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Karen White-Walker
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WHITE-WALKER: Memories of Dr. Muscato
It’s uncanny and ironic that just about three weeks ago I had decided to write an article about Dr. George Muscato. The premise was to be on how, at age 85, he was still working, God bless him, while some people his age were still just breathing — barely. I have such respect for older people who equate working with contributing to one’s quality of life. One dedicated teacher I know who is in his 70s is petrified that he’ll drop dead in the classroom before he’s given his students their lesson plans.
As I scribbled down a few notes, I thought it would maybe be a courtesy to call and alert the doctor that he would be the subject matter for my column — like he had been some 35 years ago when I wrote about him, and the hospital posted the write-up and made him the topic of conversation for that week, anyway. But he was such a colorful character; he didn’t need me to add to his reputation. But you see, never once in all the years I took my four children to him did he ever intimidate me. How could he? A lot of people I’ve always gravitated toward have been a lot like him — gruff, yet so very caring.
It seemed strange that when I called his office that day I got a recording saying another doctor was handling his patients. That very evening, I ran into Rita, a stunning nurse he had worked with for more than 45 years, and still did. When I mentioned to her how I was writing about her boss, she actually paled.
“Karen, I can’t believe your timing because Dr. Muscato is very ill, and just between you and me, it looks like he might not make it.”
Such news ruined my evening, because I couldn’t remember a time in my life when Lockport didn’t have a Dr. Muscato. When you have a history with someone, be it professional or personal, one that’s taken years to cultivate and establish, it’s so much harder to say goodbye.
Wasn’t it exactly 42 years ago this August that Dr. Muscato met me on the weekend at the emergency room on a very hot and humid day? My 6-month-old baby girl, Amy, was covered with a red rash and being a young, over-protective, neurotic mother, I thought everything was life-threatening to my children.
The good doctor took one glance at how I had her dressed and started whipping off her heavily crocheted baby bonnet, sweater and booties.
“Hey, watch it with those,” I warned him. “My beloved grandmother made them and they can’t be replaced.”
I don’t think Dr. Muscato gave much credence to sentimentality. Now it looked like he was getting a red rash on HIS neck!
“How the hell would you like it if somebody dressed you up in this?” he ranted. “For God’s sakes, it’s 95 degrees out! You’re supposed to dress babies the way you’d want to be dressed in this weather.”
“What happens if a person is always cold?” I asked.
And this is where I always felt I might have had the upper hand with him.
“You’re the only mother who has ever made me stutter,” he said.
Had he been a timid and unassuming man, such a revelation would have been almost expected, but even though he was short in stature, he was like a bulldozer, yet my kids and I never wanted to veer from out of his path. We loved and respected the man.
The next time I hear thunder in the heavens, I’ll know Dr. George has gone home, stethoscope and all, and is tending to the children he loved.
Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column appears every Tuesday.
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