Memoir helps hospice

BY ANGELA CROMPTON

Growing up in Wellington as the son of New Zealand's first Belgian consul, Armand Nihotte, Dr Jules Nihotte always wanted to work among "more-down-to-earth" rural people.

Looking back on his career, Jules Nihotte says it was a privilege to work as a doctor. "I acted as a father confessor ... they might make an appointment with the doctor because of an injured hand, but in a consultation, all sorts of other things would emerge that would be affecting their health.

The ink has barely dried on an autobiography by former Seddon doctor Jules Nihotte, but word is out that more copies will soon be running through the press.

Originally written just for family members, A Doctor in the Village was published last year and someone suggested copies could be sold to raise money for Hospice Marlborough. Two Blenheim book stores and an outlet in Seddon agreed to stock it and now more copies are required.

Jules is pleased to add his support to a cause helping people in the final stages of their lives.

"When I went to Seddon, I looked after all the `arrivals' and the `departures'," he says.

"The arrivals usually occurred with a rush and a scream. The departures were always more difficult."

Knowing people are always happier at home, he likes the way Hospice Marlborough combines the professional services and facilities of a hospital with the intimacy of a home environment. He wishes it could receive the same financial support afforded to maternity services.

Jules is 80 now, and he and wife Lenore divide their time between their home in Blenheim and its 3000-square-metre garden and a holiday bach in Mahau Sound.

"There are times when you think, `You've got too much', but you always wake up and think, `I've got something to do'.

"If I was in a [pensioner] flat or something, I would go nuts."

The 24/7 work habits of a general practitioner clearly linger.

Jules' introduction to them came after he finished his medical training and worked as a house surgeon at Wairau Hospital. It was 1956 and a work census that year recorded house surgeons worked 110 hours on average a week, but were paid less than tram conductors.

"Nobody would put up with those conditions today. [Doctors now] work 9 to 5."

Towards the end of 1956, a farmer from Seddon approached Jules and spoke of the town's need for its own doctor.

"[Lenore and I] were expecting our first child, and with those diabolical wages and hours at the hospital, anything seemed better."

So in 1957, the couple moved into a house the Awatere County Council had built in Fearon St, Seddon. With a population of 600, the town was served by a post office, three garages, two general stores, three stock and station agencies, a baker, three transport businesses and a power board.

Few households had cars in the late 1950s, so people lived close to where they worked.

A hotel, an Oddfellows Hall and a Masonic Lodge helped keep them occupied in their spare time, but there were few leisure hours for Jules, effectively on duty 24 hours a day, seven days a week. "Time expands to meet the time available," he says philosophically.

"If you have a hell of a lot of time, you take all the time to do it. You work more efficiently if you are really busy."

His patient base covered a 1125-square-kilometre geographical triangle, stretching from White Bluffs to Molesworth in the west, and from White Bluffs to Cape Campbell in the east. People without cars expected the doctor to visit.

A typical day began with answering phone calls. Then between 9am and lunchtime Jules would make house calls or, three mornings a week, visit maternity patients in Blenheim.

Back in Seddon for the afternoon, surgery appointments continued until 6pm and for another two or three hours at night after an evening meal.

Lenore helped to keep things running smoothly.

Originally from Invercargill, she had met Jules while studying for an arts degree at the University of Otago.

"I finished my BA and had hoped to do an MA, then go on to do social work," she says. Instead, she and Jules got married and they had five children.

Lenore's days were juggled between caring for them, keeping the family home in order and working as Jules' secretary.

In a small town where everybody knew everyone, it was important to ensure patient details remained private, Jules says.

"We worked as a team ... and I couldn't afford to employ a nurse."

He quickly became well known in the region, but Lenore initially found life in Seddon hard.

"I was just busy," she reasons.

Appliances were starting to take the drudgery out of housework, but cooking, cleaning and washing duties filled much of the day. Processing the family's laundry through an agitator washing machine, for example, was a lengthy ordeal.

"I did find it pretty lonely and hard to get to know people, but playcentre was the remedy that started to make my life in Seddon OK."

There had been some opposition to the playcentre concept, she recalls.

"Farmers thought we were scatty young women who needed somebody to look after our children."

In fact, mothers took turns helping to run it and the playcentre increased the links between families.

As roading improved and more families obtained cars, small rural schools were closed and children in the wider Awatere started to travel to Seddon.

Extracurricular activities expanded accordingly, with swimming and rugby for children, and tennis, golf and drama popular among adults.

However, it was families' increased mobility that led to Seddon's downfall, Jules, says.

When he and Lenore moved there in 1957, the 27km journey to Blenheim was a long one. Modern transport meant the bigger town was "just around the corner".

People working in and around Seddon no longer needed to live there and as the numbers migrating to Blenheim grew, the businesses that had kept the smaller town alive started to shut down.

Jules' and Lenore's 32-year term there ended with the introduction of new medical prescription laws.

Because Seddon had no chemist, Jules had held a special licence to sell pharmaceuticals. From February, 1989, prescription charges increased dramatically and all chemists stocking them had to be linked to a computer system.

Predicting his workload would quadruple, Jules ended his service.

Looking back on his career, he says it was "a privilege" to work as a doctor.

"I acted as a father confessor ... they might make an appointment with the doctor because of an injured hand, but in a consultation, all sorts of other things would emerge that would be affecting their health.

"There can't be many things in life where you get so much satisfaction."

- The Marlborough Express