INFLUENCERS IN MEDICINE
I was standing in the kitchen , baking Christmas cookies , home from college on winter break , when the phone rang . It was my dad . “ I won ’ t be home for dinner , sorry .” “ Okay .” That wasn ’ t terribly unusual . “ But if you want me to , I could pick you up and bring you back here .” Well , that piqued my interest . As many memories as I had of spending boring afternoons in his office , entertaining myself by looking at slides on his microscope , I ’ d never been allowed to get any closer than the bones he ’ d always brought to career day . “ I ’ ll be there in fifteen minutes .”
It turned out to just be bones again this time , buried on the University of North Carolina campus , where my dad worked at the time . Earlier in the day , some construction workers had dug up a human femur . Being mostly illegal immigrants , that discovery completely freaked them out , and they buried it back up . Later on in the day , when they mentioned it to their supervisor , he realized the gravity of their mistake , and called the police . By the time we got there , the action was going full swing . The university police , thrilled to finally have an opportunity to use their mobile command center , had camped out . They offered us pizza . A few people from my dad ’ s office were digging . Every time they unearthed a bone , they ’ d show it to my dad , and based on his assessment , they ’ d either bag it ( human ) or toss it aside ( not human ).
By the time we finished , it was late . My dad regularly gets up at 4:30 a . m ., and the last place he wanted to go was back to the morgue at that time of night . One of the investigators was going to take the bones home , but she didn ’ t have a garage and he didn ’ t think it was a good idea for her to leave the box in the back of her small hatchback on the street . So , we took it . “ Don ’ t tell your mom ,” he warned me , as we pulled into the garage .
Once , my hamster had an eye infection . He needed to have eye drops , three times a day . I couldn ’ t do it ; I had school . My mom didn ’ t want to . That left my dad . Every day for two weeks , he snuck Furball into his office , up the cargo elevator in the back , and bribed medical students to do the eye drops in exchange for brownie points . Furball wasn ’ t a big fan of eye drops . He had an impressive set of chompers , and he knew how to use them . But thanks to my dad ’ s ingenuity , Furball ’ s eyes swiftly recovered , and no one lost too much skin in the process .
My dad and his father shared a name , my grandfather , with the appellation , “ Jr .,” and my dad , “ III .” I should ’ ve been “ IV ,” but I made the mistake of being born the wrong gender to be called “ Thomas ,” at least , not by relatively conventional parents . In all other ways though , I am the continuation of the line . I am so much like my dad , and he like his , in so many small ways . My grandfather was the one person who always understood me , even when I made mistakes . I miss him every day .
My grandfather ’ s funeral was in Columbia , South Carolina , where he died , but the burial was in Marion , the small town where he lived for most of his adult life . We didn ’ t think anyone would come . After all , he hadn ’ t lived there in nearly a decade , and most of his friends and peers were dead . We were wrong . The place was packed . Partway through the short graveside service , the pastor asked if anyone had anything they wanted to share about Dr . Clark . For 50 years , my grandfather had delivered babies , set broken bones and helped the dying manage their pain , but he ’ d retired in 1991 . We didn ’ t think anyone would remember . We were wrong . “ Dr . Clark delivered all three of my babies . My last was breech , and I thought I was going to die .” “ Dr . Clark visited my mother in the hospital every day for two months .” “ When my brother shot himself , Dr . Clark stayed up all night with him , trying to keep him alive .”
According to legend , my grandfather once took a canoe to deliver a baby born during a flood . On another occasion , he treated a hostage at gunpoint . The hostage takers weren ’ t ready to negotiate with the police , but given a burning desire to keep their wounded , bleeding hostage alive , agreed to let a doctor in . My dad says that story is apocryphal , but my grandmother swears it ’ s true . What no one argues with , however , is the fact that my grandfather gave his whole life to the people of Marion . He got up at all hours of the day and night , whenever the phone rang . Often the only doctor in town , when patients couldn ’ t pay , he treated them anyway , and a few days later , my grandmother would find a big bag of green beans or tomatoes on the back stoop .
My grandfather started college before the war . He was studying engineering , but , like so many young men of his generation , the war changed his whole life . He wasn ’ t on the beach at Normandy , or anything like that ( bafflingly , most of his photos from the war seem to contain elephants ), but when he came home , he couldn ’ t stomach the thought of going back to engineering . After all , it was ingenious American engineering that had built the bomb . Instead , he wanted to help people . He was going to become a doctor . He finished college , went to medical school and never talked about the war again .
Two completely different lives : my grandfather , Thomas B . Clark , Jr ., a small-town physician , tackled every problem that came his way , day or night , for half a century , often with no backup and no second opinion . My dad , Thomas B . Clark , III , has spent thirty years in an antiseptic , metallic morgue , surrounded by blood and guts and bullet holes , deducing the mysteries of the human body from those that no longer function . And me ? Well , I ’ ve spent the better part of the last decade in a music practice room , perfecting an art of a different kind , but I ’ m ready for my next challenge . From my dad , I learned about the miracle of the human body . And from my grandfather ? The human spirit . Now it ’ s my turn .
Elizabeth Clark is a second-year medical student at the University of Louisville School of Medicine .
This essay was a submission to the 2022 Richard Spear , MD , Memorial Essay Contest .
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