Dr. Jack’s House Call

I met Dr. “Jack” at an elderhostel. His story provides proof that no matter where we practice, we country docs face similar problems. Let him explain in his own words.

I was newly graduated from the University of Wisconsin, had finished my internship, and chose a small town in the western part of the state in which to set up a practice. In the late 1940s, group practice was an idea whose time was just arriving. I elected to hang out a solo shingle. Making house calls was a given, and I let it be known that I would accommodate such a request.

I had been in my town for about six months when my bedside phone dragged me from sleep one night. “Dr. Jack here,” I mumbled into its mouthpiece.

A woman’s voice asked, “Do you make house calls?”

“Yes.”

“Would you come on out to Axel Bremer’s place?”

I stifled a yawn. Partly. “Who is sick?”

“My husband’s ailing and we figured someone’d best see him.”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Why no, Doctor, I’m just a farm wife.”

“Okay.” I sat on the edge of my bed. “How do I find your place?”

“It’s easy. Take the highway south for a ways, turn off on some county road, sixty-nine or seventeen, something like that, you understand how it is, when you know the way who pays attention to signs, do you? Go on that whatchamacall road until you come to Fogarty’s, then turn right at the next corner and—”

“Whoa,” I said. “Where do Fogarty’s live?”

“Everyone knows where—he’s John, not Bob, that Fogarty. Then you keep on until you reach Hamlin’s place and turn—”

I whoa-ed again. “You’ve left me in the dust.”

Exasperation crackled in the earpiece of my phone. “Well, Doctor Hanson never has trouble finding our place!”

“Doctor Hanson!” The other, established physician in town. “Look, Mrs. Bremer, why didn’t you call him?”

“Why, Doctor, I wouldn’t dream of bothering him at this hour.”