Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Old Time Doc
Clueless at the time, when I applied to medical school I sort of imagined myself one day making house calls, good ol' Doc Schwab, paid in chickens and pies, smiles and blackberry jam. There I'd be, delivering babies on kitchen tables, patchin' up Old Lady Jones's leg on the sofa, shaking out thermometers and feeling foreheads.
One of my roommates in med school was the son of such a doctor, although instead of clopping around with a horse and buggy, he raced across the back roads of Kentucky in an Aston Martin DB4, before James Bond ever thought of it. State cops would look the other way: Aincha gonna stop 'im Jess? Do whut now?...hail no, that thar's Doc Munger, heading t' th' McCoy homestead, I reckin'...
I liked the whole idea of it.
More so in the early days of my practice, when I had a little extra time on my hands, but to some degree throughout my entire career, I actually made house calls. As time became more precious, I had to be realistic: not too far out of the way, people with a simple problem for whom a trip to my office was especially difficult. Or, once in a while, a friend. But as a youngster there were a few times when I went quite out of the way, and spent a lot of time.
For example: I've always had mixed feelings about "the phone call." A woman is awaiting the news of a breast biopsy; I call her and note the stoppage of breath at the other end of the conversation. To defer by saying she should come in is to let her know but provide no support. To give the news over the phone is in some way heartless. So I'd split the difference by breaking the news as gently as I could, and inviting her in for an immediate consultation. But sometimes, early on, I reversed the equation and said, "How about if I come over and we can talk about it?"
One time, in my pre-gray-hair days, after I'd spent at least an hour at their home, my patient and her husband gushed at how much they appreciated the visit and my care to that point, but they'd be going to Seattle to be treated. Probably thought I looked too young. And hungry. Pissed me off.
Most of the time, my house calls were to a post-op patient, usually older, having a hard time getting around: quick check of a wound, a little debridement, change a bandage, remove or unclog a drain. I'd load up with a few tools, some tape and gauze and ointments; sometimes I stuffed them into my black doctor bag, for my own nostalgia more than anything else. Walking to the door, wondering what the neighbors thought, figuring they'd be jealous, their neighbor had a heck of a doctor there.
Always the visit was greatly appreciated, and generally met with amazement. Sometimes it was my own: finding out how my patients lived, in a trailer, in an unkempt crumbling home, in a fancy joint with all the options. And I'd learn about how they were able, or unable, to carry out the instructions I'd given them. Which led to a much more practical and pragmatic approach to what I'd tell people about after-care at home. Dispensing with certain residua of academe.
Once I got a call from a feisty old lady for whom I'd recently done a mastectomy: she was worried about her wound, or a drain, or something. To her obvious delight I'd said, "Well heck, I'm almost done here, how 'bout I swing by your place on the way home and have a look?" She answered the door buck naked from the waist up, her unoperated side of the enormous variety; responding to my undisguised surprise she said, "Hell, I figured you'd want to see it anyway, so why get dressed?" Her home was right on a main street. No screeching tires, far as I recall.
Making those decreasingly frequent but career-continuous house calls always made me feel good. The benefits were invariably mutual. Part of my medical school curriculum was the matching of every first-year student with a family in which the wife was pregnant. We followed her through pregnancy and delivery and were involved in the care of the baby. At least one home visit was a requirement, and we met in groups afterward to discuss what we'd found. Among others, the import was in learning that patients' illnesses are part of an entire life and not just the little slice of the day during which we see them.
All doctors -- and most especially surgeons, who typically send people home very significantly altered (if only, hopefully, for a short while) -- would be amazed by and learn from seeing their patients in their homes. It is, of course, completely impractical and nearly wholly impossible nowadays, which are very good reasons why it rarely if ever happens. Not to mention the occasional fright of seeing an old lady naked at her front door.