and sometimes with narcotic addiction. He also was the first to replace the human jaw with acrylic rather than with human bone, as was the practice at the time.

In 1957, DuVal was recruited to the University of Oklahoma School of Medicine as one of its first full-time faculty members. The medical school had been staffed with voluntary faculty. "It was quite typical at the time where the men—and they were almost all men— who were in private practice in town took turns coming out to the school to give lectures and demonstrations," says DuVal.

It was there that he became prominent in medical affairs regionally as he helped, he says with pride, to build "a very fine medical school and very fine medical center." He chaired a statewide committee that secured voter approval to sell bonds to build a new hospital, and he was very effective in influencing the legislature. "The reason was quite simple," he says. "I set up a system in which every legislator's margin of victory in his district was charted. Then we compared that to a list of all of the people from his district who were treated at the University of Oklahoma Hospital." Legislators were much more likely to pay attention to DuVal's pitch for support if he pointed out, for example, that "one and a half times as many people [were] treated at that institution last year as voted for you."

In the early 1960s, DuVal was invited to participate in discussions about founding a college of medicine at the University of Arizona in Tucson. There was a national push for more doctors, and about 15 new medical schools were being established.

"I do remember very vividly that my wife and I were sitting at home" on a Sunday evening watching a television documentary, says DuVal. "I got a phone call in the middle of it, and the man said, 'My name is Dick Harvill, and I'm the president of the University of Arizona. We are being authorized by the state to create Arizona's first medical school. Would you consider coming over here and

DuVal paid his way through medical school by modeling at the then-lucrative salary of $25 an hour, lifeguarding at Storrs Pond, and washing dishes at the Dartmouth dining hall.

meeting with me and chatting with me?' I said yes."

For the next two years, DuVal and several other handpicked consultants met periodically with Harvill. Eventually, Harvill invited DuVal to be the first dean of the new school. "The challenge of starting a school from scratch struck me as quite interesting," says DuVal. He'd fallen in love with Tucson, too. "I had visited the desert just frequently enough that I—as the expression goes over here—got the sand underneath [my] toenails and I was hooked. So I accepted the position and came here in January of '64."

When DuVal moved to Arizona, with his wife and three children, he gave up practicing surgery. "It seemed wrong for me to come in as dean into a relatively small community and instantly be interpreted as an economic threat," he says. But he did accept occasional invitations from friends in Phoenix who, "if they had a tough pancreatic case, would call me up and say, 'I'd like to have you at the table.'"

DuVal helped to raise money for the medical school, designed its facilities, and recruited the faculty. He had, he says, "the extraordinary advantage of coming here alone. I did all the searching, all the interviewing, and all the appointing of department heads, with no committees."

But he was surprised at how difficult it was to recruit faculty "into an environment where there was no history" and not yet a school. Still, DuVal was "very successful in garnering a fine faculty." The next challenge was to build a cohesive culture. "For a while there was a lot of tension within the faculty" because each member of it had come from a different institutional culture. "It became a mishmash," recalls DuVal. "It was very

difficult to achieve an aggregate personality that was ours."

Duval also faced challenges educationally. He had proposed an integrated curriculum. Under his plan, the basic sciences—such as anatomy, physiology, biochemistry, and pathology —would remain separate, but there would only be one clinical department of internal medicine and pediatrics. "You would learn surgery or psychiatry or neurology, what have you, by seeing patients in internal medicine or pediatrics and then following them through the consultants in the graduate departments," he explains.

The national accreditation committee "said it was imaginative and [was] prepared to run the risk of approving us as a medical school with a new curriculum."

But the faculty resisted. "They wanted to be department heads. So I abandoned that" idea, DuVal explains, "and we developed something that was much more traditional." Still, for a long time, DuVal avoided subspecialization. "We only had the traditional big five departments of ob-gyn, psychiatry, pediatrics, internal medicine, and surgery," he says. "We did not have a department of neurology or urology or orthopaedics."

The deans of all medical schools also learn quickly that they have to plan, in advance, for the expansion of their facilities. "Unless you thought through the expansion even before it was called for, you would end up dividing departments," DuVal explains. "I spent an awful lot of time with a child's little sack of blocks." He labeled the individual blocks—as operating rooms, laboratories, medicine, radiology, and so on—and "played with the blocks in an effort to try to figure out, for instance, if you were getting a lot of outpatient load and the outpatient department was not sufficiently big to handle it and you had to expand it, what would you need also to expand to accommodate that expansion? . . . You'd need record room space," he continues. "So the record room was built under the outpatient department. Similarly