Your Friendly Neighborhood Dermatologist

I'm old enough to remember the actor Robert Young in “Father Knows Best.” Because his later hit TV series “Marcus Welby, M.D.” aired when I was in medical school and residency, I never saw a single episode, but his image as the kindly general practitioner who knew everybody in town seeped into my consciousness.

I am not a GP in a small town but a specialist in a big, anonymous urban agglomeration, where you don't expect to meet people you know when you walk down the street. Patients come from all directions (well, not the east—they'd have to swim). Some live nearby; others come from towns and travel in circles at some distance. Still, after 30 years, these circles sometimes intersect in unexpected ways, producing intimations of small-town, Welby warmth that can frankly be rather nice.

There was the time, for instance, when I was writing up a note one evening at a rest home nursing station, when the night nurse, who didn't look at all familiar, said, “I brought my son Ted to see you when he had warts as a kid.”

“How old is Ted now?” I asked.

“Thirty-six,” she said. “He has two kids and lives in Chicago. He still remembers how you used to pour the liquid nitrogen on the floor.”

You never know what leaves an impression on kids, including your own.

Two recent incidents illustrate what can happen when you hang around long enough. Shortly before I left for a week off last spring, my associate was called for jury duty on a Monday, the first day I was to be away.

Having already rescheduled once, she had no choice but to go to the courthouse in downtown Boston. We decided not to cancel patients for Tuesday and beyond until she found out whether she would be impaneled on a jury or released the same day. When the judge asked if anyone would find it difficult to stay for a trial, she came forward and told him that because I was away, she was the only one available to see patients.

The judge looked at her forms and frowned. “Dermatology, eh?” he said. “Not many emergencies there.”

He seemed disinclined to let her off. Then he looked further and said: “Full disclosure. I'm one of Dr. Rockoff's patients. Have a good day.”

When I saw the good judge some weeks later, I expressed surprise that he was presiding in a Boston courthouse, since his usual bailiwick is about 50 miles southeast. It turns out that he just happened to be assigned to Boston that day. Good thing, too.

A similar incident happened a few weeks ago when I exited a highway a few miles from my office onto a street with three lanes of traffic. I stayed in the right lane, which was clear. Several hundred yards further on, I learned why it was so clear: A sign read, “Right Lane Must Turn Right.” The famously aggressive Boston drivers in the jammed lane to my left seemed unlikely to let me in, leaving me with the prospect of turning onto an unfamiliar street that headed nowhere, certainly not where I wanted to go.

I, therefore, ignored the sign and drove straight through—into a police trap. An officer motioned for me to pull over behind the line of perpetrators already apprehended. As he asked for my license and registration, I fumed. “Relax, sir,” he said, “You're just getting a warning.” He walked to his cruiser to examine my documents.

A few minutes later a different officer came over, smiling broadly. “I really need to make an appointment,” he said. “I'm late for my annual. Drive safe,” he said, handing me my papers.

The truth is, I didn't recognize him, but I'll be sure to do so the next time he comes in.

I'm not suggesting being pleasant or helpful for the purpose of getting off jury duty or avoiding tickets. There are better reasons for trying to be competent, and besides, the odds against a practical payoff are too long.

Still, it is nice when, after casting bread upon the waters for a decade or three, some of it unexpectedly—and pleasantly—comes back.

Move over, Marcus.

I'm old enough to remember the actor Robert Young in “Father Knows Best.” Because his later hit TV series “Marcus Welby, M.D.” aired when I was in medical school and residency, I never saw a single episode, but his image as the kindly general practitioner who knew everybody in town seeped into my consciousness.

I am not a GP in a small town but a specialist in a big, anonymous urban agglomeration, where you don't expect to meet people you know when you walk down the street. Patients come from all directions (well, not the east—they'd have to swim). Some live nearby; others come from towns and travel in circles at some distance. Still, after 30 years, these circles sometimes intersect in unexpected ways, producing intimations of small-town, Welby warmth that can frankly be rather nice.

There was the time, for instance, when I was writing up a note one evening at a rest home nursing station, when the night nurse, who didn't look at all familiar, said, “I brought my son Ted to see you when he had warts as a kid.”

“How old is Ted now?” I asked.

“Thirty-six,” she said. “He has two kids and lives in Chicago. He still remembers how you used to pour the liquid nitrogen on the floor.”

You never know what leaves an impression on kids, including your own.

Two recent incidents illustrate what can happen when you hang around long enough. Shortly before I left for a week off last spring, my associate was called for jury duty on a Monday, the first day I was to be away.

Having already rescheduled once, she had no choice but to go to the courthouse in downtown Boston. We decided not to cancel patients for Tuesday and beyond until she found out whether she would be impaneled on a jury or released the same day. When the judge asked if anyone would find it difficult to stay for a trial, she came forward and told him that because I was away, she was the only one available to see patients.

The judge looked at her forms and frowned. “Dermatology, eh?” he said. “Not many emergencies there.”

