Rob Tenery / Tenery / MD Dr. Mayo's Boy

A Century of American Medicine
1. Auflage 2009
ISBN: 978-1-61254-030-6
Verlag: Brown Books Publishing Group
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 224 Seiten

My father took a scalpel in his gloved hand. The metal blade glistened under the intense light. In one quick thrust, he buried the blade into the patient's abdomen and opened up a wide gash that ran down past the belly button. At exactly that moment, a wave of nausea welled up in my throat. My ?ngers groped for a better hold on my stool. The blood and the smells and the dizziness were too much for a kid who hadn't asked for any of this. I held my ground for less than a minute and then toppled from the stool. I hit the tile ?oor head ?rst. In the far distance, I heard Oma Jones say, 'Future doctors never faint.'

Autoren/Hrsg.

Rob Tenery, MD

Tenery, Rob

MD,

Leseproben

1
HOUSE CALLS In 1948, there were only two surgeons in our small town. One was my grandfather, “Dr. W. C. Tenery.” The other was his son and my father, known by everyone as “Dr. Mayo.” In those days, all of our family activities revolved around the hospital and my father’s obligations to his patients. If we went to the movies or out to eat, he let the hospital operator know exactly where he was. When my baby sister, Susie, and I spent time with both of our parents, the conversations often centered on my father’s patients. If his patients were doing well, his mood was good and so was ours; if not, a pall fell over the family. My father had a tiring job, and he often dozed between bites of dinner. Despite the sacrifices, he was happy. More appropriately, he was satisfied, not so much from the money—he was occasionally paid in vegetables, loaves of bread, and homespun goods—but from the respect bestowed on him by his patients. My introduction to calling on patients came when I was five. One evening my father pushed back from the dinner table, his meal only half-eaten. He glanced at me. “Do you want to make rounds?” Even at five, I knew what he meant by “making rounds.” Medicine was not only our life; it was our second language. This was the first time he’d asked me to join him. I looked up at my mother. “Your tapioca will be here when you get back,” she said. I raced out the door behind him. What I didn’t realize then was that this night’s excursion was the beginning of my lifelong journey into medicine—a discipline that, for physicians in my father’s day, was more a calling than a job. My father and I roared down the gravel road that formed a straight shot between our house and the hospital. Our home fronted Main Street, the major road through Waxahachie, but my father preferred the dusty back route. “Jefferson Street is more direct,” he claimed often enough. With the medical emergencies my father and grandfather faced, seconds often made a difference. Our community was a blend of country folk who lived off the land—mostly cotton and a little maize—and others who lived off those who lived off the land. To me, the good citizens of Waxahachie, Texas, were part of a giant, extended family. I didn’t know all their names, but I recognized the faces. Big cities like Dallas, which was thirty miles to the north, seemed a million miles away. New York, where my mother’s family lived, seemed planets away. Waxahachie’s only real celebrity was Paul Richards, a former high school classmate of my father’s and the manager of the Chicago White Sox. I’d met him only once and still beamed with pride when his name was broadcast over the radio. “Why do you have to go back to the hospital?” I asked. “You were just there.” Waxahachie Sanitarium “I guess a lot of nights, I don’t have to,” he said. “But it lets me sleep better if I do. Your grandfather feels the same. Now that I’m here, he has me do the checking for both of us. Kind of like your mother and I checking on you and your sister each night.” The hospital stood in the far distance, its red-brick facade silhouetted in the dusky light. My father gave me a quick look. “Just stay by my side. If you have any questions, wait until we’re back in the car.” The Men’s Ward was a darkened room with rows of nondescript beds lining the walls. The beds were separated by off-white nightstands. I stayed close to my father, so close that the back of his jacket brushed my face. We stopped at the first bed. The nurse, Mrs. Delmer, scurried up to join us. “Dr. Mayo, I didn’t know you were here,” she said. He nodded. “We had a little problem over in the emergency room just now. It’s all taken care of.” She straightened her starched nurse’s hat, picked up the chart from the foot of the patient’s bed, and started conversing with my father in a language I didn’t understand. “Mr. Steed’s temperature …” My father pulled down Mr. Steed’s bedsheets and stared at his chest. After a