When I worked as a physician in the intensive care unit, I attended the funerals of some of my longtime patients. Many of them were black and poor, so it meant traveling into unfamiliar neighborhoods, where I was often one of the only white people there — sometimes the only white person there. Being the only white face in certain neighborhoods draws attention, just as being the only black face in other neighborhoods does.
Even so, it gave me peace of mind to see my patients and their families one last time. The services were unlike those I was used to. Occasionally, the family of the deceased would even ask me to say a few words at the service.
The most memorable patient funeral, or home-going as they are often referred to, I ever attended was that of Mr. Buckles. He was my patient for 25 years. I also took care of his wife and several of his adult children. The last few years of his life he was quite ill and he visited the clinic frequently. Everyone at the clinic knew him. When he died, his family told me how much they appreciated everything the hospital and I had done for him, and they made a point of asking me to come to his funeral. It was an honor.
The problem was that Mr. Buckles’ funeral was in a bad neighborhood. I was used to attending funerals in those kinds of neighborhoods, often as the only white person. But this funeral was in one of the roughest neighborhoods on the South Side.
On the appointed morning, I drove to the funeral service. Not surprisingly, mine was probably the only white face to be seen for multiple city blocks. Like other South Side neighborhoods, there were pockets of lovely middle-class homes right next to boarded-up storefronts with gang graffiti on the windows. This neighborhood, though, had an air of violence.
It was a cold, quiet winter morning. Mr. Buckles was popular in his neighborhood and it was a crowded funeral. I had to park about a block away. Experience had taught me that most gang-bangers did not come out at that time of day, so I felt reasonably safe. Once I saw the church, I knew everything was going to be all right.
The street was filled with impeccably dressed funeral-goers, some of whom I recognized. One or two may have even been patients in my clinic. Even though the street was quiet and there was a crowd milling about, the boarded-up storefronts and empty lots kept me alert until I reached the church. Once inside the church I felt the warm familiar feeling of a reverent congregation. It was quite comforting.
The beautiful service was long and emotional. I wanted to stay for the whole funeral but since I had to return to the hospital, I left early. The spirituality I experienced in the church removed all my trepidation as I walked back to my car.
After the service, I had a good feeling about Mr. Buckles, and I reminisced about what a wonderful patient he had been. As I drove, I recalled him telling me what a good athlete he was in high school 50 years previously. He was a track and football star, something you would never have imagined if you had seen him during the last few years of his life, old and obese, with heart trouble. I thought back to one of our conversations,
“If we raced, Doc, I would have left you in the dust.”
“Not anymore you wouldn’t.”
“No, but back then I could spot you 50 yards and beat you in the 100.”
My guess is that he could have.
I was half an hour late getting back, which was unusual for me. Besides that, I was better dressed than usual, wearing a nice button-down shirt and khakis, instead of my customary jeans. The nurses, used to me being prompt but poorly dressed, knew something was up.
“Where you been, Dr. Franklin?”
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“I was at Mr. Buckles’ home-going.”
Some of them hadn’t heard he had died.
“How was the funeral?”
“It was really nice. Glad I went.”
“Where was it?”
“It was in South Chicago. Church was just off Marquette.”
The nurses, who were all black, stared at me. They knew better than I that it was a dangerous neighborhood, somewhere most people rarely went.
“Dr. Franklin, that’s THE HOOD. We don’t even go around there.”
I shrugged and said, “You know, it didn’t seem so bad. I had no problems.”
“Nobody bothered you?”
“Not at all.”
“Is that the way you were dressed?”
“Yes, why?”
“They thought you were a cop.”
Dr. Cory Franklin lives in Wilmette and is the author of a collection of essays, “Chicago Flashbulbs: A Quarter Century of News, Politics, Sports and Show Business (1987-2012).”