The Old quack Reminisces. Pt 4.

   The Medical Arts Clinic, where his Canadian medical career began, far exceeded his expectations.    Situated in a clean new medical building, it housed about sixty physicians representing general practice and most of the major specialties of the day.  About fifteen general practitioners worked shoulder to shoulder with general surgeons, thoracic surgeons, internists,pediatricians, radiologists, pathologists working together in an atmosphere of collegiality that, I am sorry to say, no longer exists.  Many of the doctors who founded the clinic, were WW2 veterans from the prairies, whose goals were to come back to Canada and establish a clinic comparable to the renowned Mayo Clinic, in Rochester, Minnesota.
   They were motivated primarily by idealism, not money and were largely successful in their endevours.  I was impressed, not only by their standard of medical practice, but by their decency as human beings.  As a new doctor in the clinic, I was assigned to a mentor, to whom I could turn when I had questions or problems and whose mission included 'keeping an eye on the new man'.   His name was Jamie MacIntosh and to me he was the quintessential Canadian.  Tough, no-nonsense, kind and compassionate, I can still hear his clipped Canadian accent - at least that's how it sounded to  this recent immigrant from the Emerald Isle.  A fighter pilot in WW2, he stayed lean and mean, smoked like a trooper and when  in  later years he sustained a heart attack, he got into his car and drove down  to  the emergency room and told them they better see him quickly because he was having a 'coronary'.  They did, and shortly after he had a cardiac arrest, was resuscitated, went back to work and practiced medicine for several more years.
   The young docs at the bottom of the totem pole in the Medical Arts Clinic got the house calls.  

He awoke a moment before the phone rang knowing it was going to scream at him if he didn't get it immediately. He got it at the first ring before it woke anyone in the house. She moved, turned and resumed her quiet snoring. He looked at the bedside clock. It was 2.55 am. He slid out of bed as he put the phone to his ear. It was the answering service "we have a call for you, doctor"  the operator said. 
"Take a number and tell them I’ll call back immediately" he said. He didn't want to wake the baby; he’d call back from the spare room.  Two minutes later he was wide awake and calling the number back. 
A female voice said "I have terrible stomach pains, doctor, can you send me something out?" 
 "I can’t send you something without seeing you" he said knowing he had just committed himself to a house call. "What's your address?" 
She gave him an address on the seamy side of town. He sighed "I’ll be right over. "

      A few minutes later he was in his car, braced by the cold Canadian winter. He hadn't a garage in those days, and after he had scraped the icy night from his windscreen, the frozen the base of his tires thudded him awake. The car thumped along the street, the bright moon throwing it's bluish white light against the snow, reflected back towards the sky. The car traveled across the city quickly, despite the icy roads as Stan piloted the car with the confidence of someone used to driving in these conditions, which he now was.  Not bad for a guy from the Emerald isle! As he approached South Railway and the CN station where he had first set foot in Regina the neighbourhood became perceptibly seedier, until he found himself outside a run down hotel. He checked the address.  There was no mistaking it, he thought gloomily, this was it. He pulled his car into the parking lot, left the engine running (he wanted it to be warm when he came out: if someone stole it, too bad), threw his cigarette away, picked up his medical bag and walked through the door into the dimly lit hall. There was no sign of any sort of caretaker or watchman around. He did have a room number, 23a, and he guessed that might be on the second floor. As he walked up the creaky staircase it seemed to get darker. He got a sour smell, a combination of beer, urine and tobacco. He walked along a stark landing and looked at the numbers. 23a somehow seemed to look worse than the adjoining rooms. The smell of urine seemed  overwhelming and the whole building seemed unbearably hot. He loosened his down parka and he felt the body heat it had captured waft past his face. He hoped it would be cooler in the apartment.  He decided to try one more time then he was going home. He banged on the door loudly this time, hopeful that it would not be answered. It was.

