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Worcester Medicine
FROM
THE
EDITOR Creative Writing Contest Winners: Tzitzis The
Soup Can A
Surprise Sunset
Guys
LETTERS TO THE
EDITOR
Congratulations to four Creative Writing Contest winners! This year we warmly congratulate the authors of the winning submissions to our fourth annual Massachusetts Medical Society Creative Writing Contest sponsored by Arts, History, Humanism and Culture Section of MIN (Members Interest Network). In previous years we provided a topic the authors could build their story around. Not for this contest, however. We decided it was time to let the "writing muse" extend her wings and fly freely. We encouraged the authors to look into desk drawers for pieces written long time ago, or to write new impromptu stories that touch on their interests, problems and dilemmas. We were curious to find out what physicians dream and ponder about. Could they write about something other than their professional lives? Could they detach themselves from medicine? The answer is yes. In fact all the pieces we received are rather remote from the medical profession. I started reading the stories one November evening. A small pile was in front of me, 19 pages all together, all neatly typed, all in Times New Roman font, double-spaced, as requested. A cup of tea within reach, a highlighter in hand... a moment of reflection for me -- no, I do not need a highlighter. Tonight, I am not going to study. I am going to just read, read and enjoy, read and not try to remember every bit of information, but rather savor the content. What a change this is for me, what a pleasure after weeks of preparation for my recent Neurology Boards. I begun with the story about "Sunset Guys" and their Mountain Café get-togethers by Edward Mason. What a fascinating account of the post-practice years in a small town! I hope I can be as dynamic when the time comes for me to put my reflex hammer down. Second in the pile was "A Surprise" by Claire A. Levesque about a totally different emotional subject. There is a child, there are loving parents and there is an unexpected "disability". There is also a friend who helps those in need understand and cope. This is a story of a crude awakening, an adjustment and of a triumph for a loving family. "The Soup Can" by Jack Randall followed, after I took few sips of cold Earl Grey. The first few paragraphs about the misery and hunger of two orphaned girls, lost in the world, yet not completely alone, reminded me of Charles Dickens' novels. Only five pages left...and I am having such a great literary evening! "Tzitzis" by Michael Shaw was last. This story about certain aspects of the history of Judaism is built around a lesson in cross-generation conflict, tolerance and the healing power of religious traditions. I put down the last page. What a pity there is no more to read...at least not this year. We congratulate all the authors for sharing their literary work with us. All submissions are "the winners" in their own special way! We hope to continue our Creative Writing Contest in 2004 and we encourage all the physician writers "out there" to participate. Dig into your treasure chests, retrieve long forgotten stories or create completely new ones, sit down and transfer each onto cellulose or into electronic bits. Then send them to us! Are we going to provide a topic for the next year's edition? This is still to be decided. Maybe you have a topic to suggest? To get involved with creative writing section of the AHHC MIN, contact Nancy Caron at 413-534-1100 or ncaron@mms.org.
TZITZIS "WHAT'S THAT YOU'RE WEARING, LEVY?" ASKED WILKINS. JOE LEVY WAS EMBARRASSED BY THIS QUESTION. THE BOYS WERE IN THE GYMNASIUM CHANGING ROOM OF WIMBLEDON GRAMMAR SCHOOL IN LONDON, UNDRESSING FOR THEIR WEEKLY GYM LESSON. THE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING TO WHICH WILKINS POINTED WAS A TZITZIS THAT JOE WORE UNDER HIS SHIRT. HIS GRANDMOTHER HAD CROCHETED IT FOR HIM AS A BIRTHDAY PRESENT. IT WAS ANALOGOUS TO A TALLIS OR PRAYER SHAWL THAT ORTHODOX JEWS WEAR OVER THEIR CLOTHES IN THE SYNAGOGUE. The garment consists of a simple rectangle of cloth with a hole for the neck. It resembles one side of a box kite with tassels at each corner. Its origin derives from a passage in the Torah commanding the Israelites to make tassels on the four corners of their garments. Some very orthodox Jews wear their tzitzis with the tassels conspicuously hanging down outside their shirts. Joe, however, hated wearing tzitzis at all, considering it to be an anachronistic piece of cloth that made him the object of ridicule by his classmates. In England in the 1940s, Jews were regarded by many with mild curiosity, almost as an alien species with very peculiar habits. Wilkins' question reflected this attitude. Furthermore, Joe found no comfort from a religious point of view. But his mother, being a traditional Jewish mother, insisted that it be part of his wardrobe. "If anyone, who isn't Jewish, asks you what it is," his mother had reasoned, "Just tell him it's to keep the cold off your chest." Joe knew that this was a silly explanation that would be seen as a blatant lie, even by the morons in his class. But still