The Bottle Washer

By Wayne Lerner

AS A YOUNG HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATOR AT RUSH MEDICAL CENTER, one of the things I was encouraged to do is to make rounds on the various patient care units and support areas. These visits helped me build and reinforce relationships with the medical and nursing staff and drop in on some of the recently hospitalized patients. 

Different from some of my colleagues, I would stop in the critical care areas like the ER, ICUs, and clinical and research laboratories. In order to broaden my understanding of the hospital, I put on scrubs and go into the operating rooms to talk to the surgical staff. I even viewed several autopsies in surgical pathology, most of which took place right after breakfast. It’s a good thing I don’t eat much first thing in the morning.

One day, while I was visiting biochemistry, I ran into a tall, lanky, older African-American gentleman everyone called Doc. Doc was, in fact, the bottle washer for the biochemistry laboratory.

His face lit up with a welcoming smile when he engaged with anyone who chose to stop by. Later, I found out that Doc was a podiatrist and held weekly podiatry clinics in the Health Center every Friday.  The Health Center treated those patients with little or no insurance. Patients loved Doc. In a most sensitive manner, he provided a valuable service to every one of them.

Over the years, I looked forward to seeing Doc. We talked sports, music and what was going on within the medical center. I always inquired about any needs he had for treating his podiatry patients.

There was a persistent rumor about Doc which floated throughout the organization. People said he had a connection, through his kids, to a Chicago-based musical group, which was receiving some acclaim for their songs. I never asked him about this as I felt it was an intrusion into his personal life. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

After seventeen years at Rush, I left to go to St. Louis to lead a hospital there. Six years later,  I accepted an offer to be the CEO of the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago.

About eighteen months into the new job, my secretary came into my office with a puzzled look on her face. 

“There’s an older African-American fellow who wants to see you. He has with him a young man who has severe disabilities. Do you know either of them?”

As I did with any patient who wanted to see me, I went out to greet my visitors. Much to my surprise, there was Doc, the biochemistry bottle washer from Rush, and a young man in a wheelchair, unable to control his limbs or speak clearly. I wasn’t sure if he had MS or CP or a brain injury; regardless, he had a big smile on his face which mirrored Doc’s. 

I asked my secretary to reschedule my next appointment so I could invite them into my office. I had not seen Doc for many years and wanted to reminisce with him about the old days at Rush and the newest gossip. 

“Dr. Wayne,” Doc said. “This here is my son, Freddie. He’s got him some serious disabilities and is being treated here at RIC three days a week. I wanted to come by and see you, both for old times sake and to let you know about your new patient.”

“We will do a great job for Freddie,” I told them. “Our doctors and therapists are some of the best in the world. When he is done with his treatments, why don’t we meet in the cafeteria for coffee?” 

Doc and Freddie nodded in agreement as they left to go to their first appointment.

This way, we could enjoy each other’s company while I inquired about any special needs they might have. I never mentioned my prior relationship with Doc to my staff as it wasn’t unusual for them to see me in the cafeteria with a patient and their family.

At one of their weekly visits, before his son joined us at the table, I asked Doc what had happened. 

“Freddie was his brothers’ group road manager until he had an accident. He fell off the stage into an open orchestra pit while moving some of their equipment. He landed on his head and couldn’t move. I feared he’d be paralyzed for the rest of his life. There’s no job for a road manager who can’t move things or talk good. Since his brothers are always on the road and Freddy being single, it fell on me to be his caregiver.”

“What did you do about your jobs in biochemistry and the Health Center?” I asked. 

“I just gave my notice last week. The higher-ups sure weren’t happy ‘bout that. I know they can find another bottle washer but I’m worried about my patients. I don’t know where they will get another podiatrist to work in the Health Center for free. I’s got to manage Freddie’s affairs, what little they are. I can’t worry ‘bout bottles but I do fret over my patients.”

