My Dad was raised on a farm in Indiana, was too young to serve in WWI, but he did, he finished college, payed his own way, went to med school at UC, University of Cincinnati, with a wife and one child, neck bones were their filet mignon. He did his internship and residency at Miami Valley Hospital in Dayton, Ohio, and ultimately started his practice there.
They purchased a home at 319 South Brown Street, which was originally built by a Doctor Ency, that was built at the turn of the century, to serve him as his home and office.
I am not sure of the exact dates, I know we moved from there in 1943, so for almost 25 years, he served that neighborhood as their family physician.
I remember hearing the story that when they were getting the office ready to open, and a man came to the office who had cut himself badly at his home. Dad sewed him up. He had no money but he had a ruby ring that he wanted Dad to take in payment for his work. Dad declined, but finally, after much persuasion, took the ring. He gave it to me in 1950, and I had it cut down to fit my little finger, and wore it for many years, till, from wear, the stone became loose and I had to take it off. I still have the stone.
During all those years of office visits, house calls, becoming his patients friend, as well as doctor, minister, and advisor, he always tried to make time for his family. It was not an easy balance, his early farm upbringing gave him the work ethics to be dedicated to the task at hand.
"When once a job you have begun, do not stop till it is done. Whether the task be great or small, do it well, or not at all."
Our living room, in those days, was the overflow waiting room, and most evenings we had friends and neighbors in the living room, waiting to see Doc.
We have had vacations delayed or cancelled, because a patient, or a friend, was due to deliver. Many family events or occasions, had to be cancelled for similar reasons. His patients came first, he was dedicated to them.
In those days he made house calls, and his day started early, and he spent many hours in that old Packard Clipper, making house calls.
I was trained, at a very early age. to answer the phone, and determine the severity of the call. Dad was an avid sports fan, and football or basketball games were often interrupted by a "Doctor Dooley, call your office." It was a rare instance when he got to see the end of a game, but his patients came first.
His life was dedicated to his practice, and his family, but his patients generally came first.
He finally decided it was time to retire from his general practice. The house and the practice were sold.
There was one inside door that led from the office to our living room.
I will never forget the night of his last day in general practice. He saw his last patient, it was rather late at night. Many knew it was to be their last visit with Doc, and many came just to say good bye.
He closed the office door for the last time, opened the door to the living room and walked to "his" recliner chair, next to the big old Philco radio, and he cried. He had said his last goodbyes to his patients of many years. Even though his medical career was heading in a new direction, to obstetrics, he was overwhelmed at the loss of what had become his life.
That was the first time I saw him cry.