he did what most eleven-year-old boys did just after World War II -- he obeyed his mother. And so now he was faced with a question that required an immediate and convincing reply. He decided to avoid any appearance of dissembling. He would give Wilkins a direct and truthful answer. "It's a religious garment that Jewish men are required to wear," he replied, blushing and very much aware that his hands were growing cold and clammy. Wilkins stared at him uncomprehendingly for a few moments. He said nothing, but his actions spoke louder than any words he might have uttered. He gave Joe a hefty punch in the mid-abdomen. Now Joe was a tall and somewhat bulky lad. Wilkins, on the other hand, was small and compact, but he could deliver a powerful blow, always welcoming a counter attack and a subsequent brawl. This characteristic was, as might be expected, balanced by a pathetic lack of comprehension and academic ability. Joe was momentarily stunned by this blatant act, as well as being severely winded. He had always avoided fisticuffs, probably because he knew he would be beaten up; he preferred a hostile verbal exchange to a physical one. "Why did you do that?" he demanded after he had regained his breath. Wilkins quickly shot back, "Because you Jews killed Christ." "That was more than two thousand years ago," Joe retorted. "Yes, but my Dad only told me about it last week," cried an indignant Wilkins. The hostile exchange with Wilkins in the gymnasium locker room was an important milestone in Joe's life and brought about a significant change in his behavior. He refused to be ridiculed because of an article of clothing that he wore solely at his mother's insistence and for reasons that were unconvincing to him. His eleven-year-old mind told him that his identity must not be that of a boy in the Jewish ghetto, but instead he must blend in with the rest of the herd in the school where individual idiosyncrasies were unacceptable. From that moment on he discarded his tzitzis and never wore it again, despite his mother's pleading. Fortunately, his grandmother didn't add to his embarrassment by crocheting another one. Although Joe had won the battle with his mother about the tzitzis, both of his parents insisted that he attend synagogue (known by Jews as Schul) every Saturday (Shabbos.) Much to the satisfaction of his grandfather, Joe was persuaded to sit close to him. Grandpa made certain that he kept his prayer book (siddur) open and at the correct page. Joe, who much preferred to sit near his friends and chat, felt as though he was incarcerated during the three hour service. Grandpa, despite his devotion to every word of the liturgy, still had time to secure Joe's undivided attention. "Dovven!" (pray) ordered Grandpa when he detected Joe's mind was not focused on the service. Joe would dovven assiduously. He could read Hebrew well but hadn't a clue as to the English translation. What was the point, he thought, of mouthing the prayers and chants when to him it was nothing but gibberish? He never questioned the existence of God, whom he accepted without doubt, but couldn't understand what he was accomplishing by mouthing meaningless words that he had been told were prayer. Much to the pride of his parents and grandparents, Joe was bar mitzvahed two years later. The rabbi of the Schul rehearsed him three times a week so that he could diligently recite the portion of the Torah and other portions of the Bible that were routinely chanted on that date. He performed admirably without a mistake either in pronunciation or musical note. He had to admit to himself that, after his initial anxiety had disappeared, he enjoyed the rapt attention displayed by his parents, grandparents, rabbi and friends. It was as if he was in a position of power, despite his complete ignorance of the holy words he was uttering. After his bar mitzvah, Joe's attendance at Schul became more sporadic. By the time he had celebrated his fifteenth birthday he rarely attended Shabbos services. Under sufferance and at the insistence of his parents he did go on the High Holy Days. He even fasted on Yom Kippur, not out of any religious devotion, but to prove to himself that he could forgo eating and drinking for twenty-four hours. Meanwhile at school, in science classes, he was learning about the vastness of the universe, Darwinian evolution and Mendelian heredity. His blind belief in the existence of God was badly shaken and he entered a period of religious crisis, which is so common among teenagers. He became an agnostic. As he matured, Joe graduated from college with a degree in Biology. He obtained a Ph.D. in Genetics and soon became a university professor. Religion made little sense to him -- he was now an atheist. He nevertheless married a colleague, Esther, who had also been brought up as a Jew albeit much less observant than Joe's family, and they became the parents of a son, Henry. Henry grew up in a completely secular environment, did not attend synagogue services and received no Jewish education. Joe and his wife didn't even observe the High Holy days. Henry attended the same grammar school as Joe had. One day, when he was thirteen, he asked his parents why he had not been bar mitzvahed. "It's