Clarence Walton Lillehei was flying high at the midpoint of the past century. The brash medical student had earned a Bronze Star in Europe with the Army Medical Corps during World War II.
The son of a Minneapolis dentist, he'd shucked his original plan to follow his father into cavity-filling. By 1950, Walt (as everyone called him because his dad's name was also Clarence) was a full-time faculty member at the University of Minnesota's Medical School.
That's when he got the news that would shape a high-risk, innovative style and elevate him to become the father of open-heart surgery and "one of the surgical immortals," according to his mentor, Dr. Owen Wangensteen, who ran the U of M surgery department from 1931-1967.
Lillehei had cancer in his neck. More specifically, he was diagnosed with lymphosarcoma in the parotid, or salivary, gland. His medical colleagues knew better than to sugarcoat things. They gave him a 10 percent chance of surviving five years. He was 31.
Wangensteen was among the surgeons who removed a chunk of his neck the day Lillehei completed his senior residency in 1950. Grueling radiation therapy followed and, although he recovered slowly and fully, the cancer left him disfigured with a crooked neck.
"From what I've learned, he told the surgeons to just cut the cancer out of his carotid artery, despite the risks. And that led him to take chances because he didn't think he'd even be around," said Tom Anderson, 56, a longtime funeral director in Alexandria, Minn.
"A big fan of Dr. Lillehei," Anderson e-mailed to suggest a profile of the surgeon for this column. His admiration for Lillehei came from the heart. In 1963, Lillehei fixed a defect in Anderson's 5-year-old heart. Fifty-one years later, he's among the longest surviving open-heart surgery patients.
Fixing kids' defective hearts became Lillehei's passion in an era when such cardiac conditions were considered a death sentence for children.