When I was a little girl, my family and I lived in the “Ferry Man’s” house next to the Bennett Meadow Bridge in Northfield. At that time there were six children in the Payne family: Ken, Melinda, Steve, Billy, myself and Charlie. Dr. True was our family doctor, and he routinely made house calls to check on my family’s health.
One home visit when I was probably 10 years old, in around 1957, was upsetting to my parents, the doctor and to me. But for different reasons.
Let me set the stage for this visit as Dr. True was not at fault for what happened. First, I was in the hospital often with kidney problems. This is probably where my fear of needles came from. Second, I was a somewhat determined child with my own sense of what injustice meant. I did have a sense of right and wrong; we all did. We went to church and I attended Sunday school. Sometimes, though, wrong seemed so right.
For example, on another occasion, an aunt and uncle were visiting us and the prospect of a new rubber doll complete with a layette emerged. My parents pointed out that I had a perfectly good doll already. To prove them wrong, I baked my doll in the oven. What a stench! Though I was probably punished, I got my new dolly anyway.
As to Dr. True’s visit, I’m sure this one stuck in his memory. It was winter and the ground was covered with ice and snow. All six children had ear infections.
I was dressed in a cotton dress and socks. Imagine an assembly line of naked bums being punctured by a needle. But not me. I hid behind a door, but was discovered nonetheless and led to the slaughter. I found myself upended on Dr. True’s knees being readied for the shot. I kicked the doctor in the stomach and ran outside in the cold.
My father chased after me, caught me and justice was served in my end. I was sent to bed without any supper and sobbed at the injustice of it in my kitty’s fur. I’m sure I must have apologized because I remember other visits to his office.
Life does have its surprises. My late husband, Vladimir Lafkovici, was himself a family physician here in Nova Scotia. Although he never “needled” me, he too made house calls for old and young alike. I also filled in for his secretary sometimes so I gained an appreciation of what doctors do. I sometimes say that although I am not wealthy, my life is rich in ironies. I am also glad to say I no longer beat up on family doctors.