Learning to take care

Congratulations to Blanchard Valley Medical Associates on 50 years serving patients in Findlay, and to Dr. LeRoy Schroeder, one of its founding physicians, on the culmination of his own 48-year career of practice in this city. It's a staggering thought, when you view it from an endpoint, imagining how many people have been helped or saved by Schroeder and the medical group at BVMA. Courier reporter Leah Alsept caught up with Schroeder after his recent retirement party at the medical office. He talked of his beginnings at Ohio State and in Columbus medical facilities. He described how the practice of medicine has changed in five decades. He spoke about BVMA's history, which is also his story. It converges with our stories, too, those of us who have gone to Schroeder and the other practitioners there over the years. I've always found my juvenile diabetes (another moniker used for Type 1 Diabetes, so-called for its prevalence in children) tricky to talk about. On one hand, it's a chronic disease that affects basically every instant of my life. On the other, it's a manageable illness, and I can still breathe, work and play like the rest of you. I've never felt its terror has warranted a thorough explication, because it's not a terribly exciting illness. When people find out you're sick, they want the goriest details you can give them, and all I can say, really, is it's just a ball of scourge inside me I can never exorcise. I think I can more easily write about my more than twenty years as Dr. Schroeder's patient. I was probably 13 when I began with Schroeder, after being diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at 11 and floundering with a few faceless doctors out of town for a couple years. I remember the first appointment, casually strolling in without preparation (why would you need to prepare to see a doctor?) and few cares in the world. Schroeder took one look at me and my recent blood glucose levels, sloppily scrawled on scratch paper and presented to him with little context, and started in on me. I can't remember exactly what was said over the next twenty minutes, but I know that I was on the verge of tears when I left. My mom likes to recall that first meeting herself, as she came into the room with me. Schroeder wasn't much for pleasantries — he told my mom, "You can go wait in the waiting room. He doesn't need his mother in here." I remember tiptoeing into that office throughout my teens, knowing my glucose levels were nowhere near satisfactory and I'd been slacking in taking care of myself. He liked to use aphorisms to describe what happens to diabetics that don't watch their glucose levels; he once threatened to get my driver's license taken away if I didn't shape up; and another time, when I came to his office without preparing my levels for him, he left the room and said he'd come back when I was done writing them down and could take the appointment seriously. Schroeder's efficacy as a physician would never be questioned, but he's not known for having a comforting bedside manner. He may have softened a little in his last years of practice, and my experience cannot be said to be universal, but I still remember being terrified of going to appointments at his office as a kid, and I know I'm not the only one. But things happen, perspectives shift. Life shows you who people are. I was in a bad car accident when I was 16. I had a nagging head injury, and my wrists and left forearm were shattered in the impact. I was home for six weeks healing, in full arm casts that prevented me from using my hands. I'll spare you most of the details about the kind of help I needed from family members during that time — what's pertinent here is that I could not give myself insulin injections, and needed their assistance. I remember the first morning home from the hospital, early part of the day, my arms up on pillows, feeling quite sorry for myself, and very bored, and frustrated, and helpless. The phone rang, and my mom picked it up. "It's for you," she told me. It was Dr. Schroeder, calling to give me insulin injection adjustments for the day. We went through my morning blood sugar level and my levels from the couple of days before, and he worked out proper dosages for the rest of that day. I was impressed, and happy to have the guidance at that tough time, because blood sugar levels can veer wildly when the body is trying to heal itself after injury. I relayed the dosages to my mom, who would be giving me my shots for that day, and we got on with it. The next morning, Schroeder called and talked to me again. And the next morning. And the morning after that. He didn't miss a single morning of my convalescence. He made distinct adjustments every day. My accident happened in December, and he even called on Christmas morning, his grandkids audibly playing with their new toys in the background. We were never billed, and it was never really spoke of again. The first appointment I had with him after I could leave the house was business as usual. Here's another thing: I have never been hospitalized because of my illness. I have never gone into a coma, and I have never even passed out from low blood sugar. All through my younger years and into my adulthood, I have struggled, as every human being does, but I've stayed upright and well enough to have something like a normal go at life. This is because of my family's support, and because of Schroeder's care. That's exactly it. Schroeder got me to be serious about my health and my illness at an age when young people don't typically think about those things. He knew that kids went in and out of the hospital with blood sugar fluctuations, he knew that kids went into comas and died. He knew he had to make me know that, even then. He never infantilized me, he never underestimated me. He took his job, his calling seriously. And mine is just one little story. How many others has he helped, in 48 years? If you need one more example of Schroeder's passion for helping his patients live better lives, take this quote from The Courier's recent article: "One fellow that I took care of I took care of for 35 years. I saw him when he was 10 … I was still seeing him the day I left the practice." (This isn't me he's referring to, by the way, but another). Notice he didn't say he "saw a patient" for 35 years, or "served" them. He said he "took care of" that boy, who then became a man that he kept taking care of until it was time to hang up the coat. Caring looks a lot different for different people, but we know when we're being cared for. So enjoy your well-earned retirement, Dr. Schroeder, and congratulations again. Call anytime. Bret Nye is community editor of The Courier.