because we don't believe in it," intimated Esther and Joe. Henry shrugged but didn't pursue this line of questioning. A few weeks later, he announced that he wanted to learn about Judaism and to be bar mitzvahed. Joe and Esther thought Henry's request reasonable and approached the local rabbi, who eagerly agreed to teach him Hebrew and to educate him in Torah. Much to the amazement of Joe and Esther, he showed a tremendous interest in his Hebrew education. The rabbi was amazed and delighted at his learning ability and keen interest. Henry was bar mitzvahed. He attended Schul regularly and dovenned diligently with an understanding of the meaning of the prayers that Joe had lacked. His observance of Orthodox Judaism developed into an obsession. Joe and Esther were unprepared for this behavior, especially when he informed them that he would move out if the house was not made strictly kosher. They asked Henry what he thought he would achieve by being fanatical. Henry replied that he was not fanatical, but had come to realize that Judaism as practiced by orthodox Jews was the only way of life for him. "What's your reason for living?" Henry asked his father. "My reason for living, surprisingly, is taken from rabbinical teachings," replied Joe. Henry was taken aback by this. "Well?" he asked. "They said that you should love life, rejoice in its blessings and accept its limitations. That was a reasonable philosophy for me," Joe answered. "Wait a minute," he continued, "I want to show you something." He went into his bedroom, opened a drawer and retrieved the tzitzis that had caused him so much distress as a schoolboy and that he had kept, nevertheless, all these years. "My parents made me wear this at school and I was bullied by other boys for explaining its meaning. Do you want the same treatment?" Henry smiled, but became silent. Then slowly and deliberately he lifted up his shirt. He was wearing tzitzis.
Michael Shaw, MD, received his medical training in England and emigrated to the United States in 1971. He is a hematologist/oncologist. After holding various faculty positions, he practiced in Concord, MA. He is semi-retired and living in California.
The
soup can I FIRST MET THE TWINS ON A COLD, RAINY NOVEMBER NIGHT AT THE BACK DOOR OF OUR HOME. THERE HAD BEEN A FURTIVE KNOCK AT THE PANTRY DOOR AND I HAD SWITCHED ON THE PORCH LIGHT TO SEE WHO WAS OUT THERE. IN THE DIM LIGHT I WAS ABLE TO MAKE OUT TWO RAGGEDLY CLOTHED CHILDREN WITH VERY DIRTY FACES. I OPENED THE DOOR AND USHERED THEM INTO THE KITCHEN. "Can you spare us a little food, mister? We haven't had anything to eat for a couple of days and we're really very hungry," one of the children said. In the better light in the kitchen it was surprising to see that these were identical twin girls, about 8-10 years old. One of the girls was clutching a soup can with a plastic cap covering it, and their ragged clothes were very wet and dirty. Both appeared thoroughly miserable, and as they stood there the girl holding the can gave a visible shudder. I quickly stepped by them, closing the door to cut off the cold wind that was blowing on them. At this time my wife entered the kitchen and said, "What have we here?" "Two very cold and hungry young ladies have knocked on our door and wondered if we could spare them some food," I answered. "Why of course you can have some food, girls. Come in by the fire in the living room and warm up," my wife said. The two girls looked at each other and then hesitatingly accepted my wife's extended arm and went with her into the living room. "What are your names, girls?" my wife asked them. "And where do you come from?" "My name is June," said the girl holding the can. "And my sister's name is May. We have been living in different places downtown, but it is beginning to get too cold to sleep outdoors anymore." "But where is your family?" asked my wife. "Don't you live with them?" "We don't have any family," answered June, who seemed to be the one who did most of the talking for the two girls. "Our mother got very sick and had to go to the hospital. A short time after she went there (as she was saying this, June stopped talking and her eyes filled up with tears) she, she, died. Later on we decided that we didn't want to stay where the hospital people had sent us, so we ran away from there and have been living in different places since then. It's been pretty warm up to now so the places we've been staying at outdoors have been OK, but it has been a little hard to get food," she said wistfully. "Don't you have a father or any other relatives you could go to live with?" I asked June. "We never had a father," said June. "Our mother said that she didn't know who our father was. She told us all her family had all died so that we three were all alone in the world. But that was OK with May and me because mother loved us very much and we were all very happy together until she got sick. When she died in the hospital we cried a lot for a long time but she still is with us and helps us get along." My wife and I exchanged quizzical glances, but accepted June's statement without pressing her about it. "Well come on girls," spoke my wife. "Let's go into the kitchen and get you some