Dr. James Blaine Fitzgerald
|
2009
Dr. J. Blaine Fitzgerald, 84, a Bethesda internist, died March 23 of complications from pneumonia at Suburban Hospital.
He was born James Blaine Fitzgerald in the District and graduated from Gonzaga High School. He received his
undergraduate degree in 1944 and his medical degree in 1948, both from Georgetown University. Following an
internship at Providence Hospital in the District, he served a five-year tour of duty in the Navy Medical Corps.
After his discharge, he opened his internal medicine office in Bethesda. Dr. Fitzgerald practiced medicine for more than
50 years and always made a point of taking time with his patients. He also taught clinical medicine at the Georgetown
University and University of Virginia medical schools.
He was a member of the Montgomery County Medical Society and other professional associations and was the official
physician of the National Football League Alumni Association. He enjoyed golf at the Congressional Country Club and
was a member of the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick.
Survivors include his wife of 56 years, Helen Bender Fitzgerald of Bethesda; five daughters, Kathleen Manders of
Darnestown, Erin Nelson of Sparta, N.J., Siobhan Dennis of Bloomington, Ind., Deirdre Bugg of Easton, Md., and Maura
Shannon of Chevy Chase; and 10 grandchildren.
-- Joe Holley
By Joe Holley ADDED 05-03-09
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Dr. J. Blaine Fitzgerald was old-fashioned, to be sure, although not in the sense that he was mired in the past or scornful
of the new. The Bethesda internist was old-fashioned in the Marcus Welby tradition. More than 60 years after becoming
a doctor, he still made house calls, still took time with his patients, still treated them as individuals he knew and cared
about.
Dr. James Blaine Fitzgerald -- he was always "Blaine" or "Fitz," never "Jim" -- died March 23 of complications from
pneumonia at Suburban Hospital, a facility he helped build. He was 84, still hard at work when he died.
He left behind not only his wife of 57 years, Helen Bender Fitzgerald, five daughters and 10 grandchildren, but also
hundreds of loyal patients, old and young, known and unknown, rich and poor. A number were third-generation patients
whose family members started going to Dr. Fitzgerald when exams were $5 and house calls $3 (according to neat
handwritten entries in his Daily Log for 1952).
William Peter Blatty was one of many patients who relied on Dr. Fitzgerald for decades. "He projected this sort of peace
and calm," said Blatty, the author of the novel "The Exorcist." "I loved the man."
To say that he cared about people is true, but slightly misleading. He cared about individuals -- he cared for individuals
-- one person at a time. A patient sitting on the examining table or across from the sturdy wooden desk in his office knew
intuitively that he was there for them.
He told stories, shared jokes. With his broad Irish face creased in a smile, with what one friend called "that glint of a
leprechaun in his eye," he exuded empathy. His approach, albeit genuine, also had a practical side. His demeanor made
people feel better. He was able to ease what another longtime patient called "the white-coat syndrome."
"That's why all his patients are so loyal," said Maura Shannon, her father's office administrator for 21 years.
If the patient was a golfer, so much the better. Exam finished, the good doctor might step into the narrow hallway outside
the examining rooms, and the two would refine their golf swings over an imaginary ball.
"My wife teased me that I'd make up reasons to visit Dr. Fitz just to swap stories and tell jokes," a patient wrote in a note
to the family.
Dr. Fitzgerald was born in the District and grew up in Bethesda, where his father was a lobbyist for the motion picture
industry and active in Montgomery County politics. He graduated first in his Gonzaga High School class and got his
undergraduate and medical degrees from Georgetown University. After five years in the Navy Medical Corps, he came
home and opened his general internal medicine practice in the now-vintage Bethesda Medical Building on Wisconsin
Avenue.
As he built his practice, he also worked to make sure that his community had a first-rate hospital. Suburban Hospital,
which opened in 1943, was a one-story cottage surrounded by farmland when Dr. Fitzgerald became a board member in
the early 1950s.
He was asked to be Suburban's permanent chief of staff, but he refused, preferring to focus on his private practice.
His daughters recall how hard he worked. "He was never home," Shannon said, sitting in her father's cozy waiting room
one morning last week. She and her sisters would come to understand that his patients were family, too. They treasured
Sundays, when they had their dad to themselves -- or almost to themselves.
On Sunday mornings, the whole family piled into Dr. Fitzgerald's white Thunderbird with red interior and drove to
services at the Catholic Church of the Little Flower on Massachusetts Avenue in Bethesda. After church, the family had
breakfast at the Hot Shoppes in Bethesda. Helen Fitzgerald would be dropped off at home, and the doctor and his five
daughters would drive to Suburban Hospital. The girls hung out in the doctors' lounge while their father made his rounds.
The Fitzgerald girls grew up and moved away, had families of their own. Through the years, their father kept working,
from 8 every morning until whatever time his last patient walked out the door.
He continued practicing medicine his way, the old-fashioned way, regardless of modern-day insurance strictures or time
constraints.
"If he needed to go to a patient's house, he'd go to a patient's house," Shannon said. "If he needed to meet them in the
emergency room, he'd meet them in the emergency room. He didn't let the system beat him."
Family members would occasionally broach the tender topic of retirement, particularly as he moved into his ninth
decade, but Dr. Fitzgerald would have none of it. "What would I do?" he'd say. "Go home and sit?"
To patients who expressed concern that he couldn't go on forever, he had a joking response. "Don't worry," he'd say,
Irish eyes twinkling. "If I die, I'll be back in three days."