We remained in contact for several more years but, in time, Doc and his son stopped coming to the hospital. I tried to find out what happened to them but was unable couldn’t get any information. 

One day, my secretary came in and told me there was a woman on the phone demanding to talk to me. She said she was Doc’s daughter and that I would understand.

I picked up the phone and, with tears in her voice, I heard a woman struggling to talk. 

“Dr. Lerner,” she said, “I’m Doc’s daughter and I have really bad news. Doc passed away a few days ago. He was buried just yesterday.”

“I am so sorry to hear the news,” I said. “I looked forward to seeing Doc and Freddie on his appointment days. I would’ve attended the funeral, if I would’ve known about it.”

“We know all about your visits with Doc and Freddie at the hospital,” she said. “Dad always appreciated the relationship the two of you had and that we could depend on you. So now we have a special request. The family would love to have a special memorial service for him at the medical center where he spent most of his life, not only washing bottles, but taking care of people with foot problems. Can you help us?”

It had been more than 10 years since I had left Rush but that didn’t stop me. This was about Doc, after all. A man who dedicated his life to his patients and the medical center. 

I called in some IOUs from old friends at the Rush faculty club where I had retained my membership. The club had a series of meeting rooms perfect for functions like this. I needed a venue, refreshments and a program printed and it had to happen in three days. 

I got an idea of what the family wanted for the service and ordered the food and drink. I paid, of course. It was the least I could do for Doc.

The day of the service, I got to the medical center a few minutes before the service began to make sure all was in order. Then, I went to the back of the room as the family and guests arrived. Many of Doc’s patients came to pay their respects along with his family and friends. In short order, it was clear I was going to be the only white guy in attendance. 

Doc’s daughter came over and gave me a big hug. 

“Thank you so much for arranging this gorgeous service. We didn’t know what to do. We just knew this was the right place to have the service as the medical center was so important to Doc.”

I looked over Doc’s daughter’s shoulder as her brothers came over to greet me. 

“Hi, I’m Maurice White and this is my brother, Verdine. We want to thank you so much for organizing this reception. Dad talked about his friendship with you so often that we feel that we have known you for years.”

Wait a minute! Maurice White! Verdine White! Doc's sons started Earth, Wind and Fire. Of course! Earth, Wind and Fire was founded in Chicago in the late 60s. Freddie was the road manager of Earth, Wind and Fire when he had his accident! I was talking to the group's leaders! Six Grammys, seventeen nominations. Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame stars. Ninety million records sold. Gold and platinum albums galore. 

I didn’t know what to say. I was speechless and I’m never speechless. Doc never mentioned the name of his sons’ group. Earth, Wind, and Fire was one of my absolute favorites. I would love to have talked with them but this wasn’t the time or place. 

I expressed my sympathies to the family and told them about the close relationship I had with Doc and their brother. 

“Knowing Doc was a treasure in my life,” I told them. “And meeting Freddie was just so special. His smile never left his face.”

After the memorial service, people ate and drank a bit and quietly left the faculty club. They had already buried Doc. This was a celebration of his contributions to the family and his patients. 

Days later, I received a card from Doc’s daughter which read, “Thanks so much for helping our family honoring Doc. If there is ever anything we can do for you, here’s my phone number. Don’t hesitate to call.”

A few years ago, Earth, Wind and Fire was playing at Ravinia. I’ve always wanted to see them in person but never had the opportunity. I reached into my desk and pulled out the card Doc’s daughter had sent me. I called the phone number but no one answered. I went on the website for the group and emailed their manager. I described my relationship with Doc and the family but never received a response.

Maurice White passed away in 2016; Verdine is still with the group. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to connect with Doc’s daughter or Verdine as too many years have passed. And going backstage at an Earth, Wind, and Fire concert will have to remain a distant dream of mine. 

In the end, that’s not what is important. I will always cherish the relationship I had with Doc and Freddie and know that I helped the family remember him in the way he would have wanted.

I am certain there will never be another bottle washer like Doc.