Doc's office was in his house. There was a big waiting room (best feature: a Kit-Cat clock), his nurse's office, his office, and a surgery. He performed scheduled surgeries - I had my tonsils out in Doc's office in 1959 - and emergency surgeries. My brother nearly amputated all the fingers on his left hand when he was 3 or 4; Doc sewed his fingers back on, gruffly telling my mom "If this doesn't work we'll just cut the damned things off again." It worked - his little finger is permanently crooked and his ring finger is bent, but the fingers are there and functional.
Doc was overweight, choleric, and seemed always to have a cigar in his mouth (probably not during surgery but, hey, I wasn't awake for it). When his son went to medical school, Doc automatically became "Old Doc". When "Young Doc" came "home" to practice, he built a new office building on the edge of town and someone else moved into the house. The small town has changed a lot since - the movie theater, one grocery, the hardware, newspaper, and five-and-dime are long gone. Only one of the old gas stations is still open, now operated by the original owner's grandson. The swimming pool was demolished a decade ago, victim of liability concerns. "Young Doc" retired several years ago, and earlier this year his successor closed the office.
I think of all the specialists I see, and the marvellously complex medical centers I go to for my treatments. I wonder what "Old Doc" would make of all this?