“When you kids are done with high school and college, I want to go back and take a residency training program in psychiatry. I think that most of the people I see at work just need someone to talk to.”
I heard my father say this many times during the latter part of my high school days and my first two years at Wabash. He was employed by United States Steel in Gary, IN, as an occupational medicine physician. He was a brilliant man with a somewhat gruff exterior, a wry and sarcastic sense of humor, and a soft side which I saw only on rare occasion.
He was also frustrated with the busyness of keeping up with the day-to-day issues of clinical medicine. The workers he treated often had significant health problems which vastly overshadowed the day-to-day issues of meeting OSHA guidelines and treating occupational injuries. He was hoping to pursue additional training which would enable him to address some of those problems.
He never had the chance.
Friday, September 5, 1975, dawned as one of those gorgeous late-summer days that make you smile everywhere you look. It was the third day of classes my junior year at Wabash. I went out for a run, soaking up the warmth of the early morning sun.
As I returned, I noticed Wabash Avenue Presbyterian Church minister Larry Wickett waiting for me on my front porch. Glad to see a good friend at the start of the school year, I invited him in. He let me recover a bit from my run, and then we sat down in the living room.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, John,” he said. “I received a phone call from your mother a little while ago. Your father had a heart attack this morning. They called an ambulance and took him to the hospital, but he died. I’m very sorry.”
The morning was suddenly a blur.
Beyond the shock and grief I felt in the wake of my father’s death, I remember thinking to myself, “Well, after all, he was a pretty old guy.” Yet as I progressed through my own 20s and 30s, “51” seemed less and less like old age.
In my 40s, doing my best to keep up with busy kids and a rather unforgiving job in clinical medicine, “51” began to light up in my mind like a flashing neon sign.
My wife and I (both pediatricians) volunteered at a free clinic and became increasingly aware of the disparities in access to health care. I became interested in pursuing formal training in the organization and delivery of health care.
The year that I turned 50 I wrote a “snail mail” letter to the Johns Hopkins School of Public Health inquiring about their part-time masters in public health (MPH). I fully expected to receive a letter suggesting that I was a bit old to be pursuing this. However, I received a prompt reply encouraging me to apply.
I remember the thrill of reading the acceptance letter, as well as the mixed feelings. Did I really want
to do this? It would involve some travel. There would also be financial consequences. But as “51” drew nearer, I kept thinking to myself that I did not want to spend the rest of my life wondering, What
if I had only done that MPH program at Hopkins?
So “51” found me taking my first semester of MPH course work. I embarked on this program with trepidation, but excited. I also felt that I was, in a very real sense, honoring my own father, who never had the chance to pursue his own plans for a midcareer shift.—John Ziegler ’77, M.D., M.P.H., Janesville, WI
