A Facebook group devoted to my hometown posted a query the other day: “If you grew up in Rochester during the 50s and 60s, what was your doctor’s name that made house calls?” (Ignore the grammar, I know exactly which of you noticed it.)

I knew right away I’d be reading the responses.  My dad was one of those doctors. A pediatrician.

And yes, there was a day when doctors actually came to visit sick people.

Fact is, my father never got a full night’s sleep if he was at home. The phone always rang in the middle of the night, and the answering service would explain that a parent had called as their child was sick. Out he’d go, leather bag in hand, no matter the time. Or the Snowbelt weather. Or the situation–Rochester, NY was the site of a three-day race riot in 1964 and yes, he went out to the Inner City to make house calls in the middle of that big disturbance.

That’s why I saw Facebook responses like these:

At first it felt a little strange, to be seeing my father talked about on Facebook; the guy who once put a Post-It on the fridge, asking What is email?

Reading the responses was strangely moving. It also made me consider how reality really is created by our own, unique perceptions. Which are formed by our own experiences and which may not be shared.

A great man — that took me aback. And saved someone’s life? No surprise.

(Shots were not my favorite thing, either. Yes, he was our doctor, too)

Wow! Seriously? But I could see it.

All that’s true. He was a really good diagnostician, for sure.

It was 10 miles a day, not five— ask anyone who knew him. He was super-proud of his fitness and the exercise routine he didn’t begin until his 40s. My siblings adopted that fit and healthy lifestyle. Me? Not so much. I ended up more like my mother in that way. We both enjoyed lounging. Although I don’t lounge as much as she did.)

Speaking of my mother:

My mother’s name was Santa Maria, but she was called “Sandy.” And yes, we’d heard stories of her working as a cashier at the Dixie Theater down the street from her parents’ home in Rochester. That old-time theatre opened in 1928 (!) and closed in 1958, then converted to apartments.

Mom was also head teller at a bank. (Yes, good with numbers, something I didn’t inherit from her.)

But back to my point:

Dad’s been gone almost 20 years now and retired 10 years before that, but people still remember him. He made a difference. Clearly.

And in a way, that surprised me. He was a guy with all-too-human flaws who just went about his business day-to-day. He loved being a pediatrician. He loved interacting with the kids. Just not their parents. Or his own kids. 

And yet, he left his mark.

My brother tells me he’s met people who tell him our father inspired them to become doctors. More than one.

I’m not going to say our experience of him at home matched those of his patients. We saw him through different eyes. He was clearly a guy who gave at the office, and what was left after that was….difficult. At best.

From my point of view, that “sacrifice” wasn’t worth it.

But if we consider the greater good, maybe it was.

A lot to unpack in that one Facebook post.