Reminisces of Ray McKenzie

I have many memories of my father some are snap shots, like the day on vacation at Cape Reigna, New Zealand, when he looked up a little startled, appearing a little different, and announced, “I have lost my glasses.”

Others are of a unique stance or physical action, such as the little hop he made before chasing one of his children down to rescue them from danger, or to catch them after some mischief making. That hop must have come from his days as a high-jumper, when he set his mind to clear the bar. I’ll never know if that hop came as the start of his run-up or the at the moment he approached the bar. No one else I have ever met has ever steeled himself with that little physical action – I imagine a nurse might have seen a more muted version as he set off down the hospital corridor on a particularly challenging case.

But my two most cherished memories are of his actions as a doctor — one that showed care for his children the other his compassion for others.

The first was shortly after we arrived in Pittsburgh. It was winter. Snow was new to us. (The snow that he came to detest, fleeing to Florida, to bake out, it in the hot summers, even the memory of frost). We set off to Frick Park, with a yard-sale Flexible Flyer, headed to a terraced sledding hill with two falls and two run-outs. As the oldest, I was prone, closest to the boards, gripping the steering. Craig was on my back and possibly Glenn on top of him. We went off the top of the hill, down the first fall, then approached a bump at the edge of a terrace. The sled came up and caught my nose. My head went down and all the weight on my back slipped forward, forcing my nose harder against the sled. There was blood everywhere — looking very impressive against the snow. I had split my nose from where it joins my lip to its tip, in effect creating a third nostril.

I was stoic. No -I needed no care. My father, on the other hand, would have none of it. On a late Sunday afternoon, he took me to Magee. Found an open theater. Got a nurse. And prepared to stitch me up.

“This will hurt,” he said, being frank as he approached my nose with a syringe. Hurt! Hurt! I have never known any pain like that before or since. Lucky there was someone to hold down my shoulders.

On the ride home in the car with three neat stitches making my nose complete again, he told me of his plastic surgery rotation as a medical student. Years later, I often thought I caught him glance at me and think, “Not a bad job for a journey-man surgeon.” To anyone else, the scar is invisible.

My other memory comes from when I was about ten. At that time in a boy’s life there is no one more powerful than his father. We were living in Kuwait, before the flood of oil money built the steel framed, glass, multi-story towers and the creeping American international culture established its Pizza Huts and other chains. The country’s labor was mostly impoverished Jordanians or Palestinians — it was before Bangladeshi, Indonesian, or Filipino labor became less politically fraught. This labor force was, and likely still is, present but not seen. The disdain of a franchised, first-class Kuwaiti citizen towards the mere laborers can be unmatched, despite a common heritage.

We spent a lot of time at the beach club that was also the Salmiya Yacht Club. Dad leaned to sail, now a national characteristic of New Zealanders that he had never had the chance in his youth. There were laborers who helped us wheel the sailing dinghies down the ramp then launch them for a sail. None of us knew their names. It is likely too that we could not tell one from the other.

One afternoon as we were getting a boat prepared for launching, the stooped figure helping us, looked up at my father, and said softly and tentatively, “Doctor, Doctor?” Dad became aware of him and we stopped. Still with his head mostly bowed, he said, “Doctor -“and pointed to the heel of his foot. None of the workers wore shoes and the thick skin at his heel was cracked and broken, in part from wetting in salt water and then drying. He indicated that is was quite painful.

My father made him sit on the edge of the dolly for the boat, knelt before him, took his foot in his hand and examined it. Between them there was little common spoken language. Dad was able, however, to communicate to the man that he needed to put something on the foot to return or hold the moisture. They ended up coming to an agreement that olive oil would be the easiest thing. The man beamed at this consult.

In the interchange, it expressed much of my father’s concern asa doctor -that he should’ treat anyone. It also carried with it his attitude that a simple solution of what was ready at hand could be as effective as something else that was difficult to get, expensive, and ultimately overvalued.

At ten, as today, I remain in awe at that simple exchange. I have only the haziest memory of the man who for an instance was a patient, but I have a clear memory of my father’s kindness.