Our two Family Doctors.
English people in the 1940’s and 1950’s (as I was growing up) could be counted upon to have three prejudices. They made fun of the Welsh, despised the Scots, and hated the Irish.
Not my Dad, at least as far as the Irish were concerned. As a plumber he worked with many Irish “navvies” (labourers) and adored them.
He would get angry if we told “Irish jokes”.
‘Twas just as well, as our family Doctor was an Irishman, Dr. Purcell.
He had a “surgery” (English for Doctor’s office) on Stapleton Road, just around the corner from where Dad had grown up.
His waiting room had cane chairs with latticed backs and seats. There we would sit, snuffling and sneezing until a “buzzer” summoned us into his office. There we would be greeted with clouds of smoke (Doctors smoked in their offices way back then); and by this affable Irishman who often prescribed a “tonic” (horrid tasting medicine laced with iron).
Dr. Purcell made house calls, carrying the inevitable black leather bag. But he never drove. His wife drove their green Riley roadster, for Dr. Purcell had caused the death of a pedestrian when he had been driving drunk, and was banned from driving for life. Mrs. Purcell would sit in the car (wearing a fur coat in winter weather), waiting whilst he made calls.
Do I remember, or do I imagine that his breath often smelled of brandy?
He was welcome in our home, for he knew us each by name, and we knew that he cared, besides which, Dad liked Irishmen.
When Dr. Purcell retired his nephew, Dr. O’Brien inherited, or bought his practice. We didn’t like him quite as much as his Uncle, but he was our family Doctor for many years.
A day and a half before Dad died, he was in great pain as he lay in bed in our home in the middle of the night. . We called Dr. O’Brien’s office, and a Locum arrived, and gave Dad a shot of morphine.
At about 11:00 a.m. the next day, Dr. O’Brien arrived all unexpected, and told us that an ambulance was on its way to take Dad to Ham Green Hospital.
We had no choice in the matter. I’ve never quite known whether Dr. O’Brien was being paternalistic, or deeply caring. Maybe both.
Dad died in the Hospital within 24 hours.
A day or so later Dr. O’Brien showed up at our house again. He wanted to “check in on us” and made sure that we were O.K. He offered to prescribe Valium if we felt we needed it. We did not.
It had been good old fashioned Doctoring from these two Irishman who cared.
And now, my own physician, Dr. Kristen Paulus is just as caring, even though she does not make house calls. First she is interested in me as an all round human being. Then she cares for my body.
Not my Dad, at least as far as the Irish were concerned. As a plumber he worked with many Irish “navvies” (labourers) and adored them.
He would get angry if we told “Irish jokes”.
‘Twas just as well, as our family Doctor was an Irishman, Dr. Purcell.
He had a “surgery” (English for Doctor’s office) on Stapleton Road, just around the corner from where Dad had grown up.
His waiting room had cane chairs with latticed backs and seats. There we would sit, snuffling and sneezing until a “buzzer” summoned us into his office. There we would be greeted with clouds of smoke (Doctors smoked in their offices way back then); and by this affable Irishman who often prescribed a “tonic” (horrid tasting medicine laced with iron).
Dr. Purcell made house calls, carrying the inevitable black leather bag. But he never drove. His wife drove their green Riley roadster, for Dr. Purcell had caused the death of a pedestrian when he had been driving drunk, and was banned from driving for life. Mrs. Purcell would sit in the car (wearing a fur coat in winter weather), waiting whilst he made calls.
Do I remember, or do I imagine that his breath often smelled of brandy?
He was welcome in our home, for he knew us each by name, and we knew that he cared, besides which, Dad liked Irishmen.
When Dr. Purcell retired his nephew, Dr. O’Brien inherited, or bought his practice. We didn’t like him quite as much as his Uncle, but he was our family Doctor for many years.
A day and a half before Dad died, he was in great pain as he lay in bed in our home in the middle of the night. . We called Dr. O’Brien’s office, and a Locum arrived, and gave Dad a shot of morphine.
At about 11:00 a.m. the next day, Dr. O’Brien arrived all unexpected, and told us that an ambulance was on its way to take Dad to Ham Green Hospital.
We had no choice in the matter. I’ve never quite known whether Dr. O’Brien was being paternalistic, or deeply caring. Maybe both.
Dad died in the Hospital within 24 hours.
A day or so later Dr. O’Brien showed up at our house again. He wanted to “check in on us” and made sure that we were O.K. He offered to prescribe Valium if we felt we needed it. We did not.
It had been good old fashioned Doctoring from these two Irishman who cared.
And now, my own physician, Dr. Kristen Paulus is just as caring, even though she does not make house calls. First she is interested in me as an all round human being. Then she cares for my body.
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