food. And then I think I have some warm clothes up in a bedroom chest that will fit you girls just fine. "The girls' eyes seemed to light up happily at that and they followed my wife and I into the kitchen where we all had a good supper of pasta and meatballs. The two girls ate their food ravenously and it was pretty obvious that they hadn't eaten much for some time. After supper my wife took the girls upstairs and outfitted them with clothes from our children's leftovers that she had kept in a chest in their old bedroom. There were two beds in their old room, so my wife suggested that the girls should stay at least tonight out of the cold and rain. They would talk about the girls' future in the morning after a good night's rest. The two girls seemed quite happy about this and put on my children's old pajamas and climbed into bed. As my wife turned down the light and went out of the door she heard the two girls speaking in a low voice. She thought they were talking to one another, but it became obvious that they were speaking to a third person. My wife listened quietly by the door and heard the girls say "They're awfully nice, mom, I hope we can stay here for awhile; at least during the cold weather. We love you, mom. Goodnight." The next morning my wife was preparing breakfast and the rooms were filled with the wonderful smells of breakfast cooking. The two girls came downstairs with wide eyes and anticipation on their faces looking at the tasty fare cooking on the stove. "Are you ladies ready for breakfast?" I asked jokingly. "Come and sit down and eat." They both came quickly to the table and sat down. My wife was smiling as she brought the steaming food to the table. "Help yourselves, girls, enjoy!" I said. I noticed that June was still clutching the plastic-capped soup can that she came in with the night before. She carried that can with her wherever she went, and at night she took it to bed with her as well. This seemed a little peculiar to us, but we didn't say anything about it to her. After breakfast we suggested the girls stay with us for awhile until we could all decide what would be the best thing for their future. They seemed very happy to go along with this. During the next few days the girls seemed to be very happy in their new surroundings. About a week later we began a discussion with them about the possibility of their going to a foster home. The mention of this threw them into a panic and they rushed up to their room with June clutching her soup can in her hand. My wife and I followed them upstairs into their room and found them on the bed sobbing. "No! No! Mom! We won't go to another one of those places again," cried June. "They wouldn't let us keep you with us at those places so we won't go there again! Never!" And they both followed June's words with a torrent of tears. "Why, what's the matter girls? Foster homes can be wonderful," I said. "They're not all bad. You seem to have been happy with us, and we're like a foster home to you aren't we?" "Oh, yes!" sobbed June. "But the other places we were at all made fun of us and wouldn't let us keep our mom with us." "What do you mean, June?" asked my wife. "Why were they making fun of you and what do you mean about them not letting you keep your mother with you?" "Well, ma'am," sobbed June. "You see, when our mother died the hospital had her cremated and gave us her ashes in a small jar. My sister May is a little clumsy and one day she dropped the jar and it broke on the floor. I was able to gather up every bit of the ashes, but I had to put them in the soup can I carried stuff in because it was all I had for a container. I haven't let May carry the can ever since, but it's OK `cause she can talk with mom with me holding the can all right." June sobbed again. "At the foster home they sent us to, the other kids made fun of us with our soup can, and one of the persons in charge said we would have to get rid of `that smelly can.' Well, ma'am, we couldn't leave our mother so we ran away from that place that night and have been living on our own since. It hasn't been too bad until it began to get cold, because people like you have been pretty kind to us and we had our mom with us to help us." "No ma'am, we can't take the chance that the same thing might happen at another foster home, so if we can't stay with you then we'll just go on our way again," June said. My wife and I, with tears in our eyes, scooped up each girl with a big hug and assured them that they could stay with us just as long as they wanted. We promised them that we would get a beautiful urn to let their mother rest in splendor with them the rest of their lives. Jack Randall (David Jackson, M.D.) is a general and vascular surgeon who enjoys writing, both fiction, non-fiction, and technical medical articles. Dr. Jackson has a science fiction novel being published sometime this year, "The Synthetic Race"; and has already written the first chapter on its sequel. He has also written and performed many musical parodies about various medical topics or friends' retirement or award presentations. "It's hard to decide what pleases me more; a successful aortic procedure or a finished (and published) story," says Dr. Jackson.
