My dad the humble GP, who was there to help after Dunblane
BRITAIN is full of unsung heroes and heroines who deserve recognition. Here, in our weekly obituary column, the moving and inspiring stories of ordinary people who lived extraordinary lives, and who died recently, are told by their loved ones.
All Dad’s working life as a family doctor was spent in the town of Dunblane. He had retired from practice a couple of years before the Dunblane Massacre in March 1996, when 16 children and their teacher were murdered by gunman Thomas Hamilton at our local primary school.
When he heard what had happened, Dad volunteered his services, assisting other medics that day.
Dad wasn’t ever a man to talk about the tougher parts of his work, and so he never dwelt in conversation on what distressing things he may have seen and heard.
And he certainly would never have wanted his small contribution, alongside the work of so many others, to be singled out. But among his letters that I’ve been going through since his death, there was one from a former colleague at the surgery, thanking him for stepping in to help: ‘ Your words of comfort and offers of help were very much appreciated and the compassion and support shown by you and many others meant a great deal . . .’
Dad knew some of the families affected, as we all did. He’d watched them grow up. Now he is buried in the local graveyard, close to those children and their teacher whose lives were so unfairly cut short.
My father was born in Thornton-inCraven, North Yorkshire. His grandparents were medical — one a doctor and the other a pharmacist — but his own father was in business.
Dad was sent to boarding school, but it wasn’t a happy experience for him. He was bullied and would write to his parents regularly. In one letter, he urged them to: ‘Please send some cakes and buns, crayons and a geographic
magazine. I don’t like asking for these things, but I am hungry all day long.’
He studied medicine at Glasgow University and, in 1959, as a young doctor then working in Gateshead, made headlines in Northern Ireland when he volunteered to use his fortnight’s holiday to work for free at the Mid-Ulster Hospital in County Derry, which had a shortage of house officers.
He told the reporter — in jest — that he knew there were ‘ several good fishing rivers close at hand and that was part of the attraction.’
My Dad met my mum Jean, a teacher, at a party in Glasgow a year later. They married and settled in Dunblane in 1964, and had me and my brother.
As a small child, I’d be allowed to accompany Dad on some of his rounds, and he’d take me in when he made a housecall if the patient didn’t mind. It must have had some impact because I’m a nurse now!
After he died, I found a diary record he kept of the house calls he made. There would be up to 20 patients every day, including some weekends. Even the day I was born, he managed to fit in 12 home visits. And on top of that, he would be on call at night at least twice a week, too.
Dad was a GP of the old school. He had time for everyone and his surgery was a homely sort of place. He had a toy parrot that would repeat back what you said to it, and Dad would use it to lighten the atmosphere at times. And he did all his house calls in his car with his dog, Ben, stretched out on the back seat.
He retired early, at the age of 58, believing medicine was becoming too much about technology and not enough about people.
It was a busy retirement; he played the trumpet in his jazz band every Monday at the local hotel, went fishing, and would take on locum jobs to help out colleagues.
Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 2010 and I admired him more than ever then for the mental strength and dignity he showed. He knew the disease was terminal, but slow growing, so he did everything he could to keep fit.
Just 12 months before he died, he bought a new electric bike to get round town. He was so brave and thoughtful, making sure everything was in order for my mum, me, my brother and his grandson.
We continue to miss him terribly and I’m crying as I write this — but I feel honoured to have had him as part of my life. Ian Alexander Crowther, born May 31, 1933, died February 28, 2016, aged 82.