During the summer months when I was in grammar school and high school, Dad always had us working. There were summers where I cut lawns at different houses in our neighborhood, had a paper route with 62 daily customers and helped with repairs at Dad’s rental properties. Plus, I was always doing chores around our house (not for reimbursement, since that was Dad’s arrangement of how I had to “earn my keep”).
Another summer task—which I found to be the most strenuous, as my brothers and sisters did when it was their turn—was substituting for one of the nurses at Dad’s podiatry office.
Now, when you think of a podiatry office—or any medical facility—what comes to mind is a sedate, calm, evenly-paced office with a quiet waiting room and a nurse who would cordially lead you into a treatment room. However, this was not really how things went down at Dad’s place.
First of all, everything was always going at ninety miles an hour. Even though he opened early (7:00 AM on weekdays, and earlier on Saturdays – a teenage nightmare in the summer), some of his patients would invariably be waiting for him on the office entrance steps as we arrived. (As my brother Larry has stated, Dad always walked to the office; when he had me working there, he made sure I walked there with him). I remember seeing these patients from a distance, sitting in wait, and not being in a very good mood about it. Sometimes Dad and I would guess how many would be waiting. Walk-ins without appointments came early, and he never turned anyone away. He gave discounts to the nuns and other clergy (including the nuns who taught us) and always helped the ones who had limited funds.
Anyway: once we were there, the pace never let up. Even if I (or one of my siblings) were filling for an office nurse, there were one or two other nurses who would be there with us, supervising the procedures.
Dad had four treatment rooms that were constantly in use. Sometimes we had to do “immersions” of feet in soapy water pans. We would dry the patient’s feet with white towels (and laundering those towels created a constant routine up-and-down-the-stairs to the basement washing machine and dryer). Then the typical procedure was to put oil on the patient’s feet and warm them under infrared light until Dad came in the room.
There were patients who had to be X-rayed, patients who had to go into one of the whirlpools, and others who needed to buy orthopedic shoes. Dad’s “shoe room” had a huge inventory; he also had patients who had moved away, and their mail orders had to be filled and wrapped. I hated those.
Then there was the constant ringing of phones, the collection of fees (Dad minimized the job of sending bills) and the process of giving patients receipts. Dad would run from one treatment room to the other; the patient he just saw would be replaced right away with another from the crowded waiting room. He would also come into the shoe room to make sure a patient’s shoes fit OK, and often slip into a little room with swinging doors known as the “café.” That’s where he would do his magic—physically altering patient’s shoes to help them walk correctly. He might add thickness to a sole, make a cut in the toe area to allow proper ventilation, and perform many other tricks of the trade that patients greatly appreciated.
Every day was like this—and on Saturdays, we all got a bonus if we had more than eighty patients, which was not unusual.
There were at least three basic ingredients to Dad’s success with his practice, which he carried on for about 65 years. First, he really “knew his stuff.” He took a holistic approach with minimal prescriptions, used surgical procedures only as a last resort, and relied on the clever use of orthopedic shoes with his own hand-made modifications. Second was his monumental work ethic. He had a driven energy that was infectious, with the force of personality similar to an aircraft carrier. And third was the remarkable “charm” he could shower upon anyone when he had a mind to. His magnetism was legendary from the time he was a kid, and that alone earned him quite a following. On this last attribute, I remember our mother would describe how, when they were courting, he would “sweep me off my feet” with his moving, almost poetic charisma and how much it had to do with her attraction to him. Then, she said, after they were married, she began to realize, as she put it, “He spoke that way to everybody.”
But during the office routine, Dad was a tough boss—sometimes exhibiting the lion’s roar that truly did justice to his astrological sign. (He was a Leo). Being one of his kids allowed us no reprieve at all. If you slowed down, you never escaped his notice, or his wrath.
One time I was caught in a hallway by another doctor who had his own practice in the same building (a building Dad owned). He was a friendly, talkative sort of fellow, and while he was chatting, I heard one of the nurses in the background answering Dad’s question of my whereabouts, stating, “Greg is in the hallway talking to Dr. Nolan. ” Before I could politely tell Dr. Nolan that I had to get back to work, Dad’s voice BELLOWED above all the background noise, from the other side of his busy office: “Gregory, don’t get stuck with him…he’ll talk your ear off.”
This was but one of many excruciating, teenage embarrassments to be suffered there.
A seat like this NEVER had a chance to get cold in Dad’s busy office!
Hey Greg:
Great post…brings back a lot of memories! Remember Dad shouting out “IRO #3” – and rattling the walls as he made the emphatic statement? (For our readers: That was internal code to request a “Infrared-and-oil treatment for a patient in Room #3). And if we did not immediately answer “Right” he would say, twice as loudly, “Acknowledge!”
But, all his patients loved him…(remember he would continue to meet a few of them down in his office even when he was in his 90s?) And some of his nurses were there for YEARS…..!
Greg, Enjoyed reading your story about Dad. All you children must have learned a lot working for him in his office.
I miss being able to talk to him. Carol
I always worked at Point Lookout Beach, collecting tickets or cash! Your story is Funny!
I worked at Lido doing arts and crafts with senior citizens…. kinda quirky
If it were not a summer work day morning at either Dad’s podiatry office or doing some roofing job on one of his buildings, we would leave for our cabana at Point Lookout. (This was when Malibu was a private beach club). We would arrive at 7AM, watching the other beachgoers stretch and moan as they got their sweaty bodies out of their cars after sitting in Parkway traffic, arriving at 11AM. By then, we would be all tired out after four hours of riding the waves in the ocean and sneaking into the Malibu pool, and then pack up to leave by 2PM, just to work in the yard at home with Dad at the helm!
That is when I worked there, Malibu and Point Llookout were private. I think Point Lookout semi. That is too funny. It is sure nice to think back of the memories that you dreaded at the time, but are very thankful for them now. I didn’t want to work, no choice, but I am so glad my parents made me.
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