A
surprise AS HER MOTHER ALWAYS SAID, LIFE IS FULL OF SURPRISES. BUT BETTY WASN'T EXPECTING THIS SURPRISE. AND SURPRISES CAME ON ORDINARY DAYS. BETTY WALKED OLIVIA TO KINDERGARTEN THE MORNING OF THE PHONE CALL. THEY MET ALICE AND HER DAUGHTER LOUISA IN THEIR DRIVEWAY AND BOTH GIRLS ENJOYED THE WALK THROUGH THE CRUNCHY LEAVES. OLIVIA AND LOUISA HELD HANDS AND CHATTERED. BETTY FELT PROUD OF HER BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER AND REMEMBERED BACK TO 5 YEARS AGO. Betty enjoyed being pregnant but had found labor and delivery to be more painful and scary than she had expected. Then Olivia was born and she was declared "perfect" by the pediatrician and everyone who saw her. Olivia was a good baby who quickly slept through the night. She was a happy child who walked early, but had some trouble learning to talk. Betty thought she and her husband Matt spoiled Olivia so much that she hardly had to talk to get what she wanted. The pediatrician wasn't worried so Betty's brief fears disappeared. Betty also knew there were other children who lagged behind her Olivia. Alice's daughter Louisa had Down Syndrome. Louisa was a pleasant pretty child, but she still drooled sometimes and her speech was slurred. She didn't even learn to walk until she was already two. Betty was happy that her child didn't have a disability. Alice seemed to handle it all so well but one day, over tea, she became tearful when the mothers talked about dreams for their children. Alice feared that Louisa would never marry and have a job. Betty felt sorry for Alice and relieved for herself. Olivia went to preschool three days a week and seemed to enjoy it. Louisa went to a special preschool with lots of extra services. Every day, when Olivia came home, she wanted to see Louisa. The two girls played together and giggled, even though Betty and Alice often could not understand their conversations. Sometimes Betty selfishly wanted Olivia to play with the "smart" kids on the block, but she couldn't deny that Olivia's face lit up every time she saw Louisa. The girls were delighted to find out that they would be in the same kindergarten. Louisa would share a teacher's aide with another little boy with speech problems and would still have extra services in the afternoon. September went by in a whirl. There were so many meetings and new routines. Betty was glad that Matt didn't work much overtime that month. He helped out with so many home chores and they enjoyed some lovely hours in the backyard during a few unusually warm and sunny days. Everything seemed perfect. Olivia liked school. Matt's new job paid better and Betty loved their neighborhood and their life. And, to add to it all, she was happy to be pregnant again. She had a little morning sickness in the summer but now felt terrific. Then the school called. Mrs. Jones, the kindergarten teacher, wanted to talk to her. In fact, Mrs. Jones recommended that both Matt and Betty try to meet with her at the school soon. The telephone conversation was brief, mostly just a scheduling of the time. Mrs. Jones only shared that she wanted to discuss Olivia's learning style. Betty felt on the verge of hysteria, but Matt calmed her down. Somehow she managed to get through the next two days. At the meeting Mrs. Jones was friendly, but professional. She told them that she was concerned about Olivia's speech delays and also felt that Olivia was slow to understand the basic concepts being presented. And last week Olivia had a long tantrum when she couldn't follow directions during her turn at the calendar. Betty was shocked. Matt asked all the questions and Mrs. Jones talked about sensory integration and information processing and Betty couldn't listen any more. Then Mrs. Jones said that most children with learning disabilities did very well after receiving extra help in school. That word "disability" hit Betty so hard that she thought she might faint. Louisa was disabled because she was born that way. Olivia was perfect, even the pediatrician said so. None of this made any sense. Matt shared the news with their families. Betty felt ashamed and felt she must have failed her daughter in some way. Her sister called a few days later to offer support. But after some encouraging words, Betty had to listen to the achievements of her niece and nephew and she only felt worse. She wished that she could talk to her mother, but her Mom had died just before Olivia was born. Betty tried to stay cheerful on the outside, but found it to be so hard. The school wanted to "test" Olivia to determine her "needs". Betty wanted to bring Olivia home and keep her safe from it all. Betty still couldn't talk about it much and definitely did not want the neighbors to know. But Alice sensed something was wrong and Betty finally opened up. She told Alice all the details. Alice was so understanding. And Alice was the first person (besides Mrs. Jones) to understand it all and to give her practical advice. She immediately gave Betty two books to read about ways to help your challenged child and told her how to push the school to provide the right services. Betty felt better when she thought of Olivia as challenged rather than disabled. Betty cried again that night, but she realized it was partly in relief because now she had someone who could hear her story and really understand. She also cried because she had felt so superior to Alice and Louisa but now Alice was providing her with strength and support in such an unselfish way. She crept quietly into Olivia's room and watched her sleeping daughter. She felt so filled with emotions -- amazed at her daughter's beauty, thrilled at the feeling of new life within her, anxious for her little girl and a little more able to handle the struggles ahead. Betty's mother was right. Life was full of surprises. And Betty was realizing that surprises sometimes pushed you to learn new things about yourself and about life. She wasn't sure what the future would hold for Olivia, but she knew that she and Matt would provide Olivia with every opportunity. And now she realized that a learning disability would never diminish the beauty and the sweet nature of her child. And she slept well for the first time in days. Dr. Levesque is a behavioral
