The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine

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House Calls
(continued)

When the trees at last went bare and the sky, bitter cold, turned gray, Blinderman thought about abandoning his pipe dream and joining a more traditional practice. He had not made a house call in weeks, with the exception of an office Christmas party he was called to when a festive drunk hit his head; sadly, it was the only party invitation he received all season. He would have enjoyed this Sunday morning eating bagels and appetizing, his hands smudged with the newsprint of the sports section, but instead he read through the Times classifieds. His belly rumbled, and nearly obscured the ringing of his telephone.

A weak voice spoke on the other end of the line, thready and swept away by its own breath. It inhaled deeply and with great effort, as if speaking the next sentence required the effort to push a boulder up a hill. Blinderman had to cover his other ear to hear the voice through the receiver.

“Hello, Doctor?” asked the voice.

The voice was the skeleton of something familiar to Blinderman, but he struggled in identifying it.

“Shapiro, is that you?”

“I feel like I’m a boy who cried wolf. You going to believe me this time, Doctor?”

Blinderman had never heard the voice so frail, and he began to button his coat.

“Of course I’m going to believe you, Mr. Shapiro. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m not doing so good, Doctor. I’m very weak, and I think I maybe might have passed out.”

“You stay put, Mr. Shapiro,” the Doctor ordered. “I’ll be right over.”

The cold air stung Blinderman’s chest as he ran to Shapiro’s apartment. He arrived nearly breathless, but did not bother to stop at the concierge’s desk and subject himself to his disapproving glances. He blew through the lobby, directly to the stairwell, and bounded his way to the eighth floor. He came upon the door to apartment 8-F, cracked open slightly, and gave it a hesitant rap. Shapiro’s voice, slightly stronger than it had been on the phone, told Blinderman to enter.

Blinderman did, and he was surprised to find Shapiro standing behind a long buffet, clean-shaven in a cardigan and tie. The table was like a Jewish bounty: a basket filled with bagels, already sliced. Tubs of cream cheese. Bowls of whitefish salad. Plates of peppered bluefish. Sliced Nova. Blinderman was stunned.

“Shapiro, what is all this?”

“I made us a lunch. I’m feeling better, thank God.”

Again, Blinderman had to remind himself he was a doctor.

“You just called me up, Shapiro, sounding like death warmed over, and told me you weren’t doing so good!”

“And I wasn’t. What can I tell you – I hear your voice and I start to feel better. You should be proud.”

“I’m not proud, Shapiro. I feel like a fool – a stupid fool who is constantly falling for your twisted perversions.”

Shapiro was insulted: “You watch what you say, you.”

“You have some nerve, Shapiro, telling me to watch what I say. This is the end of the line! So please, I’d like to collect my fee for this unnecessary visit and then be on my way!”

“But I don’t – “

“And don’t tell me that you don’t have the money, Shapiro – not with your crystal vase and your doorman building and your marble lobby.”

“Fine,” said Shapiro. His knobby finger warned Blinderman to keep his distance, and his other hand reached deep into the front pocket of his pants. Shapiro pulled out of his pocket a money clip, a thick sterling silver clip, monogrammed and polished. The clip was stretched to the point of the metal’s fatigue by a thick wad of bills, and Blinderman could see that they were each a hundred dollars. Shapiro pulled out three bills and crumpled them, throwing each at Blinderman’s feet. “Here you go, Doctor – one for each visit. And now you’re a whore just like the rest of them!”

Blinderman trembled – with fear? With self-loathing? He wasn’t sure. He kneeled down on the floor to collect his fees and Shapiro yelled over him, “And I hope you enjoyed the dirty movie, you filthy bastard!” Blinderman wanted nothing more than to leave the home of this lunatic, and he rushed out the door, Shapiro’s invective filling his ears. “This is the thanks I get for inviting you into my home. For trying to introduce a human element to our relation. And you, all you want is to rush out the door the minute you get my money. Like you’ve got somewhere else you have to be.”

These last words stung Blinderman as he made his way to the elevator bank. Riding down to the lobby, observing his own descent, he thought about empathy and compassion and all the other high ideals that had led him to medicine. But none of these ideals were good enough for him anymore – nothing was good enough for him anymore – because at his core he knew himself to be completely alone. And with every passing floor, Blinderman realized that it was not empathy and compassion that led him to medicine, but the other way around – he sought medicine so that he might teach himself the empathy and compassion he so sorely lacked. When he walked out into the building’s lobby, Blinderman saw a man and his young son, the boy on a small bicycle with training wheels, walk together into the blustery day. Seeing the little boy laugh as the wind blew him off his bike, and his father tenderly brush off the dirt from his knees, Blinderman turned around and took the elevator back to the eighth floor.

Published: October 11, 2004

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