My Doctor Died Today
He was struck by a van while walking in central Ballinrobe. The news is devastating. Back in October, when I first posted this image, I wrote the following. I think it's a good idea to repost it out of respect for the man and what he's meant to our community.
Behind this nondescript storefront, and the small, bare, waiting room behind, sits my doctor of the last ten years. In this day of corporate medicine, he’s an anachronism, even for Ireland.
He’s been here in this little rural town for decades. At 69, he should be slowing down, but it wasn’t until the Covid crisis hit, that he began to demand that people call for an appointment — patients would otherwise just queue up in the waiting room, and wait to be seen. (Covid also saw the demise of the waiting room’s vast collection of tattered grocery store gossip magazines, some many years old.)
He has no receptionist; no nurse. Call the office, and he’ll be the one answering the telephone. Tell him that you need an appointment, and he’ll ask, “When would you like to come in?” Yes, you read that correctly; he’s asking you, the patient what’s convenient, not giving the take-it-or-leave-it, date-and-time ultimatum we’re accustomed to hearing elsewhere.
- - -
When your time comes, the door to his office opens, and you’re greeted with a “Hiya, come on in” and you’re led to a chair by his desk.
The desk itself is a chaotic mess of lab tests, surgery reports, insurance letters, and miscellaneous incoming mail. To his left is a cabinet and counter, where he keeps syringes, bandages, and other small tools of the trade. Nearby is his exam table. Old wood and leatherette, it was probably inherited from the previous doctor. It could date to the 1940s.
One thing you’ll find missing on his desk is a computer; laptop or otherwise. He has one, somewhere, but I’ve never seen it. He may have left the laptop at home that morning.
After getting you seated, he’ll most likely say “Hold on, and I’ll get your file.” He doesn’t have to be reminded of who you are, even though he’s one of only three doctors serving a town of 3,500, plus the surrounding farming community.
He emerges from the back room, with your ‘file’. The file consists of multiple index cards accumulated through the years, stapled together one on top of the other.. Each card represents details of prior visits, all carefully written out in longhand. If you live long enough, your stack of cards could grow to be an inch thick, all stapled together again and again, as your history with him had grown as well.
Some remark of yours may bring out a story of his years long ago in residency, or an anecdote about a funny situation with a now long-dead patient. A visit should last 15 minutes, but a good story warrants an extra five or ten. He scrawls out your prescription, or takes your blood, and it’s time to go.
“What are my damages?” You say to conclude. “Ah… forty-five.” You hand him a fifty and the note is shoved into a front trouser pocket. He roots around for your fiver, and sees you to the door. Good-byes are exchanged. You leave the office, and someone in the waiting room stands up.
“Hiya, come on in,” he says to the next patient.
- - -
Epilogue: You might be sprawled on your couch, in front of the TV, later that night. Nine thirty; quarter to ten… and the phone will ring. You answer, and recognise the doctor’s voice. He sounds rather animated, almost gleeful. “I’ve been researching your problem here, and I found something interesting…”
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...And a little bit of Ireland at the finest passes into history.
My Doctor Died Today
He was struck by a van while walking in central Ballinrobe. The news is devastating. Back in October, when I first posted this image, I wrote the following. I think it's a good idea to repost it out of respect for the man and what he's meant to our community.
Behind this nondescript storefront, and the small, bare, waiting room behind, sits my doctor of the last ten years. In this day of corporate medicine, he’s an anachronism, even for Ireland.
He’s been here in this little rural town for decades. At 69, he should be slowing down, but it wasn’t until the Covid crisis hit, that he began to demand that people call for an appointment — patients would otherwise just queue up in the waiting room, and wait to be seen. (Covid also saw the demise of the waiting room’s vast collection of tattered grocery store gossip magazines, some many years old.)
He has no receptionist; no nurse. Call the office, and he’ll be the one answering the telephone. Tell him that you need an appointment, and he’ll ask, “When would you like to come in?” Yes, you read that correctly; he’s asking you, the patient what’s convenient, not giving the take-it-or-leave-it, date-and-time ultimatum we’re accustomed to hearing elsewhere.
- - -
When your time comes, the door to his office opens, and you’re greeted with a “Hiya, come on in” and you’re led to a chair by his desk.
The desk itself is a chaotic mess of lab tests, surgery reports, insurance letters, and miscellaneous incoming mail. To his left is a cabinet and counter, where he keeps syringes, bandages, and other small tools of the trade. Nearby is his exam table. Old wood and leatherette, it was probably inherited from the previous doctor. It could date to the 1940s.
One thing you’ll find missing on his desk is a computer; laptop or otherwise. He has one, somewhere, but I’ve never seen it. He may have left the laptop at home that morning.
After getting you seated, he’ll most likely say “Hold on, and I’ll get your file.” He doesn’t have to be reminded of who you are, even though he’s one of only three doctors serving a town of 3,500, plus the surrounding farming community.
He emerges from the back room, with your ‘file’. The file consists of multiple index cards accumulated through the years, stapled together one on top of the other.. Each card represents details of prior visits, all carefully written out in longhand. If you live long enough, your stack of cards could grow to be an inch thick, all stapled together again and again, as your history with him had grown as well.
Some remark of yours may bring out a story of his years long ago in residency, or an anecdote about a funny situation with a now long-dead patient. A visit should last 15 minutes, but a good story warrants an extra five or ten. He scrawls out your prescription, or takes your blood, and it’s time to go.
“What are my damages?” You say to conclude. “Ah… forty-five.” You hand him a fifty and the note is shoved into a front trouser pocket. He roots around for your fiver, and sees you to the door. Good-byes are exchanged. You leave the office, and someone in the waiting room stands up.
“Hiya, come on in,” he says to the next patient.
- - -
Epilogue: You might be sprawled on your couch, in front of the TV, later that night. Nine thirty; quarter to ten… and the phone will ring. You answer, and recognise the doctor’s voice. He sounds rather animated, almost gleeful. “I’ve been researching your problem here, and I found something interesting…”
----------
...And a little bit of Ireland at the finest passes into history.