neurologist with Boston NeuroBehavioral
Associates and at Jewish Memorial
Sunset
guys "THE SUNSHINE BOYS", A TALE OF TWO ELDERLY MEN WHO HAD PROBLEMS DEALING WITH LIFE AFTER WORK, BUT RATHER IT IS MY STORY ABOUT THE "SUNSET GUYS". IT STARTED ABOUT THREE YEARS AGO. A GROUP OF US OLDER GUYS HAD NOTICED THAT OUR WIVES WERE ALWAYS GOING OUT FOR LUNCH SO WE DECIDED THAT WE WOULD LIKE TO GO TO LUNCH TOO. AS A MATTER OF FACT, WE TOOK PART OF OUR INSPIRATION FROM TOM BROKAW'S RECENT BOOK, "THE GREATEST GENERATION", WHERE THE AUTHOR TALKS BOUT THE "R. O. M. E.O'S – RETIRED OLD MEN EATING OUT". WE WERE MORE THAN THAT. WE WERE THE "SUNSET GUYS", AND I WILL TELL YOU WHY. First, there is me. I am Mortie Malsion. I am 77, happily married, all of my kids are grown, married and living out of town. My wife, Elsa, is in wonderful health, plays a lot of tennis and bridge and often leaves me to my own devices. My hips don't like tennis and my brain doesn't like bridge -- so here I am, with plenty of time on my hands. In my previous life, I was a primary care physician, and now I really enjoy the freedom to do nothing, or if I do something, I do it whenever and wherever I want. But I am no dummy and I know that I have to move my body, so I work out three or four times a week at the local gym. I like to think that I look younger than my stated age. I am still a little under six feet tall, my weight hovers at two hundred pounds, I stand straight, and look as good now in casual wear as I did when I was in practice. Best of all though, I like to read, send and receive e-mail, keep up with the world on my computer, do some semi-scientific writing, and lately, I've written a couple of obituaries. Naturally, we, my wife and I, visit the kids and their kids a lot. There is still a lot of time left, so when Phil, you'll learn more about him later, suggested a regular Friday restaurant lunch, I thought it was a great idea and accepted. Phil Burton is also retired. He was an architect who worked hard and now seems to enjoy the same unstructured and unscheduled life that I do. His wife and children do their own things pretty much as mine do, only a little different. Charlotte, the wife, likes to visit places with their older daughter and she is often away for a couple days at a time. Phil is a frequent golfer but was delighted to join the lunch. He used to be known around town as a quiet, non-communicative guy, but that seemed to make him all the more talkative after age 75, and now that he is 82, he has become a veritable chatterbox. Phil's life hasn't always been easy. His children were slow to find themselves and took their toll in anguish and cash, but things seem fine now. Phil's health and physique are good and he looks great in his golf outfits that he wears to our lunches. He was delighted to be able to join us and talk with some guys he knew would understand what life in retirement can be. Phil brought in Allen. This fellow was a real businessman. He is approximately the same age as the rest of us, had seen service during World War II, as we all had, but he had gone into the furniture business with his wife's father instead of going to college and he made one store into a nation-wide chain. Yet, he would quickly tell you he would have rather been a schoolteacher. He has turned the business over to his only child, a son, who is watching it slip away while he travels on his boat and plays tennis. Allen's coronary by-pass keeps him out of the office and out of his son's way. But it doesn't keep him from being a perfect Friday luncheon pal. You would recognize him, he is short, bald, and his clothes, bought in healthier times, hang too loose from his body. He has a lot to talk about. "Chuck", or Charles as his special-kind-of-a-wife insists he be called but we never do, conceived of our luncheon group idea from others he had been in. He really needs the time away from home. Chuck married later than the rest of us to a much younger and richer woman than he should have. He is now 84 and " Bimbo" (as we call her when Chuck is not around) is 55. They have been married for thirty years, their kids are younger and still a great expense on all fronts, so Chuck likes to get away from home a lot. He gave up his work as a stockbroker at the peak of the dot-com market, but he doesn't enjoy his good fortune as he thought he might and really likes to have lunch with us. Chuck is not very happy and he looks worried. He walks with a stoop that now makes his six foot two frame fit poorly into any thing he might wear. He tells us things about himself and the "Bimbo" that we really don't want to know and shouldn't. Ed is the last member of our group. He has most recently retired from his new car agency where he had started as a salesman right after graduation from the junior college he attended after war service, including time in a prisoner-of-war camp. He bought the automobile business about twenty years ago from the original owner. Through the years we all bought our cars from him. Ed is a little different. He has seen a lot more of the shady side of the human race than the rest of us. The people who buy cars and those that sell them can be a difficult lot and turn a man into a cynic, and so it was with our Ed. His wonderful wife, Marion, his physician daughter and philosophy professor son, and six wonderful grandchildren