Hektoen International

A Journal of Medical Humanities

A doctor in his own mind

Harvey Lieberman
Rockville Centre, New York, United States

Old Man Reading. Walther Gamerith. Austrian Gallery Belvedere, Europeana. CC BY-SA 4.0

Over the past two centuries, medicine has evolved from a practice steeped in mysticism to a discipline grounded in science. Yet, even today, many people yearn for healers who combine scientific expertise with a touch of the mystical—who not only treat the body but also soothe the spirit. My father was one such person who sought this blend but never found it. Instead, he became his own kind of healer, finding solace in medical texts.

Born in New York City in 1907 to Eastern European immigrants, Dad was deeply imbued with the American dream. As a young student, he harbored an intense desire to become a physician. Despite his determination and the availability of free education at City College, he eventually concluded, with great disappointment, that his ambition was impractical for financial reasons.

Instead, he attended night classes while working low-paying jobs. Over eight years, including the Great Depression, he earned a master’s degree in French education—an impractical choice since New York City’s public high schools only hired French teachers trained in France. I suspect he thought immersing himself in French would repackage his urban Jewish origins with a veneer of European sophistication. Perhaps the school’s neo-Gothic architecture added to this fantasy.

He never became a French teacher. Instead, he discovered a surprising talent for door-to-door sales—especially vacuum cleaners. In an era when many women stayed at home, he canvassed affluent neighborhoods, outfitted in a serge suit with a paisley tie, carrying a vacuum and a suitcase of parts. Though he never said it directly, I believe he saw himself as performing a service akin to a healer. His sales pitch often included the health benefits of a cleaner home. Many of his customers responded well to this approach. One woman, obsessed with cleanliness, would vacuum in the middle of the night. She and others found in my father’s pitch a promise that cleanliness provided a path to health and well-being.

Dad believed his success stemmed from his educational polish, which allowed him to engage prosperous, well-educated residents. He took pride in mentioning that Arthur Miller, ironically the author of Death of a Salesman, was one of his customers. His clientele also included influential judges, businessmen, and professionals—most importantly, physicians. He measured his success by a standard that mattered to him: “I make as much or more money than most doctors.”

Though physicians set the standard for him, he lacked confidence in their ability to help with diseases that did not respond to vaccination or antibiotics—except once, when surgery was required. After two hours of writhing in abdominal pain, he finally called our family doctor, who rushed over for a house call. The doctor agreed with his self-diagnosis of gallstones and recommended immediate hospitalization. A gallbladder removal was scheduled for the next day.

Thankfully, his recovery was swift, but on the fourth day, he appeared upset. He said, “I overheard my surgeon talking to another doctor. They found occult blood in my stool. I have colon cancer.” Before we could ask questions, he turned to my mother and said, “I love you. This is a death sentence.” Then to me, “You’ve been a good son.”

I stood numbly by his bedside as my mother ran to find his doctor. When she returned, she looked both angry and relieved. “The doctor said they were talking about another patient,” she said. My father looked equally relieved. “Oh, that’s good!” he said. “I’m glad I’ll still be around.” Though this became an amusing anecdote, it marked the first time I could imagine my parents dying.

Digestive complaints plagued him before and after the surgery and continued for the rest of his life. After his death, I found a 1948 medical summary diagnosing a “psychoneurotic disorder.” As a boy, I would occasionally ask, “Dad, if you’re so uncomfortable, why don’t you see a doctor?” He would reply, “Doctors, what do they know?”

In the early 1950s, his somatic preoccupations led him to purchase Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine, a respected medical text. For the next sixteen years, Dad read and reread the book almost daily. It became his secular Bible. Sitting in his reclining armchair, he would read until soothed to sleep. His understanding of medical issues was sufficient for him to become a trusted advisor to many. His stepbrother, a prominent ENT physician, publicly acknowledged that Dad was as knowledgeable as many doctors.

By the time I started college, I did not take his medical complaints as seriously. The cancer scare reminded me of his vulnerability, and I gently began to question him about his symptoms. He did not want to discuss specifics, only saying, “Pretty much the same. It feels like there are evil spirits in me.”

Years later, when I began my Ph.D. program in clinical psychology, I became more confrontational. “You’ve been reading the same textbook every day for fifteen years. There have been a lot of medical advances since it was published. Maybe a newer text would be of benefit?” His response was to clutch the book protectively. “There are no advances of consequence that aren’t in this book,” he said.

As I neared graduation, I decided to buy him a new medical text for Father’s Day. I chose the 1966 Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, which included psychiatry. He offered a perfunctory “Thank you” and set it aside. However, within a month, Harrison’s had been relegated to his nightstand, and the Merck Manual was on his lap. Perhaps the change in reading material brought him some temporary relief.

Six months later, I was passing by his bedroom when he called out, “Come here! You must read this! I finally found it—the illness that’s been plaguing me for years.” I was shocked to see the article described an uncommon Brazilian venereal disease. At a loss for words, I asked, “Dad, when were you ever in Brazil?” Blushing, he quickly took the book back. “That must be the wrong page,” he said, dismissing the conversation. We never spoke of it again.

Three years later, he died at sixty-six from a myocardial infarction that likely could have been prevented today. An autopsy revealed stomach ulcers.

Reflecting on my father’s reliance on medical texts and skepticism toward doctors, I realize we did not see him as anxious—he seemed stoic and dependable. His investigation of medical issues was that of a man on a quest. Today, I view him as someone who, like all of us, was struggling with the uncertainties of his body and the possibility of death. He lived in an era when the line between physical and psychological ailments was often more difficult to distinguish, and his experience with healthcare providers was shaped by the limitations of medical knowledge at the time.

His deep engagement with medical texts was more than just an intellectual pursuit; it was a personal ritual that offered him comfort and a sense of control. The medical books became his sacred tomes, vessels of knowledge that held the key to understanding and perhaps overcoming his ailments. He treated them with reverence, almost as if they possessed a healing power of their own. In a way, he created his own form of personal mysticism, blending science with the spiritual to navigate his fears and uncertainties.

Until the end, my father’s relationship with medicine was a complex mix of reverence and doubt. Today, his diagnosis—once dismissed as hypochondriasis—would likely be seen as somatic symptom disorder, which is viewed through a more compassionate lens. This newer perspective acknowledges that many ailments once considered psychological may have a genuine physical basis.

His unique relationship with medicine, shaped by an era relying more on anecdote than evidence, reminds us of the limitations of medical knowledge. The comfort he drew from medical texts remained a guiding force. When I seek care for myself and my family, I look for practitioners who not only use evidence-based practice but also have the humility to ask themselves, “What do doctors know?” And, as I finish this piece, I realize that my father’s lifelong search to understand his physical ailments and mental preoccupations quietly shaped my own career, leading me to work with patients whose medical and psychological conditions intertwine.


HARVEY J. LIEBERMAN, PhD, is a clinical psychologist and mental health services administrator and program designer. He consults with government and nonprofit agencies and has held visiting professorships at major universities. His social commentary and essays have appeared in the New York Times, Newsday, and literary journals. His private practice helps clients create written and video remembrances.

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