Of stethoscopes and rubber hammers

A remembrance of Dr. Petkus

By CHRISTOPHER FREY

These days it seems like I learn of the passing of old friends and neighbors by email rather than phone calls or newspapers or the urgently whispered “Didyahear’s” in the post office lobby or the grocery aisle.

When I got the email this morning that Dr. John Petkus had passed away, it was impossible not to be reminded of Norman Rockwell’s illustrations of small town general practitioners with black satchels who dotted this country a generation ago. If ever there was a definition of a community institution, it was Dr. Petkus.

The solid brick home and office in Shohola represented such a vital part of our lives that the details flood back easily. I remember the waiting room where little kids clambered up on sofas and chairs in summer short pants, entertaining each other with the squeaks of skin on leather. The kids’ books and grown-ups’ magazines—the stuff of every doctor’s office, of course—kept our nerves in check as we waited to see Dr. Petkus.

As we entered his office, the familiar touch of the caregiver began to work its magic. Scientists might call it the placebo effect or the white-coat effect, but that gives far too little credit to Dr. Petkus. He was known to be especially skillful and patient with the elderly folks who came to him, and considering the economic ebbs and flows of the region, I suspect that not everyone always paid him regularly.

We were comforted by the routine of sticking our tongues out, saying “Ahhh” and watching Dr. Petkus’ practiced moves as he wielded the big wooden tongue depressors, flipping them skillfully into the stainless steel garbage can with the flip-top. Our eyes always grew wide as he filled the syringe with penicillin or the latest vaccine, grabbed the cotton ball drenched in alcohol and prepared his target. We tried mightily to believe him when he said, “This might just pinch a little bit,” and did our best to hide the tears from him and from our mothers as he assured us that we would be fine.

Of course, most of the time we were fine. On the occasions when people really weren’t fine, the doctor would make house calls—many doctors did in that era, but that does not diminish the importance and generosity of Dr. Petkus’ service. The village doctor making a house call is the stuff of legends in today’s climate of managed care and technology-driven medicine.

In the manner of so many multi-tasking small-town citizens, Dr. Petkus was the school doctor for Eldred Central School, performing physicals on a stream of kids once a year. There were some years when the only words I heard from him were “Turn your head and cough please,” but I knew where I would go if a real medical emergency arose.

Indeed, our whole family knew where to go. When my brother had a car accident and we got wind of it, we raced over to Shohola, bounded in a panic up the office steps and found Doc Petkus standing serenely in his doorway. As we spluttered and stammered, he calmed us down, pointed toward the ambulance in the driveway and said, “Relax, he’s still sitting in there and he’s fine.”

It is impossible to think of Dr. Petkus without thinking of Betty. Although the Doc was a long-lasting institution in town, even that achievement pales in comparison to the partnership that these two fine people forged over the decades. In many ways, they were at the center of the community, and they were unfailingly gracious and accessible to one and all.

To the Petkus family—in your time of loss, please remember the respect and affection we have for Dr. Petkus. In every way, for all those years: The Doctor Was In.