have softened his edges a great deal and his whole appearance shows it. He is a lot less formal than he used to be. Ed became easier to talk to during our three years together. There we were, five retired old men enjoying Friday lunch together every week at the Mountain Café, a small place overlooking our town's only ski slope, all of us about the same age, looking and dressing a lot alike. We wore sport shirts and slacks in spring, summer and fall and a sporty sweater if it got cold before we went to Florida for the winter. Our hair was mostly sparse and our teeth, in good repair, were either natural or represented good dental work. We ate our soup and sandwich, drank our coffee or diet coke, talked a lot, and solved nothing. We generally stayed too long but tipped the waitress well. It was our place. They knew us there and missed us in the winter. It was a simple place, served beer and wine -- we never had any, we are all taking too much medicine. The rest of the place was half-empty by the time we got there at one-thirty in the afternoon and by the time we left two hours later, our waitress had gone off duty and the new shift were beginning to set the other nine tables for dinner. It was really good fun. Then it happened. Allen's former business went bankrupt and he died of a massive coronary while in Florida last winter. We miss him. Yet, that wasn't all. Chuck died. He had lived in a much fancier and busier community down there than the rest of us. Popular rumor was that he died in bed with the Bimbo, but we will never know. What is the difference anyway? Our surviving ROMEOS are in a kind of hiatus, we may be all done. However, we are going to try again, but will it ever be the same? Next week my 78-year-old, retired dentist cousin Bob is being auditioned at lunch, and the week after, Phil's former accountant, 80-year-old Bernie gets a try-out. We hope that they will be O.K. Maybe, we should try some women as replacements? Or has the sun already set? Edward Mason, MD received his medical training at Tufts University Medical School and was board certified in Psychiatry in 1960. He was named Distinguished Life Fellow American Psychiatric Association in 1976. He served as Emeritus Professor of Psychiatry- University of Massachusetts Medical School; as Chief of Psychiatry, St. Vincent Hospital, Worcester, and for many years was in private practice. He lives in Worcester.
REFLECTIONS ON A LIFE IN
MEDICINE JOHN
PAUL LOCK,
MD, EDITOR Dear Dr. Lock: A few years ago, during the Presidency of Dr. Brownell Wheeler, I was approached to do my biography for Worcester Medicine (formerly Worcester Medical News). Unfortunately I did not get to it, but recently I finally prepared the enclosed article (a few years late). I believe you will find this interesting. I was a former President of the Worcester District Medical Society and also President of the Massachusetts Ophthalmologic Society in the 1960's 70's. I had also served three terms on the Worcester School Committee and was Professor of Ophthalmology at Tufts Medical School. When the University of Massachusetts Medical School opened in Worcester, I not only helped to accomplish this in my small way but also helped organize the Eye Program, and became the first Chairman of the Department of Ophthalmology, which at that time was a casual part-time position. It was through the Medical School that I first became friends with Dr. Wheeler. My wife and I were serious art collectors and had several major museum exhibitions of our collections, including one at the Worcester Art Museum. Since I trained before W.W.II and practiced in Worcester briefly at the start of the war and then after my Army service until I retired in 1985, I have tried to present an interesting picture of Worcester medicine in those early days, both before and after the coming of the Medical School. Thank you for sending me Worcester Medicine. I find it most interesting. It has come a long way since my years of involvement with the previous Worcester Medical News. Cordially, Elton Yasuna, MD
Coming from a strong medical family, I entered New York University Medical School in 1934 at the age of 19. Tuition was $500 a year, plus lab fees and books. We were in the fifth year of the Great Depression. When I graduated in 1938, as anticipated, one-third of the students had not made it and the world seemed to be falling apart with Hitler actively taking over most of Europe. I am one of those fast disappearing endangered species who went through medical school and internships before there were any antibiotics. We saw many cases of syphilis in all its states --gonorrhea was almost epidemic with no treatment. Newborn babies frequently lost their vision by having their corneas infected by the gonococcus while traversing the birth canal. This was becoming a major cause of blindness. Fortunately, a silver preparation drug "ARGYROL" was found to prevent this and thereafter by law these drops were placed in the eyes of all newborn infants. Tuberculosis was wide spread and every city had its "TB Sanatoriums" where the patient resided for several years. This was also true for mental illness except that most patients remained until they died. 20% of all young people with pneumonia died for lack of treatment, and one of every five children would die from epidemics of infectious diseases usually called "The Flu". Many children had chronic running ear infections with resulting mastoiditis. Periodic epidemics of "Polio" would strike, usually in the summer. My classmate at medical school, Jonas Salk, helped eradicate this scourge. On graduation my interest was cardiology and I was accepted for the 18-month straight medical internship at the Boston City Hospital, which at that time had no private patients. During our medical