Local Culture

August 1980. I was five years into my first real doctor job after interning one year at Minneapolis General Hospital. Family Doctor at West 7th’s Helping Hand Health Center across from Mancini’s, in the former Little Bohemian Bakery. 32 years young. One of my first patients of that day looked very, very fragile.

“I just lost my best sister to a heart attack one month ago,” said a 70 year-old distressed lady. “We were always close, and I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said.

“We talked every day and most evenings. I don’t know what I’ll do without her.”

I told her I knew exactly how she felt.