Egan: Science, beauty and the art of medicine — a departing doctor reflects

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For the minute, Dr. Harsha V. Dehejia doesn’t want to talk about his 51 years as an allergist on Elgin Street; or his second PhD in Hindu culture; or his 25 years teaching at Carleton University; or the 35 or so books he has authored; or how his wife delivered Justin Trudeau; or how he helped found CKCU, where he’s had a radio show forever; or how he drives a VW Beetle.

For a second, he wants to talk about the “oar” — a mini canoe paddle, really — that sits in the corner of a waiting area in the Lego-like set of rooms where he has practised medicine since 1971.

“The beautiful, you see, is part of my life.”

The paddle was painted by Donnell Taylor, an Ojibwa Cree who essentially saved himself through art. The self-taught artist was a fixture for years on Elgin, where the sidewalk became his studio, merchants his friends. The good doctor asked Taylor to paint him a paddle, all the more cherished after Taylor died unexpectedly in February, age 59.

He is showing me the vibrant colours and symbolic animals, as though this is the most important thing he will do today. “I find great resonance with Indigenous people here because they make beauty, they make art, a part of their lives.”

Dr. Dehejia has been collecting art of all kinds for decades, turning his second-floor offices into a shifting gallery of exhibit rooms. (There is scarcely any medical equipment here, to be honest, or else it’s hidden away.)

There were only a handful of allergy specialists in Ottawa when he began practising with field pioneer Dr. Lazarus Loeb (yes, of the prominent family) in 1971. But, at age 83, it’s time to pin up his needles.

He will be vacating the offices sometime in November, ending an era, closing a practice that has combined science and beauty in pursuit of the art of medicine.

(Is there another doctor in Ottawa who would say: “I love potters. Pottery is a primal art everywhere in the world, especially India … You can describe your life by using this pot as an example,” pointing to a painting of a “wish-fulfilling” tree.)

Born in a privileged family in Mumbai, he originally wanted to become a writer, until he broke the news to his father. “He gave me a look and said: ‘There is no such thing. You become a doctor.’”

So doctoring it was. He studied in India, then Cambridge, England, and had a stint at Bellevue Hospital in New York. When he became accredited in Ottawa, he said he didn’t know much about allergies and asthma, but Dr. Loeb told him: “I’ll teach you.”

Within a short period, he had a patient waiting list that stretched to 18 months, as the field was exploding. It’s a curious thing about allergies that, maybe 50 years ago, hardly anybody had them and now hardly anybody doesn’t. He mentioned, sadly, 14 of his patients who died of peanut allergies over the years.

He lamented that modern medicine is all about ordering a battery of tests on ever-advancing diagnostic equipment, as though patients are a medical problem.

“My regret is the art of medicine has gone down,” he said. “By that I mean talking to a person … The patient may have no physical signs that you’re going to diagnose with a blood test or a CT scan, and yet he’s not well.

“So, talk to them.”

He pointed to a system where patients and relatives must endure eight- and 10-hour waits in ER departments where nearly every player is frazzled, seniors care that amounts to soulless warehousing, and doctor relationships where no one can be hugged.

“Elder care? They don’t need medicine, they need love and compassion.”

Hinduism and the study of its aesthetic is an essential part of his life, a personal passion, as evidenced by him donating his teaching salary to Carleton to further religious studies.

“Ancient Indian culture is my soul.” He and his wife Sudha, a pediatrician, spend several months a year in India, where he says the poorest person, someone with nothing, will still try to decorate their shanty with something beautiful, even if just a flower.

And so he’s feeling nostalgic these days about Elgin Street, remembering the Party Palace where Moe, the short-order cook, knew his lunch order from memory, and Boushey’s, where he knew the staff by name, or the Mayflower, another haunt, or the little old post office where he caught up on news.

“The chit-chats of the world have gone,” he said. “Even on the phone. Press one for this, two for that, three for this, then on hold for 25 minutes.”

So true — the 25 minutes, the 51 years — all that time, where did it all go?

To contact Kelly Egan, please call 613-291-6265 or email kegan@postmedia.com

Twitter.com/kellyegancolumn