I Am John H. Holliday Dds. You May Call Me Doc

By Patrick Gillen

This book takes the facts about Dr. John H. Holliday and breathes life back into Doc himself. The author has lived through many of the same most crucial moments as Doc; in fact, it is a name that his patients called him and still do. He is, like Doc, a Catholic. It is singularly amusing that they both have so many, many things in common, except that Pat stinks at poker most of the time.

This is a very unique book. There has never been a book that tells the tale of Doc Holliday from Docs side as consistently as this, knowing the disease intimately and living with an almost identical set of symptoms. He has a chronic cough at times so severe that it results to severe pain in his intercostal (chest muscles) that lasts for three days, making it hard to breathe, move, or even bear down. Coughing or sneezing double him over. At times, he coughs up blood. He is often hypoxic and unsteady on his legs. He cannot walk without a cane due to dizziness. All this makes his appetite poor. He may be dizzy enough to fall down, with the room spinning and unable to move for twenty minutes to two hours.

The facts were gathered for over forty-seven years of research, off and on. So it truly is a fictional book, perhaps more true to facts than a nonfictional one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546206316

Patrick Gillen

Pat Gillen is sixty-seven and lives in Dayton, Ohio, with his wife, his “soft, sweet, Hungarian beauty,” Dolores. He has two boys and two girls; the youngest are thirty-five and twins, a boy and a girl. He has been completely disabled since 2007 and so has insight into having to let go of a profession he loved very much. He has lost many friends to death, and death has brushed against him as well. He has looked it in the eyes several times. At an early age, suffering some of the same circumstances as Doc; he long ago died to the fear of death, which makes one an interesting character. Pat has had a book on leadership published, and he has published others under an assumed name. He has long been a gun enthusiast and enjoyed shooting with his father and brother from around the age of fourteen. He has improved much thanks to military trainers, Olympians, and tips from Louis L’Amour and Doc. He graduated college after studying pre-medicine, became a registered nurse, and then worked as a nurse practitioner for thirty years. He was trained at the Cleveland Clinic. His practice involved caring for many terminally ill and disabled patients, and he was privileged to be with many as they died. As a result, he has many insights regarding the dying, the disabled, and their loved ones—forty years’ worth. He has indeed both cared for patients with consumption (tuberculosis) and helped perform nine hundred autopsies on patients, many with tuberculosis. He has studied history since he was eleven, especially WWI and WWII aviators and aircraft, the War Between the States, and the West. He has long been a fan of Doc Holliday and has read extensively on Doc over the past forty years. He researched Doc and his intimate friends, gathering facts from twenty-five or more books on Doc and his times. He lived and practiced in the South for four years and loves Georgia. So this book is a combination of fact and lived experience as a health care provider with an increasingly debilitating illness. He was also a military officer for a time. His “best friends” are Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and Doc. Too bad they are dead—they have been sterling examples and mentors.

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© 2017 Patrick Gillen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/15/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0632-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0633-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0631-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913204

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by NASB permissionpermission.

Bible verses from American Standard Version.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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CONTENTS

Dedication & Reflections

Prologue

Introduction

Chapter 1     My Youth

Chapter 2     Youth To Man

Chapter 3     The Dentist

Chapter 4     Banished To An Exile Out West

Chapter 5     Gone To Texas

Chapter 6     Western Vagabond

Chapter 7     Dodge City

Chapter 8     Tombstone

Chapter 9     Denver, Pueblo, Trinidad, Silverton, And Deadwood

Chapter 10   Leadville

Chapter 11   Denver And Wyatt

Chapter 12   Glenwood

Chapter 13   Good-Byes And Death

Chapter 14   Walk A Mile In Doc’s Shoes

Chapter 15   Dentistry In The 1870S And 1880S

Chapter 16   Medications In Use In Doc’s Time

Chapter 17   Weapons In Doc’s Day

Chapter 18   Conclusion By Doc

Epilogue

References

DEDICATION & REFLECTIONS

This book is dedicated to all those with a chronic illness, disability, or terminal illness and to their loving families, friends, and caretakers. But first of all, I dedicate it to my own sweet Hungarian beauty, Dolores Gillen, who is beautiful in every way. She is my partner, caregiver, and wife, who understands and loves me.