few moments, we moved to the next bed. Mrs. Delmer scribbled notes on a piece of paper she kept tucked inside her breast pocket. She picked up the next chart, and my father repeated the procedure until we reached a bed in the far corner. The patient, a large man with a big stomach, was half asleep. My father glanced back at me, maybe to make sure I hadn’t wandered off or maybe to make sure I had an eyeful of what was to come. He pulled down the sheet and began poking at a giant bandage crisscrossing the man’s belly. “Hey, Doc,” the man said in a lazy voice. “Is that your boy?” “It is. I thought I’d start him out early, see if he’s cut out for this.” His fingers worked their way to the far edge of the bandage. The man was huge; his naked stomach the size of an old leather, steamer trunk. To reach the far edge of the bandage, my father leaned over the man with both hands stretched out in front of him. “Maybe someday, he’ll take over for me.” “You sure can be proud of your father,” the man said. “If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t … ouch!” he screamed. The man’s squeal cut off his words and startled several patients. I heard a collective groan coming from the room. The bloodstained bandage was clasped in my father’s hand. “That didn’t hurt me at all,” he said and handed the soiled dressing to Mrs. Delmer. “Thanks Doc,” the man said. “I knew that was coming. I just didn’t know when.” “Mrs. Delmer will put on a fresh bandage, only this one will be smaller.” He turned to me. “Sometimes you have to go through a little hurt before things get better.” When my father invited me to watch my first surgery, I couldn’t have been more excited. He stood at the scrub sink, his arms covered with soap up to his elbows. He backed away and peered into the operating room where my grandfather stood atop a small step stool overlooking his patient. My grandfather was a small man, closer to my size than most adults, but his presence made him appear to tower above others around him. He glanced at my father and then at me. “Is he going to help?” Dr. W. C. standing to the right in the operating room “Since he made rounds with me,” my father said, “I thought he ought to see what we do in here.” “Just so long as he doesn’t get in the way.” My grandfather, Dr. W. C., as his patients called him, was all business when it came to his hospital. He’d have no favorites, not even his only grandson. He’d come to Texas from the hills of Tennessee in the back of a covered wagon. He had started this very hospital in a converted rooming house almost thirty-five years ago. Later, when the old structure wasn’t big enough, he helped the town raise bonds to pay for the new building. When I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. If my father hadn’t insisted, I’d have gladly traded in my oversized white pajamas and the cap and mask for my old blue-jeans and a T-shirt. “He’ll be fine,” my father said. He nudged me into the tile-covered room with his knee. He reached for a towel from the nurse and carefully wiped the water from his hands and arms, then slung the towel in the direction of a basket in the far corner. To me, he said, “You stand up there by Miss Jones. Use the stool, so you can see.” “Come on over here,” Miss Jones said. Oma Jones was our nurse anesthetist. Like my grandfather, she was legendary in our community, not so much for what she did, but for what she didn’t do. She refused to put a patient to sleep until she was good and ready. Oma had a great deal of control, often delaying surgery for hours until she finished her plans. Her career was her life. She owned a parrot, Ben, who, according to my father, was the only object of her affection. “You’re not going to pass out on me are you?” Miss Jones said. “I can only take care of one patient at a time.” Until then, fainting hadn’t crossed my mind. As I crawled onto the stool, I felt everyone watching. “There,” I said, proud that I’d settled in. The pungent smell of ether and my own hot breath under my mask made breathing difficult. My grandfather nodded to my father. The surgery was about to begin. My father took a scalpel in his gloved hand. The metal blade glistened under the intense light. In one quick thrust, he buried the blade into the patient’s abdomen and opened up a wide gash that ran down past the belly button. Blood and fat erupted like lava. At exactly that moment, a wave of nausea welled up in my throat. My fingers groped for a better hold on my stool. The blood and the smells and the dizziness were too much for a kid who hadn’t asked for any of this. I held my ground for less than a minute and then toppled from the stool. I hit the tile floor head first. In the far distance, I heard Oma Jones say, “Future doctors never faint.” A week after my nosedive from the stool, my blackened eye had faded. In a...