Is There a Doctor in the House?

In the mid 20s and early 30s, peak baby years for my paternal grandparents, tragedy struck often. There was no miscarriage support for women who lost pregnancies. People were quick to wonder, or boldly state, whether a woman had done something wrong, medically or spiritually, to cause such a tragedy. Child loss was common. In 1927, the year my father was born, there was a typhoid epidemic, outbreaks of meningitis, and rampant measles and smallpox cases. Babies were born at home with zero imagining assistance to predict positioning or potential problems, as that would not be discovered for another 60 years. Heck, I had all three of my children without benefit of an ultrasound. But I did have prenatal care, something that the wives of farmers found nonexistent or severely lacking. 1928 changed many things for children. Penicillin was discovered and the world rejoiced. My father was obsessed with penicillin. Thinking back on his family’s incredible luck, my grandmother never had a miscarriage, nor did she lose any children, I can see how that medical discovery and good fortune became one in his mind. Conversely, my mother’s parents lost their infant daughter to pneumonia in the late 30s. There weren’t enough doctor visits or medical protocols in this world to save her. My maternal grandfather developed a distrust in medical providers. I can understand his view, too. Sometimes you can do everything right and still lose your child. I say all of this because I have been sick this week, something that does not happen often. Sure, there was that whole cancer thing. I have worked hard to shore up my immunity, eat as low on the food chain as one can, and stay active. It has helped thwart both a cancer recurrence and the common cold. But, it failed me this week. I was just sitting here and thinking how differently my parents would react to childhood illness and what advice I could now expect from them if they were available for consult.

My dad’s answer to everything was a shot. I’m sure I will get the details wrong, but you won’t know, will you? Time makes everything a bit fuzzy and there is no one here to say I’m wrong, so that works in my favor. There was a doctor still alive, back in the early 70s, who had treated my father as a young boy. His name was Dr. Stein. As I recall, his office was in downtown Ferris. Anytime I ran a fever or had a cough, my dad would load me into the suicide seat of the old blue Buick station wagon and head toward the Malloy Bridge Road gravel pits that would eventually spit us out smack dab in Ferris. I don’t think we ever had an appointment. My father always paid in cash. He never asked to set up an account or trade for something. As a selfemployed person, he often put in hard work for things people ultimately decided not to pay for, so he was sensitive in that regard. People tended to like that. Dr. Stein was around 200 years old, in the eyes of a 5-year-old child in 1973. He always answered the door to his office in sock feet – gold toe socks, at that. My dad liked gold toe socks, so I figured this doctor o’ the crypt must be ok. His office always felt like my great Aunt Opal’s house. HOT. It was the kind of hot prerequisite in elderly aunt’s homes, all butane gas smelly and skin tingly. I don’t remember ever being examined by Dr. Stein. We were there for penicillin and that’s all we wanted. He was a nice man, but his practices would land him in a heap of trouble in this day and age, though everything was done in his office, I think, in front of my parents. He would lay me over his lap. I am not kidding. That’s the part I remember the clearest. As he gave me the shot in my hip, he would whistle. That was Dr. Stein’s parlor trick, the old dog and pony whistle act.

My father’s mom, we called her Granny, had lots of helpful treatment options in her arsenal, as well. Her chicken stew was said to solve every di-lemma from the common cold to a bad attitude. She always had oyster crackers on hand for such occasions. I love oyster crackers. But there was one time when my oyster cracker had an unfortunate entanglement with a non-edible object without me noticing. Fresh into a flu, I was immediately ushered from Doc Whistles to Granny’s nearby Wilmer home for stew. I bit down on something that jarred my entire jaw. Granny said, “Child, be careful of those bones. I thought I got ‘em all out, but those little ones trick you.” I turned green on the spot. There were no stomach viruses in Granny’s world. She preferred the term sour stomach. Out would come a glass bottle that looked like it was purchased in 1927. The medicine was called Baby Percy. It was vile. I will now provide the actual description from a depression era bottle, thanks to Google. “The indications for this product are: For diarrhea, indigestion, cholera, infantum and summer complaints of children. Relieves sour stomach immediately. A safe and reliable teething and colic medicine for babies. For adults, double the dose.” You must be thinking, “Why summer is almost here. I must procure this elixir for my children and their summer complaints.” Hold up. Baby Percy ingredients are rhubarb, bismuth, and ALCOHOL. This ends today’s episode of drunk vitameatavegamine babies, chicken bones, and whistle shots. Tune in next week for my mother’s answer to medical maladies. Hint, there will be alcohol involved again.