First Words
…thoughts of an anachronistic, solo pediatrician
by Glenn Feole, M.D.
"Be careful too that the reading of your story makes the melancholy
laugh and the merry laugh louder," Cervantes, Prologue to Don Quixote
Contact: ishmaelish36@gmail.com
Blog site: ishmaelish36.blogspot.com
June 28, 2014 Saturday
Chief Complaint: (written on the chart before I go in the room)
“everything”
Interesting Name:
Excess Rice
Anecdote:
Since I encourage Mothers to get rid of the pacifier at age six months, or by one year at the latest, it goes without saying that I would see some of my patients somewhere outside the office door, just before they came in, sneaking a last long suck on their beloved pacifier like a furtive last forbidden cigarette. I remember seeing a three year old sucking contentedly on a pacifier, savoring every precious moment, as if it were a deluxe Macanado cigar.
As a solo pediatrician, I rarely had even a weekend off. If I could arrange for coverage for a few days, I would take my family and we would dart off to Boston, treating our four young children to a beautiful hotel for two nights. It was Heaven. Once, while we were there for a weekend, we picked a luxurious restaurant at random on up-scale Boyleston Street and walked in for lunch.
The walls were a deeply polished oak, the whole atmosphere was dark and soothing. The heavy rounded handrails were of a lustrous brass. This was not the place for a young family with children to frequent. As we noisily clammered up the rich velvet carpet to the upper floor, I saw a very attractive blond Mother sedately sitting in the corner of the enormous book-lined room with a cup of coffee in front of her. We looked at each other and I noticed a small blond head sitting next to her. After that split second of recognition, she looked down and yelled. "Tommy, give me that pacifier! It's Dr. Feole!"
It was a year later that Will, now two years old, accompanied his older brother who was sick to the office. After I examined his brother, I turned to give Will a stamp on his hand (I used these instead of stickers…natural, made of wood, vegetable dye, no paper pollution and nice, artistic stamps…I am a product of the 60's...) and, voila, there it was: THE PACIFIER.
His Mother jumped to her feet in mock horror and said, "Oh my gosh! Will! Quick. Get rid of that pacifier. We're in Dr. Feole's office, remember?"
Westport, Connecticut, 1987-1998
Poetry:
Windchime
She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
in her nightie and her work boots.
It's six-thirty in the morning
and she's standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,
windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she's trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.
She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn't making
because it wasn't there.
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands on the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
by Tony Hoagland
Coup d'essai:
PART V of XX: Migrant Health Clinic Journal
My first patient was an eight year old Mexican girl namd Amada Jeda, who spoke no English. She complained of a stomach ache and some vomiting. After some careful bilingual detective work, it turned out to be a subtle case of strep throat. Just testing the new gringo doctor, I guess. She and her mother were actually very kind. I gave her a script for penicillin, “tres veces al dies” (three times a day). (Note my poor Spanish grammar and spelling…I didn't speak much Spanish when I started but learned by listening to my patients and my nurses.)
I went out to the desk later and heard the nurse telling her friend that a “white floor shows every spank of dirt.”
The clinic building is only a year old and out the back you can see corn trying to grow in this drought. The field extends for thousands of feet into the distance. Everything here extends for thousands of feet into the distance. Columbus would have had a very hard time proving his theory here. When I went out to lunch, the very kindly psychologist, an African-American in his late fifties, told me which barbecue pits to avoid and which to go to. A good one was Joyce’s Corner Store, which was at the corner. They have seafood on Wednesdays and the whole clinic goes there then.
The lab technician is named Mini. She is Hispanic and very nice. She just moved here from the Bronx. Yes, the Bronx. She keeps asking me if I like it here. When I say yes, she seems confused and just stares at me. I finally say, “Don’t you?” She lets out a sigh and says, “It’s just so hicky.” I ask her, “Salemburg?” She says, “No. All of North Carolina.” She goes back to her lab.
Favorite Musician/song:
I may have mentioned this, but for a long time I lived without a TV (I still don't have one and my children were raised mostly without one either) or a computer. I would put on music and then draw, write poetry or compose and record music. A beautiful life. One of the songs that I knew would always lead me into a gentle, contemplative and creative state was this CV by Brian Eno. It stirs the imagination for me and something creative would always happen.
Favorite Book/author:
Catherynne Valente, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of her Own Making
“One of the most extraordinary works of fantasy, for adults or children, published so far this century.”—Time magazine.
Favorite Movie/DVD:
Robert Duvall, Richard Harris, Shirley MacClaine…nothing more needs to be said.
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