Doctors, surgeons, and the ones who washed their hands before it was fashionable.

In 1747 he proved two oranges and a lemon cured scurvy. Then he spent forty years boiling the cure into a syrup that didn't work.

What happens when a philosopher who hated water contracts a disease made of it?

He operated with the bloodied blade clamped between his teeth, and the students in the gallery held up their pocket watches to time him.

A Soviet surgeon coined the word transplantology, taught the man who did the first human heart transplant, and spent his afternoons sewing puppy heads onto German shepherds.

She was exchanged man-for-man for a Confederate major, and that wasn't even the strangest thing about her wedding.

A country doctor famous for birds made two small cuts in his gardener's eight-year-old son — and then did it again, and again, for years.

What did Victorian surgeons do when one quiet Quaker suggested they stop wearing coats stiffened with old blood?

What does a royal surgeon do after publishing a forty-page pamphlet certifying that a clothier's wife gave birth to rabbits, four days before she confesses?

What happens when a former barber decides to stitch a beating heart by lamplight, twelve years after the most famous surgeon on Earth said it couldn't be done?

He grafted a human tooth onto a rooster's head to see what would happen. It grew.

He inoculated himself with a patient's discharge to settle a scientific question, and his reputation was so enormous that nobody checked his work for fifty-one years.

He built a small closet, filled it with the vomit of the dying, and sat inside breathing deeply — all to prove yellow fever wasn't contagious.