The Power of a House Call
My first experience with a house call was as a patient. The memory is still burned into my soul. Dr. Moats would make house calls for $5. I know that sounds like a lot of money, but that also included medication. Of course, this was a house call made in 1957 in a small, rural Pennsylvania community called Fairchance. My mother had called him because I was very sick and feverish. Even at age six, I knew that Dr. Moats had a reputation among children as a "shot doctor".
No matter what you had, Dr. Moats always seemed to have a shot for you. We wouldn't even go to his house to sell him magazines.
I distinctly remember pacing back and forth, looking out of the window for his big black car. Then, it happened. There he was with that black bag of his. My heart jumped and I ran to find an appropriate hiding place.
Yes, under the bed. No one will find me there.
My sanctuary was short-lived, however, and I was quickly discovered. Perhaps my breathing gave me away, or maybe, the heat signature from my fever. Either way, they found me.
My mother fished under the bed and tried to grab me. I scurried to the other side, only to have my leg grabbed by my nemesis -- Dr. Moats. With great effort, he slowly tugged my struggling body from under the bed, quickly exposed my clenched buttocks, and before I knew it, there was that sharp prick of a needle.
He allowed me to go back under the bed. No need for a physical examination. A shot of penicillin cured everything.
Jumping three decades later, I was on the other side of that encounter. My patient was a 30-year-old woman with severe brain damage and schizophrenia.
When she had to come to my office, we had to arrange it after hours. She would scream uncontrollably, terrified of leaving her home. I just hated to put her through this.
Ginny was only four years old when she went in for a routine tonsillectomy. Something went wrong during the anesthesia and her little, normal brain was irreversibly damaged. Her dedicated mother has never left her side. Then, it hit me. There was absolutely no reason why I couldn't make a house call. I can examine her in a familiar setting. It is on my way home. Her mother was both shocked and thrilled that I would do this. So, I dusted off my old black bag (just like Dr. Moats!) and headed for my car.
I arrived at their home, finding this woman completely calm and sitting on the couch. I was able to perform my exam without the usual struggle and screams. It went perfectly. The mother was so grateful that she loaded up a box with vegetables from her garden for me.
It reminded me of times past, when medical care was often reimbursed with things other than money. I would like to see the IRS take 30% of a tomato! As I was leaving with the box of veggies, she said, "Do you eat turkey?"
"Yes, of course," I answered, "but, I don’t want you to give me a turkey."
She insisted and headed for the kitchen. I expected her to return with a big frozen turkey in a bag, but what I heard instead, stopped me in my tracks. It was the unmistakable sound of gobbling! She entered carrying the biggest damn LIVE turkey that I have ever seen in my life.
"I can't eat him. He is like a pet," she said. This was really cool. I could eat him. As a boy, I once shot a turkey, cleaned it, and had it for Thanksgiving. "Sure," I said, "I will take him." I couldn't wait to see the look on my wife's face when I came home with this guy!
I am sure it will be similar to the looks I got from other motorists, as I drove home with this big turkey sitting on the back seat of my Volvo, gobbling away out of the partially-open window.
To make a long story a bit more digestible, I could not kill and eat him. He lived happily in my back yard, not unlike a dog, ate me out of house and home, chased the cat, and pooped on my deck for about two years until I moved. Not wanting to bring Tom to the next house, I gave this now sixty pound behemoth to my neighbor, who assured me HE could kill and eat him.
Tom died about four years later, living a full and peaceful life at the Folsom, Calif., petting zoo. My neighbor couldn't eat him either.
About ten years ago (maybe longer), I had the pleasure of meeting the real Patch Adams, a very interesting character made famous by a movie of the same name, and played by Robin Williams. Patch said that he can learn more about a patient in one house call than he can by a dozen office visits. I couldn't agree more. Patch actually required a house call on all his new patients.
From that one home visit, I learned of the profound dedication of a loving mother, committed to caring for her child, even though that child is over thirty years old. I saw a house rearranged for a person of special needs. I felt the awesome power of a simple, easy-to-make house call. And, I got a turkey and a great story out of it.
Every person (or patient) has a story if medical providers only take to time and make the effort to discover it. What we see in the office is not really a true representation of a person. A fifteen minute office visit is not enough time to truly embrace the wonderful complexity of the human soul. Medical providers must remind themselves that we are caring for PEOPLE, not just human afflictions.
Related Topics: Integrative Medicine Resource Center, 7 Key Traits of the Ideal Doctor
Technorati Tags: housecalls, Patch Adams, doctors
No matter what you had, Dr. Moats always seemed to have a shot for you. We wouldn't even go to his house to sell him magazines.