He seemed disinclined to let her off. Then he looked further and said: “Full disclosure. I'm one of Dr. Rockoff's patients. Have a good day.”

When I saw the good judge some weeks later, I expressed surprise that he was presiding in a Boston courthouse, since his usual bailiwick is about 50 miles southeast. It turns out that he just happened to be assigned to Boston that day. Good thing, too.

A similar incident happened a few weeks ago when I exited a highway a few miles from my office onto a street with three lanes of traffic. I stayed in the right lane, which was clear. Several hundred yards further on, I learned why it was so clear: A sign read, “Right Lane Must Turn Right.” The famously aggressive Boston drivers in the jammed lane to my left seemed unlikely to let me in, leaving me with the prospect of turning onto an unfamiliar street that headed nowhere, certainly not where I wanted to go.

I, therefore, ignored the sign and drove straight through—into a police trap. An officer motioned for me to pull over behind the line of perpetrators already apprehended. As he asked for my license and registration, I fumed. “Relax, sir,” he said, “You're just getting a warning.” He walked to his cruiser to examine my documents.

A few minutes later a different officer came over, smiling broadly. “I really need to make an appointment,” he said. “I'm late for my annual. Drive safe,” he said, handing me my papers.

The truth is, I didn't recognize him, but I'll be sure to do so the next time he comes in.

I'm not suggesting being pleasant or helpful for the purpose of getting off jury duty or avoiding tickets. There are better reasons for trying to be competent, and besides, the odds against a practical payoff are too long.

Still, it is nice when, after casting bread upon the waters for a decade or three, some of it unexpectedly—and pleasantly—comes back.

Move over, Marcus.

I'm old enough to remember the actor Robert Young in “Father Knows Best.” Because his later hit TV series “Marcus Welby, M.D.” aired when I was in medical school and residency, I never saw a single episode, but his image as the kindly general practitioner who knew everybody in town seeped into my consciousness.

I am not a GP in a small town but a specialist in a big, anonymous urban agglomeration, where you don't expect to meet people you know when you walk down the street. Patients come from all directions (well, not the east—they'd have to swim). Some live nearby; others come from towns and travel in circles at some distance. Still, after 30 years, these circles sometimes intersect in unexpected ways, producing intimations of small-town, Welby warmth that can frankly be rather nice.

There was the time, for instance, when I was writing up a note one evening at a rest home nursing station, when the night nurse, who didn't look at all familiar, said, “I brought my son Ted to see you when he had warts as a kid.”

“How old is Ted now?” I asked.

“Thirty-six,” she said. “He has two kids and lives in Chicago. He still remembers how you used to pour the liquid nitrogen on the floor.”

You never know what leaves an impression on kids, including your own.

Two recent incidents illustrate what can happen when you hang around long enough. Shortly before I left for a week off last spring, my associate was called for jury duty on a Monday, the first day I was to be away.

Having already rescheduled once, she had no choice but to go to the courthouse in downtown Boston. We decided not to cancel patients for Tuesday and beyond until she found out whether she would be impaneled on a jury or released the same day. When the judge asked if anyone would find it difficult to stay for a trial, she came forward and told him that because I was away, she was the only one available to see patients.

The judge looked at her forms and frowned. “Dermatology, eh?” he said. “Not many emergencies there.”

He seemed disinclined to let her off. Then he looked further and said: “Full disclosure. I'm one of Dr. Rockoff's patients. Have a good day.”

When I saw the good judge some weeks later, I expressed surprise that he was presiding in a Boston courthouse, since his usual bailiwick is about 50 miles southeast. It turns out that he just happened to be assigned to Boston that day. Good thing, too.

A similar incident happened a few weeks ago when I exited a highway a few miles from my office onto a street with three lanes of traffic. I stayed in the right lane, which was clear. Several hundred yards further on, I learned why it was so clear: A sign read, “Right Lane Must Turn Right.” The famously aggressive Boston drivers in the jammed lane to my left seemed unlikely to let me in, leaving me with the prospect of turning onto an unfamiliar street that headed nowhere, certainly not where I wanted to go.

I, therefore, ignored the sign and drove straight through—into a police trap. An officer motioned for me to pull over behind the line of perpetrators already apprehended. As he asked for my license and registration, I fumed. “Relax, sir,” he said, “You're just getting a warning.” He walked to his cruiser to examine my documents.

A few minutes later a different officer came over, smiling broadly. “I really need to make an appointment,” he said. “I'm late for my annual. Drive safe,” he said, handing me my papers.

The truth is, I didn't recognize him, but I'll be sure to do so the next time he comes in.

I'm not suggesting being pleasant or helpful for the purpose of getting off jury duty or avoiding tickets. There are better reasons for trying to be competent, and besides, the odds against a practical payoff are too long.

Still, it is nice when, after casting bread upon the waters for a decade or three, some of it unexpectedly—and pleasantly—comes back.

Move over, Marcus.