I wrote this novel in honor of John H. Holliday, DDS, a gentleman, man of honor, excellent practitioner of dentistry, and victim of consumption.

A colonel in the medical corps once told me, You know, we doctors, nurses, and technicians—medics—give our whole lives to helping others. When one of us is struck down by a chronic or terminal disease, it just seems wrong. I can hardly bear it.

After forty years as a health care provider I was disabled by a disease. I could no longer work. My first thought was to hang myself the next day while my family was at work. I loved my profession and had planned to keep at it until age seventy-two, but I was pronounced finished at fifty-eight. I have several very severe diseases that make me hypoxic, which means I do not get enough air, and dizzy. I have a chronic cough. I often fall down due to weakness and so need a cane constantly. I fluctuate between red faced with fevers, night sweats, and daytime chills, and I always am light-headed. I am very dizzy at times, and sometimes I cannot think as clearly as I want, speak as clearly as I would like, nor hear as well as I otherwise would from sheer exhaustion.

I prayed to God and said, Why? and God seemed to say, These forty years were for you, to help you see you are an okay person—flawed, a sinner, but my child—and I have work for you to do now. Take up your cross and follow me.

I am now sixty-six. During these eight years since I have been exiled from my profession and the health care community, I have gone through bouts of severe depression. I have been so morbid at times that my wife couldn’t bear the pain of being near me. I fly into rages at times when I don’t mean to or want to, I guess because I am so unable to do what I used to do. I am embarrassed by my growing lack of coordination and growing weakness. I am barely able to care for myself and sometimes must go a day or two without a bath or shave or miss meals as I simply cannot stand long enough to cook or bathe or walk. The only thing that stops the occasional severe coughing fit, in which I cough so much that I cannot catch my breath, is a sip of whiskey.

By the way, whiskey contains enough calories to keep a very sick person alive for quite a while. In the past, it was used for that very reason for people too nauseated to eat; it was called spiritus frumenti. A common cause of nausea is the taste of blood; it can actually worsen the illness. It makes a person weak, and if a person coughs up enough blood, he or she may swallow an amount sufficient to cause an electrolyte imbalance, which affects thinking. Take it from me: blood’s coppery taste does not contribute to a good appetite. The growing exhaustion from being ill is very hard to bear. It seems unbelievable and frustrating. The more pain, shortness of breath, and dizziness there is, the more it seems that another few pounds is added to your shoulders.

So weekly, or monthly, or yearly, one is burdened further by the disease, and this fatigue makes it a challenge to do even minimal things at times. This is very frustrating and makes it easy to become morbid or grow angry—especially when few around you make the effort to understand.

I have very few friends as I simply don’t get out as I used to. I cannot go visit friends and family as I would like. A three-hour drive leaves me exhausted for days. I have lost friends some due to morbid talk or bouts of anger, and many for seemingly no reason. Some choose not to talk with me as they see how I have gone from a healthy man to a pale version of myself, dragging myself along with a cane or clinging to a walker or wall. I stagger like a drunk and drop my food on my chest. Some of us who cannot get about or do as we would like gain weight and are seen as fat good-for-nothings. Some are robbed of appetite and are seen as skinny weaklings, prey for bullies.

On the other hand, I have been almost always happy these last few years. My faith and closeness to God has grown. My wife and I are closer than ever; my Hungarian beauty, like Doc’s, nurses me back to health during bad times and whispers words of hope to me.

Most of my family is supportive and visits, writes, or calls me often. Most of my remaining friends call me Doc. People who work in the military, if they are good at caring for others—be they a sergeant or a colonel—are affectionately called Doc.

Dr. John H. Holliday, DDS, was a young man whose loving mother had died of tuberculosis. To fulfill the necessary requirements before he could have his own practice after graduating school, he worked for a year with an established dentist, who then died of tuberculosis. Doc later had a partner who died of tuberculosis, followed by an adopted Mexican brother, Hidalgo, who died of consumption as well, leaving wife and children behind.

