My parents has a good friend in Prague during my childhood, the wonderful Dr. Mikki. His first name was actually Nicholas but for some reason, the “N” morphed into an “M” in his nickname, which was spelled the Hungarian way - Mikki. Dr. Mikki was not just MY hero; he was a true life hero. The only one from his family to survive the Holocaust, having lost his wife and young child to Hitler’s human abattoir, he rebuilt his life and career in Prague, remarried and had a daughter who later became a doctor herself, as did her own daughter in turn, keeping the family business going. Dr. Mikki was both an MD and a DDS (Doctor of Dental Surgery), a very advantageous thing indeed in a Communist country, to be friends with a doctor and a dentist who are one and the same person.
Why was Doctor Mikki my hero? Let me tell you. To deal with a simple fever, my mother would pump me up full of Aspirin and put frequent cold compresses on my forehead. The Aspirin would relieve my headache; the cold compress felt soothing and comforting while I sweated the fever off. Mom was a good old-fashioned village healer but when something stronger than Aspirin and a compress were called for, Dr. Mikki was telephoned and kindly asked to make a house call. A house call didn’t mean just tending to a sick boy, you see. It was an opportunity to have a cup of Turkish coffee and some of mom’s delicious pastry and - this was before all pleasures were outlawed - a cigarette. Along with the coffee and cigarette went a long schmooze, a leisurely chat with good friends.
When I heard dad greeting Dr. Mikki at the door, I instantly felt better, even before the good doc could weave his magic. He walked in from the cold, a tall, distinguished looking man, with a sad smile. He would take off his coat, sit on the edge of my bed and take out his stethoscope. While he breathed on it to warm it up, he put his hand on my forehead. And what a hand it was. Large, warm and dry, with long fingers, it draped a healing touch around my head. “OK, let’s take a listen, son” Despite his effort, the metal of his stethoscope felt cold as it touched my back and I flinched instinctively. Dr. Mikki laughed. “I know, it tickles. Just a few more quick listens” He tapped my chest and back, listened some more, then opened his scuffed old doctor’s bag. “You know what’s coming, right? I’m going to give you a shot…but it’ll be so quick, you won’t even feel it.” I wasn’t afraid. Dr. Mikki made me feel at ease. I trusted him completely. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me and even though no kid likes needles, I knew it was going to make me feel better and a let him jab me. “Do you know what’s in the syringe?” “Penicillin!” “My, you ARE a clever boy. Yes, it’s penicillin.” He turned to my parents: “Jirka (“Georgie” in Czech) has a touch of bronchitis. I’ll leave you a script but the shot will make him feel better almost instantly” Dr. Mikki packed his back and leaned down to pat me slightly on my shoulder and kiss my forehead. “Feel better, my boy. Now I’ll go join your folks in the kitchen for a bite of your mother’s cake and a cup of coffee before I head back out into the frost.” He waved from the doorway and soon I heard happy schmoozing from the kitchen. The language shifted from Czech into Hungarian with a smattering of Yiddish, then back to Czech. My parents and all their friends were conversant in at least three languages and no one thought it odd.
In my teenage years we moved to a different section of Prague. We didn’t see much of Dr. Mikki anymore. Around the time we left the country, he and his family did as well. They settled in Nuremburg (of all places!), where doctor Mikki established a thriving medical practice, doing some dentistry on the side. German was another language he spoke fluently, so there was no language barrier between him and his patients. He was quite a bit older than my parents, and retired a few years after emigrating. He passed away in his mid-90s and although he no longer actively practiced, I’m told he still made the odd house call and comforted countless other boys and girls, men and women long after his visit to our Prague apartment in the 1960’s. Dr. Mikki was a true humanitarian, a man who had lost everything but never became bitter - though he could never lose the terrible sadness he brought with him from the camps, where his young family had been murdered.
Although no one could measure up to Doctor Mikki, other doctors I knew back in those days had that tough-to-define, humane quality that is all but gone from the practice of medicine. Their medicine was a calling. It was an art. It was about the miracle of healing, about honoring the miracle of life. Even though I was only 9 or 10 or 11, doctors didn’t condescend to me. Most of the explaining was done to the parents of course, but the docs that treated me didn’t talk to me in those stupid, inane baby cadences that so many nurses and doctors’ assistants use in present-day America.
I’ve been an adult for 50 years now but very few American and Canadian doctors I’ve come across treat me as one. They cut me off mid-sentence. They pooh-pooh my suggestions (only to follow them later anyway) They look at their watch or otherwise make you feel rushed. Worst of all, they often make you wait…and wait…and wait, in icy rooms. When they finally show up, they greet you with some impersonal phrase like “How is George doing today?” That brings up another peeve of mine. No European doctor would dare call you by your first name. I would be “Mr. Grosman” to them, they would be “Doctor So-And-So” to me. Cordial but politely formal. North American doctors immediately establish dominance by using your first name yet insisting on being called “Doctor”. I have no problem with titles. But I won’t have anyone I don’t know automatically address me by my first name. Call me a snob, if you wish. But I think that in order to establish trust between two adults, there must be mutual respect - not one-sided respect.
Everything now is about tests, about the newest medication, about the most effective procedure and - of course - about making absolutely sure the patient doesn’t go home with insurance documents unfilled and unsigned. Nowadays, with the idiotic masks on everyone’s face the performative office visit theater has become Theater of the Absurd. Just this past week, I was trying to discuss some important details of an upcoming procedure (important to me, that is, not the doctor) and I was summarily dismissed with something like “This is the way I perform the procedure. I’ve been in business for 30 years. If it’s not to your liking, feel free to find another physician” And the doctor left the room in a huff. Why bother listening to my concerns? After all, it’s HIS concerns that matter, right? Time is money, baby! And my impertinent demands might have the effect of slowing the train down.
I drove home in a lousy mood, not made better by Orlando’s hellish traffic. I took a few deep breaths, stretched and dialed in the jazz channel on my car radio. My mind drifted back to 1963. It was winter. Large, soft snowflakes were falling outside my window and mom was calling Dr. Mikki because my fever refused to break. Half an hour later, there he was, the tall, distinguished, smiling, yet slightly sad gentleman, dusting snow off his shoulders, putting his fur hat on a chair and sitting down on the edge of my bed. My fever was still high but I already felt better, as Doctor Mikki’s big soft hand touched my shoulder. He breathed on his stethoscope, lifted my pajama top and smiled a big smile as he said: “Let’s have a listen, my boy, shall we?”
" Their medicine was a calling. It was an art. It was about the miracle of healing, about honoring the miracle of life. "
These are exactly the right words to describe what should be. It's gone so far awry.
Magic. I had the displeasure of a dystopian visit recently with the kabuki theatre of masks etc. my specialist accused me of googling my symptoms like some idiot doctor wannabe and proceeded to send me home with a prescription advertisement book that had a video saleswoman inside in a screen chirping about the wonderful drugs I was going to get a la total recall. I’d go for Mikki any day.