Why I’m Not a Doctor

I was born in 1951. I was the final addition to our family joining my brother who had come along about five years before me.

We lived in a small college town, Columbia, Missouri. That town does not really exist anymore. It has grown up and spread out taking on many of the benefits and liabilities one associates with larger cities.

Our family arrived in Columbia after my father graduated from medical school and completing his internship and residency training. He was a pediatrician. Some would say he was a baby doctor but that is really not accurate, pediatrics covers diseases of childhood and adolescence. Dad had patients ranging in age from pre-natal to the legal drinking age.

He was my doctor in many ways throughout his entire life and that was pretty cool. Lucky for me, my older brother also joined the medical profession. This meant I’ve had free medical advice for most of my life. Certainly, well before Web MD came online and started turning anyone with a pulse into confident practitioners of the medical arts.

Early on I figured out that being a doctor’s kid meant two things. First, I had no worries about my shots being up to date and second, it was nearly impossible for me to convincingly fake being sick to get out of school.

I could moan and groan, writhe around, cough, or even surreptitiously heat up the thermometer with the light bulb in my bedside lamp and it would all be for naught. Dad would look at me and pronounce me fit for school. I literally had to be spitting up blood or sweating like Richard Nixon on TV before he would suggest that a day in bed was in order.

I was always grateful that my brother had gone into medicine because it took any pressure off my shoulders to follow in dad’s footsteps. Not that there ever was any pressure, but all the same, I’m still glad Bill got me off that hook.

I knew pretty early on that I wanted nothing to do with medicine. Not that there was ever any chance that I might be wielding a scalpel or stethoscope; my science grades ranged from mediocre to bad, from 8^th grade on.

While I’m sure malpractice attorneys everywhere saw my lack of interest in medicine as a huge loss of potential income. I can assure everyone, that their current level of wellness would almost certainly not have been positively impacted by my embracing a career in medicine.

To help you understand why my career motivation was essentially “anything but medicine” I thought I might relate a few stories about what growing up in a doc’s house is all about.

So, let’s get started!

Dr.s Scheuber (left) and Washington (right)

It’s Just Too Much Work!

I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone in my life who worked as hard as my dad. When he was young, he and his partner, Dr. Charles Scheuber, were about the only pediatricians practicing in Columbia. There were a couple of older guys and a few associated with the med school, but as far as private practice, they were the young firm in town which meant they would be around throughout a newborn’s entire pre-adult life. That’s important if you are a mama looking for baby doc.

Columbia was a fast-growing town in the fifties and sixties, so demand was never a problem. When I was older, I remember walking around town with my dad and inevitably someone would come up and introduce themselves as a former patient. This went on until the day he actually left town to retire in Arkansas for a life of playing golf.

When I was in early primary school, it was not unusual for my fellow students to walk up to me and announce, “Your dad borned me!”

Even in the first grade I knew that was not technically true. I would try to explain that obstetricians “borned” people not pediatricians.  I would try to explain that dad may well have been in the room, but the other guy actually freed them from the confines of their mama’s belly.

I finally tired of explaining this to folks who weren’t really interested anyhow. I would just nod and say something like Great! or Wow!

My dad was usually up and headed to the hospital by 4:00am. He would make his morning rounds and return home in time for breakfast which was typically served between 6:30 and 7:00am. Following that, he headed to his office where he saw patients all day long. Returning home around 6:00pm he would join us for family dinner.

Following dinner, Dad would either go on house calls or talk to mamas on the phone. Around 8:00pm he would return to the hospital for evening rounds and he would finally get home anywhere from 9:30 to midnight.

He and Dr. Scheuber alternated on-call coverage every weekend and at some point, they each took alternating Wednesday’s off. They also rotated coverage on major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

While I know he loved doing what he did I also know it troubled him greatly that he had little time for us kids. I can remember him taking me for a ride around the block before he left for the office each morning. He also would occasionally take me along on house calls. This was done just so he could have some time with me.

House calls frequently exposed me to people who were less fortunate than we were. I think that was a lesson he wanted me to learn well. He wouldn’t hesitate to go anywhere in town.  I can remember seeing firsthand what real poverty looked like. Dirt floor houses, no indoor plumbing and heat provided by firewood stoves or coal.

Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas involved frequent delays when he was on call. He would head to the hospital for rounds in the morning in an effort to get home early so we could celebrate. An amazing number of kids get sick on holidays. People would bring kids into the ER with all manner of complaints.

As a kid it was torturous for me to wait and wait over Christmas day until he was able to finally get away. Mom would fume about dinner being late. But what can you do? If someone is sick you’ve got to take care of them.