When a friend broke the news that Doc himself had it, he knew he had been given a death sentence. Consumption was, I believe, the number-one killer in those days and often attacked relatively young people.

The profession he had given so much time to and that he was so good at, his reason for living, was being taken away, as was his life. I know quite well the sense of tremendous loss that accompanies this.

He was told to go west to a drier climate and complied, I believe as much to avoid his beloved cousins Mattie and Robert and other cousins, uncles, and aunts, perhaps out of a fear of passing the death sentence on to them. He needed and cared about them the most. This was just a few years before tuberculosis was determined to be extremely contagious. Doc never told many people he had it until years later as he knew they would beg him to allow them to help him. In addition, he left because he was a health care professional, and we are used to obeying our doctors’ orders.

It is funny how an educated medical person can refuse to give up his independence even when he most needs to, often saying, I don’t want to be a burden.

It is hard to make new friends when one is seen to be ill. Even in this twenty-first century, people still fear that whatever it is might be contagious and avoid the afflicted person. It was much more so in the late 1800s, especially in the case of consumption, when a person was called a lunger. I remember that, when I was a young child, people would sneak past the houses where people had consumption. I remember some people whispering as if the consumptive had committed a grave sin. I had friends who were terrified of catching cancer. Some still associate illness with punishment from God, much like poor Job in the Bible. His three friends tried to convince him to confess his sins and repent so God could forgive him. Job had not sinned; the Devil had attacked him and God allowed it as He knew how loving and faithful Job was. Sometimes illnesses and symptoms are a test to see if we will still love God if things go badly and He doesn’t seem to hear our cries for help. Can we still love Him when, like Jesus, we embrace sufferings as a source for helping others? He only allows such tests to those of whom He is proud and confident.

God is far too loving to simply give an illness. People usually bring them on themselves through their choices or circumstances. Many don’t realize the consequences of choices even as simple as living in a humid climate. Sometimes He allows it because we believe and are very strong in faith and determined to let nothing stand in our way. The great thing is that God never deserts us; He stays with us to the end and beyond. And eternal life awaits.

Doc’s up-and-down relationship with Kate Harony, his common-law wife, can also be explained by his feelings of anger or depression as he could not be a better person for her and at times likely lost his temper. It is hard for people to watch their loved ones get sicker by the day. Kate is said by many to have been a prostitute. Does that make her bad, evil, or low?

When my brother was born prematurely, he needed a special formula, and the economy at that time wasn’t great. Mom and Dad sacrificed much for him, yet there wasn’t always enough money for everything. Two prostitutes lived next door, and they came over to have coffee with Mom. Mom at first didn’t know; she was naive. She only knew that they were friendly and kind to her. They would beg to hold my brother and just loved doing so. They had hopes for a better future, with love, marriage, and so on. They would leave money to pay for my brother’s formula and Mom would refuse it, but they would say that they were his aunts and it made them happy to do it and to visit Mom, who was unbiased, and to hold my brother. To be honest, it appears that many ladies of the night are understanding and kind. Many do get married and quit their profession. Doc so hated himself for the times Kate sold her body to bring in money. God gave Doc Holliday a loyal lover and friend in Kate. We all need at our lowest times to be embraced, loved, kissed on the forehead, and held by a warm body.

Doc also became part of a new family in his friend Wyatt Earp and his brothers. Wyatt was a true friend who saw Doc as his dear friend with consumption, not just as a consumptive, as it appears most everyone else did. Wyatt saw more than those who judged him based on only one meeting where he was frustrated, scared, lonely, or angry over his disease. So two men became long-time, loyal, trusting friends who truly enjoyed being together regardless of circumstance. In fact, in a real sense, Doc Holliday did become part of Wyatt Earp’s family. They seemed to bring out the best in each other.

