...from “I’ve Got To Write a Book!”
by Ira Wiggins
Doctor’s Days and Nights (last part)
My most embarrassing moment had to do, rot with a patient, but with my nurse-receptionist. Ellen Burnett was a gentle, efficient, dedicated practical nurse past middle age who was my “good right arm” in the office. I had great respect for her as she apparently did for me, and I would never have considered using profane language in front of her or saying anything the least bit off-color.
The day had been a long and busy one. There had been a bit more than the usual number of frustrations. Perhaps a a cardiac patient was worsening despite my best efforts, an obese diabetic could not be induced to lose weight, the window shade refused to work, I was still getting statements on a bill I had already paid and insurance forms (I filled them out myself) were ever on the increase. I was sitting at my desk, dusk was coming on, Mrs. Burnett had gone home and I had just been called to see a patient in the emergency room at the hospital five miles away and would have to tell BEtty I didn’t know when I’d be home for supper. Internal pressure had built up. Something had to give. On an impulse, never having done so before or since, I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath and in full voice let forth a stream of profanity and obscene language directed at the world in general.
As I was winding down, to my horror, Mrs. Burnett came dashing breathless and wide-eyed into the room. I had thought she was gone.
“Dr Wiggins! What on earth is the matter?”
I’ll never know what she thought as I hastened to apologize and to explain and to assure her that it had nothing to do with her. I can only imagine what she told her husband that evening about the incident. Or perhaps she decided not to tell him that she had found out that Dr. Wiggins was not quite as saintly as she had supposed. For all she knew I might have such outbursts frequently in her absence.
*****
As the only doctor in a small town (Dr. Day had retired) I finally became so busy that I feared the quality of my work might suffer and looked for a way to “cut down.” In good conscience I did not feel that I should refuse new patients if they lived in the area. When a young lady came to me with her first pregnancy and I realized that I had delivered her l8 years ago I was overwhelmed. Good grief! I will be delivering the baby of a baby I delivered. - And I joyously delivered her when the time came. But it then struck me that giving up maternity work would be a good wa of reducing my work-load. There were obstetricians in the area. Besides that, the hours for maternity work are atrocious, even though it is most always a gratifying procedure.
My work was lessened somewhat but I was still “on call” 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Getting up for night calls did not get easier as the years went by. Betty was getting fed up with the long, cold and often sloppy Michigan winters and had been gently nagging me for several years to “move to a warmer climate”.
One day she again brought the subject up when I was more tired than usual.
Irritably I asked, “Betty, do you really mean what you are saying?” I didn’t think she did. “Because if you do I’m going to look for a job in a warm climate with an eight hour working day!” It thought that would quickly shut her up and get her off my back.
“You’re darned right I mean it!” She must have been tired too. “Just because my poor father lived and died in this cold climate, does that mean I have to too? But where on earth can a doctor find an eight-hour-a-day job anyhow?”
I was slightly nonplussed that she didn’t back down. “Oh, there are jobs as factory or company physician or with a drug company or as college physician. I’d have to look around.”
The more I thought about it the more excited I became, and the more determined Betty became. It was possible. I read ads in the journals, wrote to southern colleges and spoke to drug representatives. A good friend, Carl Peterson, who had been for a short time a physician in the Panama Canal Zone suggested that I might enjoy working for the Panama Canal Company, so I added that to my list of possibilities and made application.
In 1966 a university in Tallahassee, Fla. offered me a position. However I was intrigued by the Canal Zone possibility and had not heard from them even though more than two years had passed since my application. Time to fish or cut bait.
Uncharacteristically I announced to Betty that I was going to take four days off work for a flying trip to Panama to “see what the place looks like and what goes on down there” before making a decision for Tallahassee.
“Should I go with you?”
Again uncharacteristically, “No, I don’t know where I’ll be staying or what conditions will be. It’s not a trip for fun and may be just a waste of time and money, but I want to look there before we make a decision.” The only thing I was sure of was that we were about to make an exciting change.
*****
When I showed up at Gorgas Hospital, a large hospital on the Pacific end of the canal, and said I’d like to look around I was greeted with enthusiasm. The hospital administrator, a colonel in the army, introduced me to the chief of the medical service who gave me a tour of the hospital and answered my barrage of questions. No one asked me if I knew the difference between aspirin and penicillin, but at the end of the tour I was told that two general practitioners were needed badly in the out-patient clinic at the smaller Coco Solo Hospital on the Atlantic terminus of the canal. How soon could I start work? I was flabbergasted and asked why they hadn’t called me, as my name had been on application for over two years.
“Oh, actually we don’t pay too much attention to those applications. We prefer to know personally or at least to have seen the person applying.”
If I hadn’t shown my face I wouldn’t have been considered.
The next day I spent visiting Coco Solo Hospital, having been chauffeured there and back in a private limousine. I was impressed. They were impressed, although by what I don’t know. Again, how soon could I start work? The contract would be for two years, renewable if mutually agreeable. I had dinner that evening in the spacious home of one of the Gorgas doctors. The grounds, hospitals, homes and work areas all appeared well kept and the level of medical practice seemed very good. The climate was warm. I had seen large, well-stocked stores of all kinds in Panama City. I did not think Betty would be disappointed.
Would they give me two months to close my practice and make some arrangements about the home which we owned?
They would.
As I flew home I was bursting with excitement and anticipation. Betty met me at the airport. She declared that I looked ike I was ten feet tall and walking on clouds as I shouted, “How would you like to move to Panama!!!”
At first she thought I was kidding, as I often did, but she soon realized my intense sincerity and found my enthusiasm to be contagious. Because our son was a junior in high school and the fall term would start in one month we decided to make the move in that period of time.
I’ll spare you an account of the next four frantic weeks as we made arrangements for my patients, the rental of my office to another doctor, the rental of our home and the severing of connections of 20 years duration. Yes, we at times had twinges of apprehension but reassured ourselves with, “Well, we can stand most anything for two years.” Little did we realize how much we would love the climate, the work, the life style, the adventures and the people in Panama.
If it hadn’t been for the suggestion of Carl Peterson and for the “nagging” of my wife we most certainly would have missed...
