Roslindale Op/Ed Http://TownOnLine.com
Hank Brandli grew up in Roslindale, MA and now lives in Melbourne,
Fla. He will be sharing his memories of his hometown with Transcript readers
over the next couple of months. He can be reached at hbrandli@spacey.net
When I was a kid, there were two family doctors that people in my Rozzie
world went to for their ailments - doctors Spognadi and Sacco. Before he became
a doctor, Dr. Spognadi played briefly for the Red Sox. He died recently and Dr.
Sacco died in 1978. One of my recent Rozzie nostalgia columns resulted in an
e-mail that stated, "Dr. Sacco saved my life I was about 2 or 3 . I had a
stick from a small flag jammed down my throat. He operated on me on our kitchen
table."
Roslindale
lost an entire hospital when Dr. John J. Sacco died in 1978. He was our
surgeon, our pediatrician, our dermatologist, our gynecologist, our
obstetrician, our neurologist, our X-ray technician, our radiologist, our
ophthalmologist, our chiropractor and our friend.
He's still
missed more so than ever in these chaotic medical times.
The
"Doc," as my father always called him, brought me into the world,
took out my tonsils, set my fractures, taped my torn ligaments, took the
X-rays, anesthetized me, gave me my shots, cut me open, stitched me up, removed
the stitches, drained my orifices, gave me complete physicals for elementary
school, high school and college.
Except for
my birth and tonsillectomy, he did it all by himself in his red brick home
office on the corner of Washington and Cornell streets across from Capone's
Rexall drugstore.
How well I
remember the visits to Doc's red brick home with the low manicured hedges
surrounding his corner lot. On the Washington Street entrance was a red brick
walkway leading up to a small porch entrance and the doorbell, with the small
sign above it that read, "Ring, then enter."
Inside were
four or five steps leading up to a large living waiting room on the right.
Steps to Doc's upstairs living area were to the left. In the waiting room,
leather or Vinyl multi-colored chairs and couches were arranged in as fashion
to seat as many patients as possible, but, it still retained a homey
atmosphere. Tables were covered with numerous magazines - National Geographic,
Saturday Evening Post, Collier's, Look and Life as well a few outdoor
magazines.
Who really
read them? I don't know. I know I didn't. I was there because I was sick and
scared. I was always with my mother until I was in college. Reading a magazine
was the last thing on my mind. I usually picked one up, skimmed through and
looked at the pictures and an occasional caption.
Many
paintings hung on the walls, but as I grew older, I noticed they were slowly
replaced with a variety of mounted fish of different species. There were
sailfish, dolphin and others that Doc caught on his fishing trips. How he
managed time for fishing, I don't know. Doc was always in and available for
housecalls. Maybe the fish could have been gifts from his fisherman patients or
ordered from a catalogue.
His office
was always crowded. I can remember patients on every step leading up to the
second floor. Miraculously, he moved all of these people as efficiently as a
bakery does with its numbering system. He would open his office door next to
the brick fireplace, peer out over his specs in his characteristic way ,mumble
something, acknowledge a patient's presence and someone would get up and go
into his office always in the right order.
As you sat
there on the huge couches or chairs, you could hear his distinct voice behind
the closed door - Doc had a slight kind of lisp in his voice. When he spoke
louder and louder, you knew the door was slowly going to open the door and the
next patient was on his way to the inner sanctum. The previous patient was
either led out the backdoor onto Cornell Street or into another examining room.
Finally, my
turn came. Most of the time, Doc would sit in his huge leather chair talking on
the phone as we sat across from him in his office. He would always pop a
thermometer in my mouth as soon as I entered. After he hung up the telephone,
my mother would explain my problems and inevitably we would be led into an
adjoining examining room, where I would strip or roll up my sleeve, receive a
shot or he would examine me with his marvelously gifted surgical hands.
Sometimes, he would scribble a prescription and we would be on our way.
After each
of these visits, my mother would take me to Capone's Liggett-Rexall drugstore
across the street for a soda and, unbeknownst to me, to have the prescription
filled. I usually ordered strawberry or coffee. Even during office hours, Doc
was available for housecalls. A raging fever or other emergency would bring him
to your bedside with his small black bag that hopefully contained the cure for
your illness.
My
grandfather, Pop, who was over 80 years old at the time, began hemorrhaging one
night during a famous Friday night heavyweight fight. Doc was called and he
arrived in a flash. He tended to Pop in his bedroom upstairs and never took him
to the hospital. And, after a few days, Pop was working in his garden.
