Sally Breslin: My Life: RECALLING THE DAYS WHEN DOCTORS MADE HOUSE CALLS

Many of my friends recently have told me they’ve canceled their annual routine medical procedures this winter because they don’t want to expose themselves to Covid, the flu, or whatever other viruses currently might be running amok, just waiting to pounce on unsuspecting victims.

My friend in Scotland, however, phoned the other day and told me she was waiting for her doctor to arrive because she was having severe pain from neuropathy.

“Oh, you’re calling from his waiting room?” I asked.

“No, I’m at home, in bed."

It took a few seconds for that information to sink in.

“You mean he’s actually making a house call?" I asked.

“A what?”

“He’s coming to your house?"

“Well, yes. Don’t doctors do that where you live?"

“Not since Abraham Lincoln was too young to grow a beard.”

After we hung up, I found my mind wandering back to the days when doctors actually did make house calls. I was only a child back then, but I clearly remember good old Dr. Kennard arriving with his black bag, which contained the essentials: a stethoscope, tongue depressors, two thermometers (oral and rectal), aspirin, and hypodermic needles to administer the contents of the ever-present bottle of penicillin. And then there were the other must-have first-aid items…bandages, suturing materials, antiseptics like alcohol and iodine, etc. – all neatly packed in a black leather bag that nowadays would be considered too small to make even a decent purse.

But house calls made a lot of sense, at least for the patients. I mean, think about it. The last thing a sick person wants or needs to do is crawl out of bed, venture out into the cold, and then sit in a waiting room filled with people who look as if they’re auditioning to be extras on the TV show, “The Walking Dead." Even worse, there’s the real risk of going there with something like a mild case of the sniffles and ending up catching something like the Ebola virus.

When I was a kid, most of Doctor Kennard’s visits to my house were for my sore throats. Every year, like clockwork, I would end up with a really bad one. And, without any cultures or tests, he'd annually diagnose me with strep throat. Then he’d remove the dreaded hypodermic needle from his bag and fill it with penicillin.

“Roll over,” he’d say in a monotone.

I knew the routine by heart. The hypo's target always was my right butt-cheek. Luckily, I had plenty of fat on it to cushion the jab.

But the weird thing about that shot in the butt was it always worked. Just one shot – no days of endless pill-taking like nowadays whenever antibiotics are needed. That single shot did the trick.

And for everything else, there was aspirin...or Bromo-Seltzer.

The cost for the doctor’s house call? Five dollars, which my parents always handed to him in cash at the end of each visit.

And that was that. Simple.

Unfortunately, at some point, doctors figured out they could help more patients per hour if they remained in one spot and had the patients come to them. No more spending precious minutes sitting in traffic while trying to rush to a house call. No more wasting gas, getting lost or worrying that something like a flat tire or a dead battery could result in a delay that might contribute to a patient’s early demise.

So the majority of doctors began to choose to stay in their offices all day and do away with making house calls. Much less stressful that way.

Maybe for them…but not for me.

I still too vividly remember the time, back when I was in my thirties, when I was suffering from the flu…and I do mean suffering. Even lifting my head off the pillow was a struggle. Never had I felt more certain I was about to see the Pearly Gates first-hand.

I finally gave in and called my doctor, hoping he’d suggest some miraculous home-remedy to ease my suffering.

Instead, he told me if I came right over, he could see me.

There was no time to call my husband and ask him to drive the 18 miles home from work to take me to the doctor’s office, so I was determined to get there on my own. It was barely a three-mile trip, so I figured I could handle it.

By the time I arrived, however, I looked and felt as if I’d just run the Boston marathon…during a hurricane…in 110-degree heat. My fever had reached molten-lava proportions by then, so my hair, skin and clothes were soaked.

The moment the doctor saw me, his mouth fell open and he blurted out, “God, you look awful! You should be home in bed!”

My thoughts exactly.

Loaded down with various samples of medication the doctor gave me (so I wouldn’t have to risk lapsing into a coma while waiting for any prescriptions to be filled) I drove straight home a short time later, took off my clothes, swallowed a couple of the pills and then crawled back into bed. It took eight days before I finally started to feel human again.

And all the while I kept thinking about how Dr. Kennard would have come to my house, jabbed a needle into my butt and I’d have been feeling like a new person in only a day or two.

Unfortunately, he was deceased.

Probably from all of the stress caused by trying to make too many house calls.

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Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net

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