My daughter once said, Dad, you can be in the midst of anger or frustration or sorrow, and yet when someone calls needing help, you are so friendly and upbeat. I was and am for the most part. My focus, like Doc Holliday’s, was on what was good, honorable, and kind. So when dealing with others who were patients, strangers, or friends, I could be very friendly and encouraging. But it is also true that when I’m under a lot of pressure due to illness, if I am sworn at, called an SOB, or otherwise provoked, I can fly into a rage ready to step out into the street and defend my honor or that of a friend or family member. I am sure many of us are like this, especially those in the military and health care professions—as well as those bearing the daily burden, without respite, of a disabling illness.

I have read many books about Doc Holliday, but none were written by someone who has symptoms like he did and so understands what a chronic, disabling, perhaps terminal illness can do to a person. Far too many simply judge him to be a mean man or one with a bad temper. They have not lived with and through such circumstances. Others simply label him a drunk or weakly sissy boy. Some seem to imply he was cursed by God and so should be condemned and picked on; they imply he used his illness as an excuse or a crutch. Others picked on him as they will anyone weaker than themselves. Some actually wrote libelous statements, with a bit too much license, in books to gain fame and fortune.

I was a medical researcher for more than thirty years, in addition to serving ten years in the military. I had to take a test to qualify to be a researcher annually. I have learned that if you read twelve to twenty articles and only one or two disagree, that one or those two are usually in error. Reading closely can usually lead to the cause for the false conclusion.

This book looks at how Doc coped with the disabling, terminal illness while trying to preserve his sense of honor and independence and avoid being a burden. This revelation is of key importance to understanding John Holliday.

Whoever you are, some will love and admire you, and some will hate you. Most Democrats have nothing good to say about Republicans, and many Republicans have little good to say of Democrats. Most thieves, arsonists, murders, dope dealers, pimps, and toughs have little if anything good to say about our peace officers. As in any group of people, a few peace officers are bad, but the vast majority are good, dedicated professionals willing to put their lives on the line for others—the defenseless, women, children, and those who seek to improve things and enforce the law.

As a child of four, I was ill to the point of death, as well as once as a twenty-one year old. Once I recovered, I no longer cared about living. Each hardship just caused me to reflect on the fact I could, in fact, die, so there was no sense in worrying about it. It ruins too many good days. I had nearly no friends or family support. On some days, I reflected that I would rather be dead anyway. One who almost dies has nothing to fear or lose.

By facing it and not letting it break me down, death held nothing over me. And that condition makes a person a very dangerous enemy or a great friend, one who would gladly risk anything for another. It is a strange dichotomy: one moment, death strikes fear into a person, and the next moment, it emboldens the same person.

Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday suggested that Bat Masterson, and many politically opposed newspaper editors and those in league with the Cowboys, wrote many unsavory things about Doc. It appears that both told and wrote stories that were not entirely true. I take sides with Doc and Wyatt. To any who feel offended, I say, I’ll be your huckleberry. By the way, although I’m terrible with cards and I sip whiskey on occasion for that cursed cough (takes me one year to go through one bottle), I can in under two seconds draw and shoot the heart out of the ace of hearts at twenty-five yards. Like Doc, I use two guns, which is quite an advantage since it is twice the firepower and I can shoot in two directions at once.

I provided health care to thousands of patients over forty years. I saw many people with terminal illnesses die—some with great fear, some with anger, some bargaining with God for more time, some in denial, and some with acceptance and peace. I saw one man gnashing his teeth and crying, Get them off me! He seemed to be experiencing hell as he was dying. I saw many others die with joy and peace. One told us as he came out of several states of unconsciousness, It is beautiful over there, with a gleaming smile. He was at that time completely coherent and had all his faculties.

I assisted with nine hundred autopsies, so I have seen death up close. My daughter nearly died of leukemia, and I had a dangerous precancerous lesion of the eye and heart tissues. My mother, nephew, and aunts died of cancer; all are much loved and missed.

I have talked to those who knew they were dying—most do without being told. I have casually walked into their rooms, sat down, and said, How are you doing with this? They responded with a big smile for they believed I accepted them and understood and that they could talk to me. What I am about to write is based on thousands of terminally ill patients and on myself, as I have brushed close to death more than once and have lived with a disabling illness for eight years now. That is why I wrote this book. I felt that this part of