Had Doc
been watching the fight? To this day, I still wonder what he did in his spare
time. He was not the Marcus Welby-type, but he was marvelous and compassionate
especially in a real crisis.
There were
many times when our whole family traipsed into his office with various medical
needs or ailments; a physical for my brother, someone's eyes washed out and a
stitch or two in the hand of my sister for some minor injury. My ears would be
examined, drained or flushed out. One time, my mother asked him about my
recurring ear infections, which came from a pond I swam in. He said I should
wear nose plugs or I might get a Mastoid(which I looked up). I started wearing
nose plugs and my mother would have a few moles removed.
The Doc did
it all - as if we were one person. For many years ,he had no assistant. His
payment was usually a few dollars and only $5 if our whole crew was there.
Naturally, this was all pre-medical insurance era.
The Doc
wasn't very talkative, but to this day, I remember many of his comments. He had
no patience with the squeamish.
"Get
off the table, you're not dead!" He would say.
"Why
don't you put your head between your legs?"
"Go
outside and get some fresh air."
"What
do you want me to give you, son? A medical education in five minutes?"
In later
years, I once made a comment to him about a military doctor whom we had
nicknamed Doubtful. Doc looked at me quizzically, peered over his eye glasses,
and said, "Was he really doubtful?" Then continued," Better
watch out for those military doctors. They'll take all their frustrations out
on you."
When I had
one of my many sports accidents over the years, old Doc would say, "Why
don't you give up basketball, baseball, football? You could stay home and read.
It would be a lot safer for you."
Of course,
most my recollections of Doc are of the '40s and '50s. I have thought of this
fine physician many times since my medical retirement from the U.S. Air Force
in 1976 and have had to see a parade of different specialists. Doc could have
done it all, but he did not get to Florida. Many times, I wished that he had.
He was also
in the Marine Corps in World War II. During the early '40s, while Doc served in
the Pacific, Dr. Spognadi took over his Rozzie patients.
I recently
came across a letter from one of Dr. Sacco's comrades, William Greeley, a
former Marine Corps medic who lives in Newport N.H. He wrote in 1978, "The
Doc and I served together in the United States Marine Raiders in the southwest
and central Pacific during World War II. I was a medic and the Doc was a
battalion medical officer. The name Raider is exactly as it applies as we were
commandos and given the most hazardous of combat assignments and thus resulting
in the greatest number of casualties.
"We
were all volunteers. Whether we were a marine rifleman or a medical officer,
when we were at work. It was a 24 hour day. But after the last shot had been fired
Doc's medical skills were just getting underway. God alone knows how many
Marines the doctor patched up to carry on the fight or just to continue to
enjoy the gift of life. There were many as I can attest. I know I might not be
here today if it wasn't for the Doc.
"While
there were endless incident, I can cite firsthand one that stands out in my
mind in all these past 50 years. During a battle, the name of which has slipped
my mind, a marine was blown up while setting a booby trap. The man was carried
to the rear, where the Doc happened to be.
"An
operating table, as such, was set up on the ground using food ration boxes and
a blanket. It must have been over a 100 degrees in that steamy jungle that day.
Doc went to work and did not lay his tools down until four hours later. He
performed two amputations plus a half dozen other operations. I have never seen
or even heard of such skills yet alone under those conditions. His only
assistants were a couple of corpsmen whose main function was to wipe the sweat
off Doc's brow.
"Another
doctor did arrive near the very end, but Doc had the situation well under
control from the very beginning. I do not recall ever having seen any man more
damaged than that Marine, when he reached the doctor. I'm sure Doc alone felt
he could be saved and saved he was. That Marine today is in the best of health
and is the father of five children with all in direct thanks to Doc Sacco.
"I
recall our last combat mission together as members of the first wave to invade
Guam. We were in the same landing craft. When we hit the beach, my first action
was to find cover off the beach. When that was found and I looked back toward
the beach there was Doc in the open and in full view already attending to our
wounded shipmates. He was an inspiration of courage and his own well being was
secondary."
I'm sure
some of his former patients remember him as fondly as I .I can still see him
sitting in his chair in his home office on the corner of Washington and Cornell
streets .A monument or plaque should be placed there for his wonderful and
dedicating doctoring that he performed all those years.
Hank Brandli
can be reached at hbrandli@spacey.net.