House Calls and Home Care

Just as one never forgets a first kiss, one also never forgets a first house call. And specializing as I did in geriatrics included becoming a specialist in house calls.

At the university where I did my fellowship, the university contracted with a hospice company, which provided me with my first exposure to house calls, as well as to interdisciplinary teams—including social workers, chaplains, and volunteers. The hospice case manager was Nurse R, a seasoned 30-year veteran. She invited me to ride with her, zipping through Chicago’s narrow streets in her station wagon and parking in impossibly tight spots.

Twice Dr. Eddy made a house call because of me.

The first time was on a hot July day in 1953 when I, age seven, ran a fever during a polio outbreak. I didn’t have the poliovirus—but a year later I got the vaccine before my big sisters did.

The other time was when I was nine and had the mumps. I asked Mommy to take down “the hanging thing in the hall”—which nobody else saw. She tried to take my temperature, and I bit off the thermometer, fortunately above the mercury bulb. I spit it out on her order.

Daddy called Dr. Eddy, who used his thermometer: 103. He asked me to bring my pointer finger to my nose. I poked myself in the eye.

Even when the sun shone, our apartment was enveloped in darkness. A look of confusion or pain replaced Dad’s usual smile; I frowned all the time, caught up in a period of pre-grief as I prepared for the inevitable passing of my beloved father. Dad was tired of trying to live, and I was exhausted of trying to help him maintain some quality of life. Then, a miracle occurred. A diagnosis of pancreatic cancer made Dad eligible for hospice at home. The light returned to our lives.

Dear readers,

I can recall my pediatrician, Dr. Stone, making a house call when I was about five and sick with a fever. I was lying in my parent’s bed–a special treat. Dr. Stone, a kindly, balding man, entered the room wearing a coat and carrying a black bag. In the office, seated at his desk, he did not seem to be a big man, but in this apartment bedroom he became a looming presence.

He took off his coat and examined me as I lay there. I don’t know what he found–I’m guessing not much other than a high temperature–or what he prescribed. In any event, I got better, so from that perspective, the house call was a great success. His visit also reinforced our life-affirming belief that Dr. Stone really cared about us.