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If you saw two cars in the driveway of a house, you knew a doctor lived there.
As my mother explained it, back in the 1940s, a doctor needed a Buick and a DeSoto so that if one wouldn’t start, he could drive the other one to the patient’s home.
Well, maybe. One thing’s clear, though. The pandemic notwithstanding, this time of year – the depths of winter – was once considered the season of illness and “doctoring.” Let’s take a look at the way we used to confront being under the weather.”
House calls: Yes, general practitioners actually did visit the homes of people who were ill. They did so because a lot of people lacked transportation and the technology of the time was so simple that it could be carried in the classic “little black bag.” Today, it’s easy to get to the nearest clinic or emergency room, and when you get there, you find hardware and flashing lights that you used to see only in science fiction movies.
The neighborhood doctor: Physicians tended to practice out of their homes. You’d go in, usually through a side door. When it was your turn, you’d enter the office itself and take a seat in front of a big desk. Behind it sat the doctor wearing jacket and tie, surrounded by shelves of medical books. Few people ventured outside their neighborhoods for basic medicine.
Low costs: My mother’s uncle, a medical doctor trained at the University of Pennsylvania (an Ivy League school), charged $2 for an office visit and $3 for a house call up through the early 1950s. If he handed you a prescription instead of giving you some pills for free, a trip down to the neighborhood pharmacy set you back maybe another dollar or two.
Rare health insurance: My father complained that his job did not provide “hospitalization,” as health insurance used to be called. True, Medicare and routine employer policies were in the future. But costs were so low (and medical care so simple) that few people beyond him seemed to feel deprived.
Home remedies: Dad got the flu? Kid coughing and hacking? Put the patient to bed, while Mom (moms never seemed to become ill) ferried trays of broth and tea upstairs until the crisis was over. My family had infinite faith in Seven-Up from the neighborhood grocery as a restorative. For me, the “sick room” was a chance to catch up on my favorite radio shows undisturbed.
Excuses: Hey, no school for a while! I have no idea how absences are explained today, but a handwritten note from Mom to the teacher whether before or after the lay-in was holy writ. I remember being surprised in later years to read in “Believe it or Not” that there actually were Americans who’d never missed a day of school. Bet they’d never tasted Seven-Up either.
Status symbols: For some reason, falling out of a tree and breaking your collarbone was considered proof that you were leading a life of dash and excitement. My ailments – measles and a couple of bouts of flu – brought me no social cred at all with the other kids.
Pharmacies: To a young person, the neighborhood drugstore was that place with the soda fountain where the teenagers (like you wanted to be) hung out. About 98.7 percent of my visits to the local Rexall were for chocolate Cokes or the latest “Crypt of Terror” comic.
Times change, but one truth is obvious. Getting sick isn’t what it used to be.
Tom Mooney is a Times Leader history writer. Reach him at tommooney42@gmail.com.