The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

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House Calls

In a meager studio, four enervating flights of stairs above a side street near the East River, a young internist named Blinderman lived among the medical books stacked along its walls and the futon that collected dust on the floor. His apartment mate was a refrigerator, empty but for several jars of condiments, and when he was lonely he punched a heavy bag that hung from his ceiling. Blinderman considered himself a throwback to more genuine times, so much that when he completed his residency with no job prospects, he decided to take an advertisement in the Spirit and set about the business of a solo medical practice that made only house calls. His schoolteacher-father, also one for nostalgia, convinced him of the dignity of getting paid in cash and tomatoes.

The summer passed and, with the exception of some troubling calls from men who thought him a professional escort, the phone never rang. Blinderman’s hands hurt him, so frequently were they pounding the heavy bag. He stared at the black leather medical bag in the corner, a graduation gift from his father. It was stiff and unworn, its architecture like that of a country barn with two hard black handles at its top, secured at its mouth by a golden metal clasp. Inside the bag his father had put a new Littmann stethoscope and the detritus of a bygone internist’s trade: a sphygmomanometer, a tuning fork and a reflex hammer. Blinderman opened the bag and emptied its contents. He hit the tuning fork against the palm of his left hand, and its soothing hum nearly obscured the sound of his ringing telephone.

Blinderman answered the phone with guarded optimism. The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, like it belonged to an estranged uncle.

“Yes, hello. I’m looking for Doctor Blinderman.”

“This is he.”

“Oh, thank goodness you’re in, Doctor! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Blinderman felt his heart race.

“How can I help you?”

“God bless you, Doctor, you’ve already helped me. It helps just to know that there’s somebody out there listening.”

The voice at the end of the line was sturdy, and, with its tinge of good-natured aggression, comforting: Blinderman wanted his maiden house visit to be uneventful, and a hearty voice reassured him. But there was something unsettling, too, in the man’s forward address, as well as the sounds behind his voice. Blinderman thought he heard resonant pings, sliding doors, and the echo of names ringing from a loudspeaker.

“Where are you calling from?” asked Blinderman.

“The emergency room at Lenox Hill. And let me tell you something, Doctor: They need more help here than I do!”

Blinderman felt his heart sink, as it had with so many of the calls that had come before.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t visit you in an emergency room. It’s staffed with its own doctors.”

“’Sir?’ My father they call ‘sir.’ Me they call Manny. Last name Shapiro.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shapiro, but I’m not welcome in someone else’s emergency room. I don’t even have hospital privileges at Lenox Hill.”

“So who says you have to see me in an emergency room? I been stuck in this one three hours and the doctors who work here won’t even see me. Can you maybe meet me at my apartment in a few minutes?"

“Mr. Shapiro, you haven’t even told me what’s wrong. I don’t want you walking out of a hospital if you’re not well.”

“What’s wrong is I could die in this waiting room right now and no one would notice for three hours, that’s what’s wrong. So how’s about it, Doctor? Will you make me a house visit, or you going to let God-knows-what happen to me?”

Blinderman sighed under the weight of his own sense of obligation. It was curious, he thought, that he was motivated by guilt even more than money. In any event, he needed to get his practice off the ground, and he hurriedly scribbled Shapiro’s address onto his notepad. Blinderman was so excited he hung up the phone before he realized he had forgotten to discuss his fee.

When Blinderman arrived at the lobby of Shapiro’s apartment building, he was soothed by the marble floors and muted sconces. A few more clients like this, he thought, and I’m on my way. The concierge at the front desk greeted Blinderman kindly, offering the respect accorded a young man who arrives with an important black bag. Blinderman announced, “I’m here for Mr. Shapiro in 8-F,” and the concierge’s smile disappeared. Blinderman felt the man’s eyes survey him, full of suspicion, and he was directed to the elevator with a cool shrug.

The door to the apartment opened so soon after he pressed the door buzzer that Blinderman wondered if Shapiro had been crouching behind it, peering through the keyhole in anticipation of his arrival. Blinderman still felt the breeze of the swinging door when the short man who opened it announced, “Doctor, how are you!” Shapiro’s dark eyes, nervous and darting, set in a head of salt and pepper, peered up at Blinderman. The pleasure with which he greeted Blinderman lay in contrast with the concern in his brow and soft pout in his lips.

Continued
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