The Good Doctor

This post has all the good feels:

When I was a boy, our family doctor had an office in his home on Woodford Street in Portland Maine. The house was a robin-egg blue with a white and dark blue trim. His name was Walter E Penta MD

Regardless of the reason, I always loved going to see Dr. Penta. And I'm saying this about a man that directed me to have my tonsils out at six years old. There would be other painful moments where we would connect, and his support was instrumental. More on that as we continue.

During the last few years of my drinking, my mother was worried that I wasn't getting good medical care. She mentioned to me that if I ever needed to see Dr. Penta for any reason, "Just make an appointment, and tell him to put it on my bill Michael." In retrospect, I did not hear the concern in her voice. I've since had numerous conversations with my "Mum" about how my drinking and drug usage effected her well being, and the well being of others in our family.

All I heard was that I had a free ticket to see Dr. Penta whenever I wanted.

This is not to say that I went often, but I do believe that the permission my mother gave me, allowed for consistent care. That consistency, while far from making me get sober, assisted in my overall well-being, in ways that I didn't imagine until well after I entered the helping profession.

I could tell Dr. Penta anything. And I mean an-y-thing. He was kind, gentle, honest and supportive, regardless of my condition or circumstances. He was the first professional that I . . . Came out to, freely admitted my problems with drug addiction and alcoholism, discussed my trauma history with, told of my struggles based in that trauma (promiscuous sex, destructive relationships, etc), the first  person I confided any ache, pain, rash, or symptom I was convinced were HIV related. He sent me to specialists that he trusted when there was a problem, and the free clinic at Portland City Hall for HIV testing when they were the lone organization  that, in his experience, would test without judgment or condemnation.

He met all of this with a gentle assurance and a knowledge base that was grounded in medicine and devoid of homophobia.

After I got sober, he was my confidant in chief about all things recovery. I would discuss many of the above issues through the lens of sobriety with him.

I remember showing up at his door because of an incident with the flu and Pepto Bismal. For those of us who partook in freebasing, this may be a trigger. I had the flu, so I took something to settle my stomach. The next morning, I woke up with the shakes, fevers, and a terrible (but familiar) taste in my mouth. I went to the mirror and stuck out my tongue. Sure enough, I had the infamous brown patch that appeared the day after a freebase binge. My mouth had that sickly-sweet but burnt taste that I had experienced after a cocaine smoking bender.

Terrified, I called Dr. Penta and demanded to see him right away. I showed up to his empty waiting room (he was semi-retired by this point) and waited for him to open the door to his exam room. When he did, smoke would billow out, and he would insist that he'd be right with me. I'm sure he did his best to air out the exam room of cigarette smoke, but I could always tell from the initial offering when he'd first open the door. The accompanying cloud always gave his habit away; not that he tried hard to hide it.

I showed him my tongue, and told him about the flu and Pepto Bismal I took.

"Yes Michael. The bismuth would create a reaction with your stomach contacts, and a slight re-flux stained your tongue . . . " Then he paused, leaned over, and smiled at me.

"This has kicked up all your cravings. Hasn't it Mike." He was still grinning.

I agreed that it had, and he suggested garnering support from my sober friends, using the telephone to stay connected to people, and getting plenty of rest and fluids. He also reminded me that I hadn't relapsed, and that I was safe; as long as I worked a program of recovery.

Dr. Penta also advised me about many of the more intimate emotional and physical aspects of my recovery, including additional supports ("I think Serenity House is a wonderful idea Michael.") and any additional steps to recovery from issues I had poured alcohol and drugs over to deal with. He told me those things would come back now that I was sober, and doing the necessary emotional work was as important as any medicine he could prescribe.

His office visits were only $10. But sometimes, I would still ask him to put the visit on my mother's tab. There were numerous visits over a fifteen-plus year period.

I stopped seeing Dr Penta around 1997. He had stopped accepting patients long before this, and I was advised by another group of professionals to find a primary care physician that could orchestrate my total care . . . If they only knew. Begrudgingly, I listened to these new providers in my life.

It's sad that we sometimes forget (worse yet) neglect to remember the folks who were instrumental in saving our lives. Dr Penta had been the lynch-pin of my medical care from the time I was born, until I turned 35, but I never so much as sent him a thank you card. I was younger than I am now, and busy with my life.

In 2001, my mother called to tell me that Dr. Penta had died. He had been her doctor when she was an adolescent, so we had a long and storied history with him. Our whole family admired the good doctor. And my mother and I reminisced on the phone about some of our favorite stories about him. He even made house calls. Yup! I'm that old! 😁

Then I remembered my mom's direction to seek care from him, and send her the bill. I mentioned this to my mom and suggested I should pay her back.

"Michael." she said. "Dr Penta never sent us a bill for your visits."

All those visits. All those encouraging talks. All those treatments and referrals . . . And he never charged me a dime.

Being a trauma survivor, I can forget that anyone ever looked out for me. Yet sometimes, the sky will part and sprinkle memories from times where people were there for me; expecting nothing in return. This past weekend, I was reminding my family about Dr. Penta's philanthropy with me. Today, I was curious about the specifics of his death, because I wanted to blog about his good deeds.

Here's what I found in the Boston Globe:

WALTER E. PENTA M.D. 

Obituary Condolences

In Portland, ME, Walter E. Penta, M.D., 81, of Windham, ME. Beloved husband of the late Irene Estelle Platt. Father to Donald Platt Penta. Memorial Service 11 AM on Thursday, August 2, 2001 at Hay & Peabody Funeral Home, 749 Congress Street, PORTLAND, Mane 

Dr Penta's memorial service happened on August 2nd, sixteen years ago to the day I decided to look him up.

A dear friend of mine says that "A coincidence is when God chooses to remain anonymous."

I'm pretty sure Dr. Penta knows how I feel about him.

Perhaps I could reach out to his family and reiterate my sentiments to them as well.

M 💓