I distinctly remember pacing back and forth, looking out of the window for his big black car. Then, it happened. There he was with that black bag of his. My heart jumped and I ran to find an appropriate hiding place.
Yes, under the bed. No one will find me there.
My sanctuary was short-lived, however, and I was quickly discovered. Perhaps my breathing gave me away, or maybe, the heat signature from my fever. Either way, they found me.
My mother fished under the bed and tried to grab me. I scurried to the other side, only to have my leg grabbed by my nemesis -- Dr. Moats. With great effort, he slowly tugged my struggling body from under the bed, quickly exposed my clenched buttocks, and before I knew it, there was that sharp prick of a needle.
He allowed me to go back under the bed. No need for a physical examination. A shot of penicillin cured everything.
Jumping three decades later, I was on the other side of that encounter. My patient was a 30-year-old woman with severe brain damage and schizophrenia.
When she had to come to my office, we had to arrange it after hours. She would scream uncontrollably, terrified of leaving her home. I just hated to put her through this.
Ginny was only four years old when she went in for a routine tonsillectomy. Something went wrong during the anesthesia and her little, normal brain was irreversibly damaged. Her dedicated mother has never left her side. Then, it hit me. There was absolutely no reason why I couldn't make a house call. I can examine her in a familiar setting. It is on my way home. Her mother was both shocked and thrilled that I would do this. So, I dusted off my old black bag (just like Dr. Moats!) and headed for my car.
I arrived at their home, finding this woman completely calm and sitting on the couch. I was able to perform my exam without the usual struggle and screams. It went perfectly. The mother was so grateful that she loaded up a box with vegetables from her garden for me.
It reminded me of times past, when medical care was often reimbursed with things other than money. I would like to see the IRS take 30% of a tomato! As I was leaving with the box of veggies, she said, "Do you eat turkey?"
"Yes, of course," I answered, "but, I don’t want you to give me a turkey."
She insisted and headed for the kitchen. I expected her to return with a big frozen turkey in a bag, but what I heard instead, stopped me in my tracks. It was the unmistakable sound of gobbling! She entered carrying the biggest damn LIVE turkey that I have ever seen in my life.
"I can't eat him. He is like a pet," she said. This was really cool. I could eat him. As a boy, I once shot a turkey, cleaned it, and had it for Thanksgiving. "Sure," I said, "I will take him." I couldn't wait to see the look on my wife's face when I came home with this guy!
I am sure it will be similar to the looks I got from other motorists, as I drove home with this big turkey sitting on the back seat of my Volvo, gobbling away out of the partially-open window.
To make a long story a bit more digestible, I could not kill and eat him. He lived happily in my back yard, not unlike a dog, ate me out of house and home, chased the cat, and pooped on my deck for about two years until I moved. Not wanting to bring Tom to the next house, I gave this now sixty pound behemoth to my neighbor, who assured me HE could kill and eat him.
Tom died about four years later, living a full and peaceful life at the Folsom, Calif., petting zoo. My neighbor couldn't eat him either.
About ten years ago (maybe longer), I had the pleasure of meeting the real Patch Adams, a very interesting character made famous by a movie of the same name, and played by Robin Williams. Patch said that he can learn more about a patient in one house call than he can by a dozen office visits. I couldn't agree more. Patch actually required a house call on all his new patients.
From that one home visit, I learned of the profound dedication of a loving mother, committed to caring for her child, even though that child is over thirty years old. I saw a house rearranged for a person of special needs. I felt the awesome power of a simple, easy-to-make house call. And, I got a turkey and a great story out of it.
Every person (or patient) has a story if medical providers only take to time and make the effort to discover it. What we see in the office is not really a true representation of a person. A fifteen minute office visit is not enough time to truly embrace the wonderful complexity of the human soul. Medical providers must remind themselves that we are caring for PEOPLE, not just human afflictions.
Related Topics: Integrative Medicine Resource Center, 7 Key Traits of the Ideal Doctor
Technorati Tags: housecalls, Patch Adams, doctors
3 Comments:
Wow, what a great story...You are one of the very few caring and compasionate medical providers left out there. The medical profession is lucky to have you.
Madison
What a nice comment, Madison. Thank you. Makes up for some of those negative comments that I tend to generate from time to time with my comments or stories. Most medical providers are inherently compassionate and kind, but sometimes they need to "rediscover it" again....perhaps, humbled by some heart-tugging patient experiences.
This is an interesting story. It makes me wonder how many house calls you've made since then.
D
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