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After Fathers' Day

On Fathers’ Day, I think of my father, Fred Harte, who died way before his time. He was 54 years old. He was one of the two reasons why I quit med school.

My dad was a real workaholic, leaving the house every day at 7:30 and coming back at 9 or 10, six days a week. Sunday mornings he would go out to do estimates. He had his own business, plate glass replacement and store front construction.

He was diagnosed with diabetes when he was 40, and had a mild heart attack the next year. 1973, he stayed home from work. Anyone who knew him knew that this was an extreme situation. He called his doctor, who was also a close friend. “”Don’t worry, Fred. It’s just the flu.” My father got the same answer on Day 2, 3 and 4. On the fourth night, my mother called the doctor, telling him that my father felt like there was a steam roller going over his chest, and that his lips and his nails were blue. The doctor did not tell my mother what it was (a heart attack), nor did he call an ambulance. He told my mother, who didn’t even drive, then, to get him to the hospital.

Of all the parts of Medicine, I do respect Emergency Medicine. (I’ve worked there, myself, in my orderly days.) They do save a lot of lives. But this emergency room, with these extremely obvious symptoms, did no cardiac procedures. They just put him on a gurney, gave him a shot of Demerol, and pushed him aside, where he died three hours later.

The doctor, his alleged friend, even lied on the death certificate, saying that he was at the house the night before.

Because of medical stupidity and indifference, Fred Harte’s life was cut short. He never got to meet his daughter-in-law, my wife, Carole. he never got to meet his grandson, Abraham. He never got to see me graduate chiropractic college and run a successful practice helping thousands over the years. But the medical stupidity and indifference forms only half of the story.

The other half of the story? He was massively subluxated, diminishing function of his heart and his pancreas. Knowing his traumatic history, I even did a paper on the making of his subluxations in chiropractic college.

How many fathers… and mothers, and children and sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews die before their time, and are sick and suffering along the way, because they were subluxated? What if they got chiropractic care?

Back pain? Fine, but that’s not life-threatening. Vertebral Subluxation Complex (VSC), is!

What if someone, who was under chiropractic care, told him, or my mother, or me?

Who will you tell? Consider what is really at stake. Thank you!

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