But, from my “greedy little kid” point of view, it all just looked like too much work and no fun.

I got to Practice Medicine Anyhow

At some age I was deemed old enough to actually answer the phone myself. This can be an interesting experience in a pediatrician’s home. In those days there were no pagers, let alone cell phones. Distraught mamas would call the house any time but especially during times when my Dad was out of the house or sitting in the can with a copy of the Columbia Daily Tribune. Here’s how the conversation was supposed to go:

Mama:   I gotta talk to Dr. Washington! Junior has a fever and he’s throwing up!

13-Year-Old Me:   Ma’am, I’m sorry Doctor Washington is not here right now, if you’ll give me your name and number, he’ll call you back as soon as he’s home.

Mama:   Okay, this is Mrs. Jones and I’m at 2-5673.

Nothing hard about that. Right? That’s exactly how you would think these calls would go.

Well, that’s because in this case mama is sane. It’s probably her second or third kid. She’s not going to freak out just because Junior has a paring knife sticking out of his ear. She knows kids are indestructible.

We did actually get the occasional trauma call, but thankfully they were rare.

In some cases, Mama just wanted some answers. Those were the more challenging calls for me to field.

Mama:    I gotta talk to Dr. Washington! Junior has a fever and he’s throwing up!

13-Year-Old Me:    Ma’am, I’m sorry Doctor Washington is not here right now, if you’ll give me your name and number, he’ll call you back as soon as he’s home.

Mama:   Well, that’s okay, you can probably help me, what does he usually recommend for this?

13-Year-Old Me:    What?

Mama:    Do I feed a fever or starve it? Or is that a cold? I never can remember! Should I give him aspirin?

13-Year-Old Me:    Ma’am, I’m 13 years old.

Mama:    Well, come on, you’ve listened him talk about this stuff, what does he usually recommend?

Seriously this happened a lot.

This is why it does not surprise me in the least that people spend money on quackery and charlatans.

One mom asked me if dad would talk to her about an issue, she was having herself. I told her I wasn’t sure but that he was a children’s doc and that he would probably tell her to talk to her own physician.

She then asks me how long do these guys have to work on kids before they let them work on adults?

The Dinner Table

As I grew older, I became more sensitive to certain things. I think this is kind of normal, teenagers get picky about eating certain foods and wearing certain clothes. It’s all part of growing up.

Dad had a phone close by the dinner table. When someone would call, he could talk to the mama right from the table. We would get to listen in.

Most of time this was okay but not always. Interviews with mama can involve some pretty graphic imagery and for me, much of this imagery was just not conducive to a rewarding dining experience.

Dad would engage with the mother asking questions and probing for helpful details.

Dad:  Mrs. Jones can you describe Johnny’s bowel movement? . . . .  I see, would you say it was watery or more like, oh, gravy?

This would inevitably be asked as we were trying to enjoy a nice beef pot roast with gravy.

If we were dining on one of my mom’s many casserole or stew recipes, you could almost plan on a mama calling about their kids upset stomach.

Dad:   So, Suzy vomited up her dinner? You say she threw up carrots and peas? How long after she ate, did she become sick to her stomach?

Dropped flatware would clatter to the tabletop or the floor, eyes would close, and hands would cover ears. Of course, dad was oblivious to all of this.  He would plough ahead and get to the diagnosis. Like most docs he was immune to the gross out effects of biology. It was all part of the fun!

Oddly, I’ve had a weight problem almost all of my life, one would think I would be emaciated.

The Switch

Dad and Dr. Scheuber would alternate weekends and Wednesdays covering for each other so they could enjoy a little time off. They both provided their patient mamas with home phone numbers and they encouraged calls after hours and on weekends for any issues a sick child might have. That was the way medicine was practiced in those days.

To protect off time and still provide care access to patients, the local phone company provided our house and the Scheuber’s with a device to intercept incoming calls and redirect them to the on-call doctor’s residence.

We called this miracle of technology, The Switch.

When Dad was off, and Dr. Scheuber was covering for him, we would throw the switch to the up position. The Scheuber’s would throw their switch to the down position. At that point, if you dialed our phone number, our phone would not ring, instead, the Scheuber’s phone would ring.

When Dad was covering for Dr. Scheuber, our switch would go to the down position and the Scheuber’s would go the up position. At that point all incoming Scheuber phone traffic would come to our house.

The rest of the time, when both docs were on call, both switches would be flipped to the middle or neutral position. The phones would work normally at that point. It was a good system, but it was not without problems.

