About 20 years ago, during a February white-out storm, I received a call at my Ohio home from an infectious disease specialist at South Pointe Hospital, in Warrensville Heights. “Possible fungemia” was the patient’s condition, and I was asked to confirm that his retina was clear of any fungus and not infected; the urgency in the specialist’s voice was obvious.

Arriving at the hospital, the building’s parking lot had not yet been fully plowed, so I slushed my way inside and took the elevator to the patient’s third-floor room.

The patient was an 85-year old man, who had already been seen by several of the hospital staff; the details of his chart stated that he likely had early dementia. I entered the room and saw a thin, bed-ridden elderly gentleman who was softly muttering to himself.

MAKING SMALL TALK

I introduced myself and began asking him a few questions, though I was not optimistic about getting any helpful replies. I asked if he had any problem seeing, and he answered only that his vision was fine. Objective checking would have to suffice.

I performed a dilated evaluation with direct and indirect ophthalmoscopy and slit lamp exam; this confirmed a quiescent retinal appearance with no evidence of any internal ocular inflammation or vascular abnormality.

FOUNDATIONS OF FAMILY

As I put away my ophthalmoscope, I asked him what type of work he’d done as a young man, since no such information was noted by the other examining doctors. His muttering changed, alertness replacing his confusion, and he answered “a bricklayer.” His words became more focused and coherent, and I saw that he wished to tell me about his long-ago trade.

At that moment, two women around my own age came in, who told me that they were his daughters. They looked at their father, surprised that he was trying to talk; they bent near him and began to laugh. “He wants to talk to you about his bricklaying!” said the taller of the two sisters.

The patient continued, saying he’d lived in the same home in inner-city Cleveland all his life — not only did he grow up in that house but he raised his two daughters in it and had even remodeled some of it himself, brick by brick. His daughters became more and more delighted as they watched their father talk, something he hadn’t done at length in a long time.

They asked me to stay a little longer; I sat and listened for about 10 minutes as they reminisced and laughed as their father spoke. Soon, it became time for me to go, so I put on my winter coat and said my goodbyes to my patient and his now joyful children. Shortly after my examination, the man would be treated for his infection without incident and discharged.

DIGGING UP THE PAST

My ride home that night filled with recollections of childhood living at my grandparents’ home in the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood of inner-city Cleveland; I’d lived there for a few years, just blocks away from where my patient grew up and would later raise his family.

Arriving home, I dug out the old photos of my grandparents and their home. Listening to the man’s daughters reminisce about their time growing up in Cleveland, I couldn’t help but do the same.

The hand of time turned back just briefly that winter’s night. OM