Читать книгу The Making of a Physician - Sheldon Cohen M.D. FACP - Страница 5

I never felt the great depression of the 1930’s as many American citizens did. We were lucky. My great-uncle, Sam Rosen, who, as mentioned, owned the bakery on Division Street in Chicago and provided steady employment for his sister’s husband (my grandfather), assured my family of a steady and stable income of thirty-five dollars a week. On this income, my grandfather raised his family, a wife, three daughters and one son, in a three bedroom flat on Sacramento Blvd. Much later in life, I learned that Sam Rosen, when a nine-year-old boy in Poland, spent time in Germany as a baker’s apprentice, worked his way up to a full baker, and by 18 years of age emigrated to the United States, first living in New York, where I heard rumors to the extent that he became a Union organizer, had difficulties with “the mob” and fled to Chicago where he earned his fortune becoming a multi-millionaire, especially famous for his “Rosen’s Rye Bread,” which surrounded every corned beef sandwich made in the city of Chicago and the mid-west for decades.

As a young boy in the 1930’s, my memories of the depression were a series of letters, WPA, CCC, plus other letters that referred to Roosevelt’s New Deal, our presidents ambitious effort to lift the country out of the major depression that threatened not only the United States, but also spread its deadly tentacles to the rest of the world playing no small part in events leading to the conditions that had an influence on the development of World War II with all its horrific consequences.

Roosevelt took the bulls by the horn and instituted the New Deal, his effort to give the federal government more responsibility for the economic welfare of the people. States declared a moratorium on bank withdrawals to prevent depositors from withdrawing their funds thus bankrupting the banks, but Roosevelt declared a four-day banking holiday and attested to the fact that the banks were sound, restoring confidence and subsequently insured deposits through the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation FDIC. Roosevelt also established agencies to provide government-sponsored work for the unemployed developing special projects to provide employment for artists, writers, musicians and actors through the Works Project Administration (WPA), initials I was familiar with as one of my friend’s father was an unemployed artist who found employment with the WPA. There was also the Public Works Administration (PWA) employing men aged 18 to 25 through the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) for forest work, construction of highways, dams, buildings and other conservation projects..

During the depression, prices and wages fell. To stem this disaster, Roosevelt developed the National Industrial Recovery Act that promoted the cooperation of labor and management in setting prices, wages and hours worked and gave all employees the right to join unions. Roosevelt also put crop reduction measures in place to reduce farm surpluses, which were responsible for the low prices. Other projects included the Tennessee Valley Authority to develop an underdeveloped area of the country, the Security and Exchange Commission to regulate the stock market and the Social Security Act providing for unemployment insurance and old age pensions.

The country reelected Roosevelt for an unprecedented third term.

I have several memories when I was five years old. The most important one was the decision to become a physician. I attribute this interest to my uncle, my mother’s brother, Sidney, who, in 1935, was a second year medical student at the University of Illinois. By this time, my father and mother had separated, and my mother and I moved in with my grandparents. I can remember my uncle sitting at the dining room table peering through a microscope. He would pick me up and put me on his lap, and point out a world of bacteria, blood cells, and different body tissues. I can remember the fascination I felt, etching in my mind the path as a future doctor. My uncle became the father figure that I never had, and I remain grateful to his memory. My own father finally divorced my mother when I was ten. He would pick me up on Saturdays, and would spend the day with me until I became a teenager and then I would visit him on Saturdays in his plumbing shop where he would put me to work. I soon learned the name of every piece of plumbing apparatus available. When I was eighteen years of age, he moved to California with his young wife, Shirley.

My uncle became a physician in 1938. He served an internship for two years at Cook County Hospital, Chicago, worked for a short time in Parsons, Kansas where he found his future wife. Then he spent six years in the army medical corps during World War II serving in both the Pacific and European theatre of operations. The only thing I ever heard him say about his experience was, “Those Japanese pilots flew so low I could see the expression on their faces.” He had a long and illustrious career as a California obstetrician and gynecologist. Without my realizing it, I believe he taught me how to set a goal at this time in my life.

My mother’s youngest sister Harriet married Sam Siegel, and he fought in the Battle of the Bulge. My mother’s other sister, Rose, won a Chicago Charleston dance contest during the roaring twenties and married Leo Manhoff who was too old to serve in World War II. These two uncles also served somewhat as a father figure for me. I was fortunate to have such a loving family to provide support.

I have very few memories of kindergarten, but the one that stands out is my first day of school. I met my teacher, Miss Kimble. She had snow-white hair, and looked like everyone’s grandmother. One of my classmates announced that he had to go to the washroom, so Miss Kimble unbuttoned his union suit in the rear. He promptly let it fall and walked to the bathroom with his buttocks exposed. We all laughed. I can still see him walking as vividly as I remember the parading soldiers.

I never got to the first semester of first grade. Instead, I suffered a series of contagious diseases. My mother tells me I had whooping cough, followed by measles, and finally German measles and mumps. In those days, the order was to quarantine, so I spent the entire first semester in bed.

It’s strange, but the next episode, perhaps of critical importance in my life, is only vaguely present in my memory. The first semester of the first grade served to set the foundation for basic reading. My mother knew this, so she purchased a blackboard and chalk, and while I was in bed, she taught me how to read…a practitioner of “home schooling” before its time. I vaguely remember the blackboard on an easel and my mother standing beside the bed lecturing to me. When she spoke of the experience, she told me how rapidly I learned all the letters and words. I think she used a self-invented system of phonics long before it became popular. Of course, I never realized the loving and critical importance of this action.

Since I missed the first semester of the first grade, my mother brought me to school to meet my second semester first grade teacher, Miss DiMatta. I remember her appearance: short, thin, coal black hair, glasses, and a superior air. She told my mother that even though I missed the first semester, and therefore did not learn to read, she would pass me onto the second semester, but put me in the “slow group” and hope I would be able to catch up.

“Oh no,”` my mother said, “I taught him how to read. He doesn’t need to be in the slow group.”

Miss DiMatta was incredulous, and said she couldn’t do that because I had missed the entire semester, but my mother insisted that I they give me a book and test me on the spot. The principle, Mr. Garret Rickard, agreed. How did I ever remember that name? Anyhow, I read the book with ease and joined the second semester advanced group. I can still remember the upstaged look on Miss DiMatta’s face. I was worried about it, but I didn’t know why. Things must have worked out because I have no further recollection of the first grade.

I lived almost a mile from LaFayette Grade School. In kindergarten and first grade, my mother walked me there every day. This meant four round trip walks. We never could afford a car, and even if we could, it was rare in those days to have women drivers. She brought me to school in the morning, walked back home, picked me up at school for lunch at home (there were no school lunches then—or busses), brought me back to school after lunch, came back home, picked me up after school and walked back home with me. I don’t remember how long it took me to protest that “I could do it myself,” but eventually I did.