Back to the Beginning
My 54th Year Pediatric Follow-up Appointment
I just returned from my 54th-year pediatric follow-up appointment.
I had recently learned from a niece that the doctor who delivered me was still practicing. He had just treated her kids. At eighty-something, he still ran the busiest pediatric office in the area.
His receptionist was at first confused, but eagerly conspired with me once I explained that I wanted to give him a copy of my coming of age book as a thank you for making so many things possible.
Dad and I arrived at the converted brick house just as Dr. Foster was finishing his last appointments. The receptionist had us wait in his office to make the surprise complete.
The office was what you would expect. The 1950s house had high windows covered with early Sixties draperies. The walls were decorated in matchstick bamboo. The desk was clean; only his many awards and sentimental photos on the shelves supplied any clutter.
The doc ambled in, quizzical about what we were there for. He was tall and thin, with a shock of thick white hair. A spinal deformation gave him a hard starboard list. Yet his eyes sparkled.
“Doctor, I’m here for my 54th-year pediatric follow-up appointment.” He raised an eyebrow before taking a seat at the desk.
“I don’t understand.”
I smiled and presented him with the book. A grin washed over his face as he read, “To Dr. Harry Foster, Jr., from the first baby you ever delivered as an intern — for making so many things possible, and for taking care of three generations of our family’s children.”
Dad unraveled the umbilical cord of my birth story. Mother had been dissatisfied with the impersonal approach of the Atlanta hospitals where my older brother and sister were born. She wanted to use a country doctor, and was all set to have Dr. Hunt in Conyers do the honors at little Rockdale County Hospital. It was a 25-mile trip over mostly dirt roads from their Riverdale home.
Her water broke on a bitter February night in 1961. Dad drove the dirt roads in his nearly new ’54 Ford, stopping frequently for her to pee along the frozen roadside.
They burst into the 14-bed country hospital. The only soul in the place was a lone nurse. She worriedly explained that Dr. Hunt was hunting wabbits down in south Georgia.
“I’ll get Doctor Brown.” She instructed Dad in measuring dilation. The baby was coming soon.
“I can’t reach Dr. Brown, either.” The nurse was running in circles. “Would you be okay with an intern?’ Dad wasn’t exactly comfortable with his position. “We’ll take whatever you got — just make it quick.”
A few minutes later, a young intern popped through the doors. Dr. Foster assessed the situation and quickly set to work. Mom, Dad, Dr. Foster, and the nurse were the only people in the tiny hospital. He showed Dad how to “drop” the ether properly.
When a large head of red hair crowned, Dr. Foster readied Mom for the delivery room. “Do you want to assist, John?” “No, I think you two have got it now.”
A few minutes later, a baby boy arrived with eyes already wide open. Almost nine pounds released from Mom’s diminutive frame. Everything was okay.
Dr. Foster skimmed a few stories in the book as Dad recounted the birth. As Dad filled in the details, the doc’s smile spread with his recognition of the event.
“He was the first baby you ever delivered. You were an intern then. You trotted in wearing blue jeans and tennis shoes, and sang gospel songs the whole time.”
“Well, if he’s not the first, he’s one of the first,” Foster grinned. He fingered the book. “Follow me.”
We walked toward the back door of his building. We were headed toward the car, thinking the visit was over. “Wait here, take a seat. I’ll get my wife. She worked for Dr. Hunt back then, right after we first married.”
His wife arrived in a couple of minutes. The years had been kind to this elegant lady. We talked about my 30 years in the Coast Guard as a Morse telegrapher, security manager, and intelligence analyst.
“Now that I’m retired, I am a volunteer fireman, and I do those things on my retired bucket list.” “For fun, I do some recreational gold prospecting, restore tube radios, and work on my ’51 Studebaker.” I’d been a winner in Alabama’s largest literary competition two years earlier. The broken bones, broken hearts, and struggles went unmentioned: the sugar, salt and pepper that compliment every table.
Dr. Foster and his wife lit up. Perhaps no other child had ever returned to report what they became or say thanks. We exchanged big hugs.
It was one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done.
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