Boots Off

Yesterday, the last Friday of January 2024, I made housecalls in and around Fort Kent, an hour north of where I live in Caribou. There was snow on the ground from a snowfall a few days ago and midday it started to snow again, so much by early afternoon that I was grateful for my studded Nokian tires and all wheel drive.

There’s something very levelling and equalizing when Shelby, my Health Advocate, and I drive up in a snowfall to a house far off the main road in my fancy Mercedes SUV, knock on the door, kick the snow off our boots, step inside, take them off and enter the house of a new patient in our stockinged feet.

It shows respect and it puts us in the same category as when a friend stops by. It is an act of humility that symbolizes both that we are polite guests and that we are not rushing through our visit, but settling in for a one hour visit.

If fire, ambulance or police crews show up at a home, they just walk in, but a primary care housecall is different. It is not a disruption, it is a scheduled meeting with the purpose of learning about a patient and their life and social situation, of building trust with another human being and offering a gift of explanation or a solution to a medical problem.

In your stockinged feet, you’re suddenly humbled in a way. I am reminded of the Japanese custom of leaving your shoes at the door and bowing with your hands held together. I recall “The Devil Wears Prada” posters and I compare that with a mental image of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples - because, in our culture, since ancient times, feet seem to be our lowliest body parts.

My mother in Sweden always used to tell me to wear clean underwear in case I ended up in the emergency room, but, of course, if you’re in a car accident or have a stroke, who knows how clean your underwear will be anyway when you arrive at the hospital. But these days, I do make sure my socks match and have no holes.