school and internship years we all feared exposure to our patients with pneumonia and TB. Of the 24 interns starting on the six Boston City Medical Services, three contracted tuberculosis and had to be hospitalized. We worked 80-100 hours a week and did all our own lab work. Later I switched to Ophthalmology and during all these years including my being Head Resident in Ophthalmology, I never received any salary. I had now married, and my wife was just graduating from Boston University Law School. Eventually we had three children. During my training we lived with my in-laws but we managed to survive financially by giving monthly blood transfusions and some teaching at Emanuel and St. Regis Colleges. Living was cheap. Movies were 35 cents, a Chinese dinner for two at Ruby Foo's cost $1.35, gasoline was 16.9 cents a gallon and cigarettes cost 12 cents a pack. Near the end of my ophthalmology residency, Pearl Harbor and W.W.II had occurred, but since I was not a reserve officer, I was allowed to complete my training. While waiting to be called into service I became the ophthalmologist for the induction station at Fort Devens with a salary of $15 a day. Even though I had to travel 30 miles each way on my own, now I was on Easy Street! My work started at 7 am, but I was through by lunchtime. Having free afternoons, a Worcester physician friend suggested I open an office in Worcester, which I did. I found space in the Slater Building ($60/month), took out $10,000 malpractice ($70) and located my family on South Lenox Street for $50/month. My fee was $5.00 for a complete eye exam and somehow, somewhere I began to see patients. Since I could not afford a secretary, I had my office phone ring also at home where my wife took messages. After 18 months of part-time practice in 1943, my military draft number came up and I enlisted in the Army at $166.67/month. By this time we had bought a home on Vassar St. for $7800 which was rented out while I was in the Service. I had passed my specialty boards in Ophthalmology and did ophthalmic surgery during my Army career. After serving in the Army, I returned to Worcester and resumed practice. I also had a strong desire to teach and began giving one day a week to the Tufts Ophthalmology Service at the Boston City Hospital, working with both students and residents. My title was "Assistant Instructor" and after three years, one became an "Instructor." After ten years we were called Assistant Professors and eventually, when I became Director of the Wednesday Service, I became a "Professor." There was never any salary, but it was fully rewarding. Later when the University of Massachusetts Medical School opened in Worcester, I became involved with their ophthalmology teaching and later was appointed to be the first chairman of the Department of Ophthalmology, which was part-time then. Shortly after this I retired. During my Worcester years in the 1960's, I became deeply interested in public education. I took on the presidency of the Flagg Street School PTA, and later with the support of my fellow physicians, was elected for three terms to the Worcester School Committee, a great learning experience. During all this time I continued my private practice, my teaching, and even played my tennis 3-4 times a week, (including the winters indoors at the Greendale "Y".) In the mid-60's we shared a subscription to the Red Sox night games with Drs. Bernard Stone, Roland Caron and Bob Silkman and their wives. During these 9 years we suffered with the Red Sox through three play-offs and World Series, but we always lost. Our reserved grandstand tickets were $2.75 and we always found close-by, free parking. My wife and I also had season tickets to the New England Patriots during their first three years of existence. They had no stadium and seldom won a game. The attendance averaged about 8,000. My wife and I together had developed an interest in American art and by 1960 had begun a collection of American abstracts of the 1930's and 40's. We stayed with this for over 25 years. The Worcester Art Museum showed the collection in 1991, but by this time we had become involved in American Surrealism of the 1930's and 40's. We kept this collection in our Sarasota dwelling and the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Flordia and in 1999 they gave a major exhibition. Both exhibits traveled to other museums. Consequently we had been collecting contemporary glass sculpture for the past 18 years, and this collection was shown at the Museum of Fine Arts in St. Petersburg, FLA. It was lots of fun. To me, professionally my greatest satisfaction and fulfillment was being elected President of the Worcester District Medical Society in the 1970's by my fellow physicians. This together with my election to the presidency of the Massachusetts Ophthalmologic Society a few years later, may have been my most rewarding experiences. Until well into the 1970's most everyone smoked. At all medical meetings there was always a cloud of smoke over the assemblage, slowly killing many of us. During my over 42 years in medicine I have published 21 papers on ophthalmology in various journals including the JAMA and the New England Journal of Medicine. If there were a message in any of this I would say: "Even though your practice is all-consuming, find the time to have other interests. The rewards and excitement of these other interests will make your life so much more fulfilling." Since my retirement in 1985, we live in Sarasota, Florida for eight months and our summers are spent on Cape Cod. This past summer was our 54th on the Cape. We are most grateful to the physicians of Worcester, not only for their years of friendship, but also for the quality of medicine they practice.
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