“I take simple everyday things that happen to me and I figure it happens to a lot of other people and I make simple rhymes out of them.”
~ Edgar A. Guest (1881 – 1959)
A high school dropout, Edgar joined the Free Press newspaper in Detroit in 1895 and stayed for 60 years. After making a name for himself as a scrappy journalist, in 1898, he got the idea to write in verse. With a simple journalistic model for success, people enjoyed his folksy poetry in the newspaper. He eventually self-published several collections of poetry. While many newspaper writers fade into oblivion, Edgar Albert Guest continues to be praised for his universal appeal with simple meter and rhyme.
One of the universal themes that his poetry addresses is my own profession of doctoring. As science brings new advances to medical care, Edgar laments how the art of doctoring loses the personal connection. He writes about a profession that continues to struggle with the balance between the objectivity of science and the intimacy of the doctor-patient relationship.
Is doctoring a science? Complicated problems to solve with objective research and the scientific method. Or is doctoring an art? Listening the stories out of people and creating new stories of healing. Perhaps it is both.
The Doctor by Edgar A. Guest I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day; I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray"; I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn, And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn; But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all, I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call. The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone, He ushered us into the world and knew us every one; He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knew Our histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through. And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send, The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend. No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call; He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall; He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to find The patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind, I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss." It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us. He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way, And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day. The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know, And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago; But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call, The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.
References
- AllPoetry.com
- The Washington Post, Opinions: In American, the Art of Doctoring is Dying