      The man who opened the door was a dirty and disheveled  and smelled of booze.
   ” Come in, Doc" he slurred. 
   Stan hesitated, and then walked into the sparsely furnished, dimly-lit room. He looked around. The room was shabby and untidy with a torn, shapeless sofa, on which a woman of about 35 reclined. She was clad in a black slip and not much else, held a smoking cigarette in her hand and took a deep drag on it before she spoke.

"Am I ever glad to see you, doc" she said.

"Good evening” said Stan,” I’m Dr.Smith. What seems to be the trouble" He wondered whether he should have framed his word differently, in the circumstances.

“I was to see one of the doctors in the clinic the other day and he said I have gall-stones, and if I get the pain again I am to call up the doctor on call for a shot of Demerol.  I've been in terrible pain all night" she said.   

      "Why did you wait until three o'clock in the morning to call me?” he asked.

"Oh, I didn't want to bother you, doctor," she said.

Stan sighed, "okay, step into the bed-room and I’ll examine you." 
 "oh,I don't think I need an examination right now, just give me the shot and I’ll come into the office tomorrow for a check-up."

Stan looked at the woman, apart from looking tired and dissipated, it was obvious that this woman was in no distress.

Stan, young, but not inexperienced, assessed the situation and now decided the time had come to be firm. This woman was obviously looking for drugs. He hadn't decided exactly what her relationship was with the shabby looking man.

He was now sitting in the room's solitary armchair chatting incoherently either with himself, or to Stan.  Stan caught "Party in Seattle and then this guy pulled out a gun." He decided it was time to be firm, deal with the situation and get out of the apartment as soon as he could.

"You either let me examine you or I'm leaving without prescribing anything. You don’t seem to be in any pain right now"

She looked as though she was about to tell him to fuck off but then seemed to think better of it.

"Well, if you could just leave me a few Demerol or Talwin pills in case the pain comes back during the night, then I’ll come into the office tomorrow for an examination" 
Stan was about to tell her that he was leaving nothing and if the pain came back she could go to the emergency room, when there was a loud knock at the door. All three occupants of the room froze. Stan clutched his medical bag with its considerable variety of drugs, tightly in his hands. No one attempted to open the door. Again a loud knocking, this time more insistent, demanding an answer. Stan was just on the point of quickly opening the door, walking down the corridor and getting into his still running car, when with a loud crack, the door flew open. Two men stood in the doorway. Stan sized them up quickly. One tall, fairly well dressed, tough looking, the other fat and rather shabby. Stan noticed that as the short, fat one burst into the room, his jacket swung open revealing a holstered gun. (Tomorrow's Leader Post headlines flashed in front of his eyes. "Young Physician shot in Drug Shootout") He clutched his house call bag firmly in his hands. If they got that it was going to be over his dead body! He decided that it was now or never. He pushed past the two men, hoping they would be so busy with the occupants of the rooms they wouldn't bother with him. He walked briskly down the corridor, head down making for the car, engine still running to keep it warm. He knew once he got there he would have no problem. He glanced over his shoulder - my God, they were after him. He broke into a trot, and so did they! He felt a heavy hand laid upon his arm as he was spun around. The small shabby man's hand went to his holster. Stan wondered whether to run for it.

"Sgt. Sam O'Hanlon, Regina City Police Dept." he said. ”Afraid you got caught up in a drug bust, doc." He shoved his police department badge under Stan's nose. "I just have to establish for the record that yo teve's nose. "I just have to establish for the record that you u didn't leave any narcotics at the address, so that when we lay charges they can’t say that it was just stuff the doc left."

Stan said, "no, I didn't leave anything"

"We may have to call you for evidence, doc."

Stan nodded "Okay, will that be all?"

"Yeah, that's all, doc".

       Stan walked out to his car. It was warm and cozy, as he drove himself home. He parked his car in his carport and plugged in the block heater so the car would start in the morning. He crept up the stairs so as not to waken the baby. On the landing he removed his clothes, slipped into the bedroom and felt the cozy warmth. As he snuggled up beside her she stirred.

       "Have you got to go out? " she asked.
       "No” said he.