Doctor without whom New York would be voiceless

Press, 3 February 1986, Page 20

Doctor without whom New York would be voiceless

NZPA-NYT New York “Yes, I was Marilyn Monroe’s doctor,” said Dr Eugen Grabscheid, with a thick Viennese accent and a rotind mirror on his forehead. “She was some girl. She had terrible problems, of course. Sinus problems.” The office of Dr Grabscheid — ear, nose and throat man to the stars — grows bustling and occasionally loony at this time of year, as colds and influenza attack the vocal cords of New York’s vast singing community. “There would be no Broadway now without him,” said Elizabeth Franz, an actress, in the waiting room. “The opera would close!” proclaimed Vickie Phillips, a cabaret singer and another waiting patient. “Half our company is coming to see him,” said Ken Jenkins, a cast member of Big River.

“I feared I’d have to cancel,” said Jane Shaulls, from the New York City Opera. “But he’s a mir-

acle worker. Other doctors say rest, take medicine and come back in three days. He gets you on.” Opera divas make dramatic entrances, sweeping into the old, cluttered office on East 96th Street, tossing their furs and scarves to valets, then sputtering into the open arms of their beloved 82-year-old voice doctor.

Actors from Broadway, soap operas and television commercials crowd the waiting room, along with others whose livelihoods depend on their vocal cords: broadcast announcers, trial lawyers, classroom teachers and cantors, among them. Dr Grabscheid makes emergency calls backstage, restoring lost voices so that shows can go on. One prima donna flew back from London on the Concorde between performances to see him. Singers on the road call in from round the world, frantic for a cure. Some vocalists even ask

his advice on what parts they can sing. “The only performer not seeing him must be Marcel Marceau,” said Michael Feinstein, who is singing at the Algonquin Hotel and was referred to the doctor by “Liza and Chita” — Minnelli and Rivera — who told him not to be concerned by the appearance of either office or doctor. It seems the least Dr Grabscheid could do is slip on a white lab coat. Even the guys selling aspirin on televison do that. Instead the balding and bespectacled doctor wears a rumpled grey suit; blue Ultrasuede shirt; a wellworn, perhaps formerly yellow, cardigan sweater and running shoes. The office does not inspire confidence. Dr Grabscheid works out of the old office he has occupied for 45 years, which is dimly lighted (one 100watt bulb in the examination room) and cluttered. Without questioning its effectiveness, it could be .said that his equipment looks somewhat antiquated — less like state-of-the-art technology than machinery used in black-and-white movies for making laboratory monsters.

He often doles out medication not by prescription, but by pouring pills from a bottle into patients’ hands. The office is “a delightful little madhouse”, as one patient puts it, where the opera star Lucine Amara was seen on a ladder replacing a light bulb in the ceiling fixture. A young actress had last painted the office. ' “No doubt,” Pauline, his receptionist, said, “because the doctor thought he could save a few bucks. Our typewriter doesn’t work; he thinks that’s just fine.” She said one actor told her the office was better than any situation comedy on television. “Dummkopf!” Dr Grabscheid can be heard to yell at Pauline. “Quack!” Pauline, rather a spirited sort, replies. “Some patients must come just to get autographs,” said a man in the waiting room. “We get them all,” said Pauline, rattling off the first few names that came to mind: “Anthony Quinn, Matt Dillon, Bette Midler, Ashford and Simpson, Kenny Loggins, Donna Summer.” She picked up a' copy of “Opera News” and said all five singers on the cover were his patients: Ruggero Raimondi, Kathleen Battle, Carol Vaness, Thomas Allen and Frederica von Stade. Pauline sometimes has problems recognising the rock stars. When the singer named Meat Loaf came in, she referred to him as Meatballs. Dr Grabscheid said he had treated Sigmund Freud in Vienna, and that one of his favourite

patients was Vivien Leigh. Said Pauline, who does most of the talking for this doctor of few words: “Marilyn Monroe was always late. One time he stood her up. That’s the way he is.” The drab walls are festooned with festive Broadway show posters, autographed: “to Wonder Doc,” “the doctor of every girl’s dreams,” “My larynx thanks you,” and even, “Hope to see you soon.” There are also photographs of German shepherds, which he breeds.

The doctor, who lives with his wife in Tenafly, New Jersey, sees as many as 50 patients or more at this time of year in the 12-to-14-hour days he puts in. He does not break for lunch and rarely sits down.

He tells the receptionists, Linda Kastl and Pauline, that they are too fat to take time off for lunch, and he does not give them vacations. He admits he likes Pauline despite her “unreliability,” although she has not had a day off for three years. “You’d treat us better if we were German shepherds!” Pauline yells at him. “In spite of it all,” she said, “we love him.” She said the patients do, too, recalling that they had organised a birthday party for him and showed up wearing T-shirts with his picture on them.