It was 1967 and snowing in Mount Greenwood.

In the drug store on St. Louis street, a pharmacist stood in the back of the store; hunched over and brushing pills into a brown plastic bottle. He was partially hidden by pegboard shelves stocked with bandages and braces and powders; filling a prescription for a colicky baby and her mother.

He glances up from his work, toward the front of the store, where a noisy group of children make their way through the door by the cash register. They're bundled in coats and scarves and boots and led by a red-headed mother; pulled through the maze of wheelchairs and walkers and displays. They don't want to be there.

They move toward the back, near the pharmacist, and the smell of antiseptic and alcohol becomes noticable.   Without stopping, the group moves past the pharmacy counter and is shepherded through a maple and glass door.   Most of the children can't read, but if they could, they'd see, "Eugene F. Diamond, MD" on the door.

On the other side of the door, the smell of alcohol is strong; reminding the small group of their previous visits.  The mother is reassuring, but they remember that same smell on wet cotton balls, which went together with the dreaded shots as much as the tomato soup and cheese sandwiches they'd just had for lunch.

They sit in the waiting room, with its brown paneling and black-framed diplomas, for over an hour.   Various and peculiar strains of bacterias and viruses float around the room, coughed and smeared by the other children.  Rubbing their eyes and picking their noses; the red-headed mother watches as they page through 'Highlights' and look for hidden pictures.

Eventually, they're all escorted to an exam room. Anxiety builds in the group.  The two youngest children cling to the woman and wipe their noses on her winter coat.

Then Eugene F. Diamond enters, wearing wire glasses and a lab coat; a thick black rubber stethoscope coiled over his shoulders. He holds several manilla folders like top-secret files, which he opens; checking the dates scratched on the ledgers.    He appears to scold the woman about this or that.   As his attention moves around the room, he is asssessing and criticizing each of the children; on diet or sleeping habits or bed-wetting.   No one is spared this process.   And the doctor seems to be hinting that the group should not to get too comfortable.

In 1967, metal and glass syringes were not meant to be seen by patients, especially those under six years old. Like some huge surgical instrument, they are startlingly different from the toy-like models used on children today; with their disposabale packages and microscopic needles.

The ones used in Eugene F. Diamond's office were workmanlike.   They had ugly but servicable large bore needles that were probably sterilized and reused.   They were hidden in drawers and cabinets; not to be seen under any circumstances by the small person sitting on the crinckled white paper. The shots needed to be a surprise, and the doctor has become David Blane-like at hiding them from view until the last possible moment. Which he does - somehow - four times.

As Dr. Diamond closes the folders, the used syringes lay on the counters and the room is filled with sets of red and watery eyes.   Sniffles and hic-ups.   More noses are wiped on the woman in the coat.  Now, Eugene removes his glasses and surprisingly begins to comfort the room. He speaks kindly to the mother, sharing stories of his own large family.   Eugene finishes and the group bundles up and heads back out through the pharmacy.

Dr. Diamond is now Professor of Pediatrics at Loyola Stritch School of Medicine in Chicago.   He is an author of four books, a public speaker, and active in the Catholic Church and charities and organziations that support the right to life.

We didn't know it then, but this physician would become a leader in Pediatric medicine and would practice for over 60 years. He has sinced visited groups like ours in thousands of exam rooms; prescribing his wisdom on families and health and, especially, children.

I hope that by now he uses the disposable packages with the tiny needles.

#1967

A Diamond on St. Louis Street