfor the surgeons, the anaesthetists werew<strong>and</strong>ering around having a whale of atime, chatting to everybody <strong>and</strong> laughing.And I thought perhaps that’s the life!”At his second house job at theMetropolitan Hospital, London, DrCampbell became friendly with theregistrar anaesthetist who took himunder his wing until the registrar hada confrontation with the night porter<strong>and</strong> was dismissed.“He was marched in front of theadministrator who said, ‘Good nightporters are far more difficult to get thananaesthetists. Goodbye!’” Dr Campbellsays, saddened at the memory.His second attempt to defer nationalservice failed when he told thearmy board the reason was to studyanaesthetics.“They laughed <strong>and</strong> laughed <strong>and</strong>said, ‘The army’s short of anaesthetists.You’ll have no trouble at all getting ananaesthetic job in the army. Off you go.’”Doubtful he’d be posted as a traineeanaesthetist anywhere more exoticthan the north of Scotl<strong>and</strong>, Dr Campbellsuggested the Far East <strong>and</strong> ended up inSingapore, where he was also appointedblood transfusion officer. His ploy toencourage comm<strong>and</strong>ing officers <strong>and</strong>adjutants to set an example <strong>and</strong> giveblood proved highly effective as well asentertaining for the troops.After only a year’s training, he waspromoted to captain, graded clinicalofficer in anaesthetics <strong>and</strong> sent as thesole anaesthetist to the Kluang militaryhospital in (then) Malaya, about 120kilometres north of Singapore.24 <strong>ANZCA</strong> <strong>Bulletin</strong> <strong>June</strong> <strong>2012</strong>
“The parting words were, ‘We’re onlya phone call away’, which wasn’t muchhelp,” he says.In Kluang, Dr Campbell met his wife,Mary, who was a nursing sister at themilitary hospital. They subsequently hadtwo sons – one of whom is an anaesthetist<strong>and</strong> the other a dentist.Kluang was also where he played hispart in a hospital-inspired truce betweenthe British <strong>and</strong> communist terrorists,which perhaps led to a cessation ofhostilities in that area.At that time, injured terrorists whowere sent to the civilian hospital didn’tsurvive the night because the localsdetested them so much they slit theirthroats.As part of a goodwill gesture, themilitary hospital started taking problemcases from the civilian hospital, includingthe terrorists.The first time this happened, only DrCampbell <strong>and</strong> the surgeon were on duty.Short of staff <strong>and</strong> wards, they patchedup the unarmed terrorists, <strong>and</strong> sent themto share the ward where the British wererecovering.The terrorists were astonished to wakeup as they expected to be given a lethalinjection <strong>and</strong> were discovered the nextday by the returning comm<strong>and</strong>ing officerplaying a card game, pontoon, with theinjured British soldiers.Dr Campbell says the terrorists werereluctant to return to their jungle unitsafter their recovery <strong>and</strong> apparently toldtheir comrades they didn’t want to fightthe British, who had become their friends.“And do you know, there was oneother skirmish when another lot ofterrorists came in <strong>and</strong> after that, none.Absolutely nothing. We never had anymore terrorists,” he says. “And I wondervery much whether it was to a large extentassociated with the fact that we actuallydemoralised them with our treatment.”Returning to Engl<strong>and</strong>, Dr Campbelldid his formal anaesthetic training afterwhich, for interview practice, he appliedfor a job as an anaesthetist in charge ofthe anaesthetic services for the Oldhamgroup of hospitals on the outskirts ofManchester.“So absolutely blasé, I went up for thisinterview,” Dr Campbell recalls, expectingto be roasted for wasting the interviewpanel’s time by applying for such a seniorjob when he wasn’t even a consultant.At the interview, he was asked bypanelist Dr Patrick Steptoe what he knewabout pneumoperitoneum <strong>and</strong> if he, likeother anaesthetists, would be worriedabout pushing gas into the peritonealcavity.“I said, ‘Well I’d be worried if it was air,but if it was carbon dioxide or oxygen, I’dbe quite happy because you wouldn’t getan air embolus with that,’” he replied.(continued next page)“ An interest in the wireless ata young age, <strong>and</strong> a desire totake things apart to see howthey worked, perhaps can beseen as the spark that set offhis passion for invention.”Opposite page from left: Dr Duncan Campbell;Dr Campbell <strong>and</strong> his son, Dr David Campbell,who was presented as a Fellow at the PerthASM; <strong>and</strong> Dr Campbell inspecting the latestventilators at the Ulco st<strong>and</strong> at the Perth ASM.25