Dr. Britt, Our Family Doctor

Dr. Britt, Our Family Doctor

Philadelphia, PA

1964

His office was down the street, in his home. It was really his side porch. Sometimes my mother came with me and sometimes, I went on my own. We came in to the living room and waited our turn. A nurse, maybe his wife, took our weight and height measurements, which she recorded, on a chart that we had to hand to the doctor.

When I was 8, this man seemed to be 108. He seemed older than my grandparents. He was old, sickly and hard of hearing. So we had to shout when we spoke with him, which eliminated all curtsies of confidentiality. I could hear everything the person before me said and I am sure the next person got all of the details of my ailments.

He was a chain smoker who spoke with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. He only removed it when he had to cough and spit up a large volume of phlegm onto a dirty handkerchief, which he stuffed back in to his pant pocket.

“Do you smoke,” he would ask me which stunned me since I was only a 9 year old and afraid of the idea of smoking.

“No, I’m only 9,” I would remind him.

“Yes, yes, of course, well don’t start. You’ll be sorry.  Look at me. Wish I had never started”, he admitted as he coughed up another wad of mucus.

Then he would hold up a three fingers; he always held up three fingers, “How many fingers am I holding up?’

“Three”, I would respond.

“Good, very good. Your vision is fine.”  Then he would whisper, “And can you hear me?’

“Yes, I hear you”, I responded in a whisper as well.

“Ok, your hearing is fine. So let me check your breathing.” He would use the stethoscope and instruct me to breath deeply. “Hey, those lungs of yours are pretty good.  Don’t smoke though or you may be sorry”, he reminded me.

With that, my yearly physical was complete and after I paid the $3 fee, I was free to go until next year.