Free Brothers Emanuel: A Memoir of an American Family by Ezekiel J. Emanuel Page A

beginning, the patients may have been taken aback by this young Jewish doctor with a thick foreign accent. They also had to get accustomed to the idea that he was not available on a predictable schedule. If, for example, the staff at the hospital called to ask for his help, he would have to close his office and rush over there. But those patients who did get to see him at that storefront clinic found my father was the kind of doctor who offered good care and as much respectas he received. Chicago was a melting pot of immigrants, and my father spoke four languages well and several others sufficiently so that he could communicate with people of many nationalities. Consequently, he quickly became a popular doctor in a city of many immigrant families. He proved himself by being right with almost every diagnosis, and by being fair about payment, which meant that his patients paid only what they could, and some paid nothing at all. Either way, they got the same level of care and, when necessary, house calls, hospital visits, and after-hours research by my father in the medical library if a difficult case required it. My father welcomed these tough cases because they broke up the monotony that can come with seeing one patient with an ear infection or strep throat after another. They required a little detective work and sharp action when a definitive diagnosis was finally made.
    A good example arose when one mother brought her two-and-a-half-year-old son to the office with a fever, cough, headache, and blurred vision. The boy, whose name was George, had both tuberculosis and meningitis. The meningitis, which could cause brain damage and death, was the most urgent problem. My father suspected it was caused by a fungus called cryptococcus. Lab results proved he was right and a search of the literature turned up just a few cases when patients were cured with a new drug—amphotericin B—developed from bacteria found in the soil along the Orinoco River in Venezuela. The drug was not commercially available but my father somehow managed to get it and George was saved.
    George, whom my father followed for years, became the subject of one of dozens of case studies and papers he published in professional journals. This academic output was quite remarkable for a doctor who worked seventy hours a week seeing patients in the office, at the hospital, and in their homes. The variety and pace of work suited my father, but the pay was low and as our family grew he longed to spend more time at home. He solved both these problems by leaving the hospital and practice on the South Side and partnering with another physician in an office that was much closer to our home and had a wealthier clientele. He got privileges at most of Chicago’s North Sidecommunity hospitals and began seeing newborns in the maternity ward who became patients in his practice. He still worked hard, often seeing two dozen patients in an afternoon when his partner saw no more than ten. This happened in part because my father was filled with kinetic energy. Entering the exam room, he would minimize salutations with the parents and focus immediately on the children and the presenting problem. His typical visits were so short the nurses at the hospitals called him “Speedy Gonzales.” Despite his speed, and because of his openness and charm, his reputation grew as many mothers requested him personally.
    When he was working, my father’s style was very relaxed and matter-of-fact but warm. A little blood, a little vomit, or a little crying was nothing to him. But if he could avoid tears, he made an effort to do so. For example, he often used a little misdirection, like an old-fashioned magician, to remove stitches without a child realizing it. “Are you tough enough to do this without crying?” he would ask. While he talked, and the child was screwing up his courage, my father had already begun to work. Before they could answer the threads would be out and he would delight his