There was the ever-present risk of our two houses getting out of synch. If one house forgot to throw the switch, the whole system collapsed, and someone would have to jump in the car and head over the other house and remind them to throw their switch.

While this technology was great for the docs, it was a lousy system if you happened to be a teenager.

Ironically, the Scheuber’s and the Washington’s both had teenagers. The telephone was a central part of teenage culture during that age.  As a teen, you agonized knowing that while you could place outgoing calls, incoming calls would be going elsewhere.

As a teenager I know that my social life suffered because of this great injustice. I’m still convinced that any number of my teenage fantasy dates never came to pass because the young ladies involved were never able to catch me on the phone.

Okay, I know, girls rarely asked boys out in those days, but I figured I was just such a great catch that surely, they would not be able to stop themselves from picking up and calling!

Dad (Center) my brother Bill (right) and me

Despite all of this adversity, please understand that I wouldn’t have traded my dad for anyone.

My dad was a great dad even if he was busy a lot of the time. He was patient, perhaps the most patient man I’ve ever known. He was smart and curious and compassionate.

I remember once seeing a Twilight Zone episode about beings from another planet coming to earth for the purpose of using humanity as a food source. This story just scared the living hell out me. I was positive aliens would touch down in our driveway, kidnap me and have me up to their planet for dinner. It became such a fixation for me that I was unable to sleep.

At some point, Dad took me off and sat me down and somehow managed to explain the distances involved in interstellar travel, the limits and problems of lightspeed travel and the rest of the required physics that made such events all but impossible.

He put my mind at ease after a couple of months of my being really disturbed by this. I was able to sleep again and stopped dreading bedtime.

For this and for countless other nightmares, injuries, illnesses and personal problems he was always my hero.

So, I sure miss that guy. His calm easy manner, his love for nature and his love of sharing what he knew with those around him.

I don’t miss the phone calls from the mamas, the delayed holiday celebrations or the switch. But they were all a very small price to pay for having Dad like him.

Writer’s Block and Other Monsters

By Lou Washington

First off, I apologize to all of my readers who have checked in on my site only to find I’ve not taken the time to post anything new. I have heard about, read about and even laughed about writer’s block, but until now, I’ve never experienced it.

Unlike many folks who suffer from this, I actually know why I’m coming up empty when I sit down at the key board. In my case there is a task I’ve been avoiding, a piece unwritten if you will. Actually, an article that I would rather not write at all.

On May 19^th of this year my father passed away. It was not a huge surprise, he was suffering from late stage Alzheimer’s, he was 91 years old and had an array of medical challenges that would finally conspire to end his life. My mother was by his side when he went and I was lucky enough to see him for a few minutes before he passed away.

My brother Bill had put together a draft obituary. This was an extremely thoughtful act and he generously asked me to take a look at it and make any changes I felt were necessary. I was glad I had the chance to make a small contribution to our celebration of my father’s life.

But, in the end, it was an obit and as such was just a kind of inventory of significant events in Dad’s life.

Somewhere in my mind I knew I had to write something more evolved than an obit. I had to come to terms about how I felt about this man and what he meant to me. I am not going to turn this piece into a syrupy tribute or provide stories about what a nice guy he was. I would like to share one quick story, which to me, sort of puts things into perspective as far as my feelings about my dad.

When I was a very young person, I mean pre-school age, there was a monster at large. The monster seemed to be particularly fond of children. While adults were not spared, the beast did seem to prefer to target kids.

I have very clear memories of a long hot summer, staying inside, staying away from groups of other kids and of the TV announcements. They were, for me, quite disturbing because they showed the end result of what this monster was capable of.

These ads would feature pictures of large hospital wards with row after row of “Iron Lung” breathing assist devices, each holding a little child who could no longer breath for themselves. I could not imagine a more horrible fate then finding myself confined to one of these machines.

Of course the monster I’m talking about here is Polio. Year after year, summer after summer Polio would visit families and in it’s wake leave a child unable to walk, unable to breath or with minimal use of their legs.

Finally, it came to pass that a vaccine was developed. My father was a pediatrician so I know he was well aware of the developments in this area. I can well imagine how he must have been heartened by each story of progress and frustrated by each set back.

And then, I can clearly remember him coming home one evening with his medical kit and a small package. I can remember him giving me the shot and telling me I didn’t need to worry anymore about iron lungs, braces or the other artifacts of a life with polio.

My dad slew this monster and he saved my life. From that day on, my dad was my hero.

By the way, he was a really nice guy too!

Postscript: If you would like to read more about the story of Polio in the early fifties, I would recommend Polio –  an American Story by David Oshinsky.