Doctor’s Helper

When I was eight years old, we moved to Alabama from South Dakota. I vividly remember the move. My father was one of the first two physicians in our small town, they needed doctors, and they were happy to have us move in. 

My father borrowed money and  bought  an old apartment building and had it renovated to include a lobby, several patient rooms, his office, and a lab room. He was busy in those early years.

By the time I was a teen, I would help out in the office in the summers, in the front desk area. I learned how to answer the phone cheerfully, giving the name of the business and asking, May I help you?”
I would make copies, file charts, make appointments, and do other office-related duties. If the front desk attendant was sick or away on vacation, I was eventually able to carry on her front desk tasks, learning how to correctly post diagnosis codes. They taught me how to greet patients cheerfully and respectfully. I learned how  to  communicate with others in a public setting—I realize now how valuable that training was.

On occasion I’d even escort patients back to their waiting rooms. As we’d walk down the hall, they’d tell me stories: about themselves, about my dad, about their lives.  I learned the value of a smile, a touch on the arm, and listening to people when they talk.

Maybe it was because we were in a small town, but on holidays we were gifted with cakes and treats, and in the summers people would bring us some of their own home-grown produce. I always felt so lucky to be the recipients of the gifts that people would give to their doctor and his family. It made an impression on me—that people cared, and it taught me the different ways a person can say “thank you”.

In the far end of the hallway, my father had his office.  He didn’t care much for fancy furniture. He had an old second hand desk and not a very fancy chair with wheels. The room was 70’s fashion, with dark paneling. He had papers scattered all over his desk. Eventually, when  PC’s became common, he upgraded and added one of those. Above his desk, on the wall, he hung the painting of a tiger I painted in ink and watercolor the year we moved into that town. I was always proud of the fact that he kept that picture hung so prominently, for all his visitors to see. Behind his desk he had a large window, where he could see the pond  behind the building. Not a bad view!

A few times, I accompanied my dad on some of his house calls. I remember going to the poorest places, and there are two places I have never forgotten.

We visited one dwelling where an elderly man lived with some cats. His house was in disarray. He had dishes piled everywhere, and I remember asking my parents many questions afterwards. But what struck me was that even in his poverty, he offered me Wrigleys Doublemint chewing gum. I can still see that green package in his outstretched wrinkled hand. I remember, to this day, the compassion I felt for that man and that he offered me whatever he had to give.

Another house visit that I remember was somewhere out in the country. We visited one young girl, who probably wasn’t too much older than I was. She had had a kidney transplant, and one of the kidneys had been donated by one of her relatives. She kept saying, over and over again, “I’m so proud of that fact, I’m so proud of that.” This young lady was a special young lady and she never stopped smiling, her joy spilling as she was so happy to have us visit.

Nowadays, I suppose these types of visits would be in violation of a zillion privacy laws. Back then, and back there, nobody thought of such a thing.

The office was a place I had become  accustomed to – a part of my life. Even as I went off to college, married, and came back home, I always visited the “office”, to see what was new, and visit with the office staff, and to see if my father’s desk still had  papers scattered  all over it. It always did.

Two years ago, my father sold that office that he worked in for over 30 years, and now works full-time for the local hospital– the same hospital that brought him to town in the first place. He is over 70 years old, and doesn’t want to stop working.

Working in the “office” was much more than a summer job. And while it is no longer a place I can visit, I will never forget  that place on Highway 21, and what I learned there.  The building may not be permanent, but the memories are.