The strip mall medical clinic on Franklin Avenue in Minneapolis is a tangle of small offices and narrow corridors where a dedicated staff of 50 treats 4,500 people per year — the majority of them American Indians — for medical, dental and psychological problems.
A doctor who gave her all to the American Indian community retires
Retiring Dr. Lydia Caros has been the pediatrician to generations of children in Minneapolis.
February 4, 2017 at 4:19AM
It is there that Dr. Lydia Caros, pediatrician and co-founder of the Native American Community Clinic (NACC), presided for 13 years, committing her heart and skills to a needy population. Although she is white, some call her "mash-kiki ogema," Ojibwe for female medicine chief. She retired in December after more than three decades of improving the lives of countless patients, young and old.
"I have 10 kids and Dr. Caros treated every one of them," January Evans said as she sat in a small clinic room, waiting to have her son Hezikayh, 2, seen. "There's something about her. She's a good, caring person. The kids love her."
The American Indian clinic was born out of a crisis in 2002 when Caros, then medical director at the Indian Health Board in Minneapolis, was fired for speaking out in support of employees she felt were being mistreated. Two others who supported her, Dr. Carol Krush and Dr. Lori Banaszak, were also fired. Community members, led by Clyde Bellecourt of the American Indian Movement, staged demonstrations for a month.
At a community meeting attended by more than 300, residents encouraged the three physicians to start a new clinic.
"One by one they stood up and said how much it meant to them to keep us as their doctors," Caros recalled.
Building clinic from scratch
Last week, Caros was honored by some 75 people at a retirement party at an Indian art gallery. They reminisced about the tumultuous times, and the success that eventually emerged.
"It felt like we were standing at the edge of a very high cliff," she said at the party. "We didn't have a clue how we might go about this."
They raised over $100,000, including much from their own pockets, and scrounged up equipment including secondhand exam tables from a hospital.
Build it, they thought, and they would come. And they did.
"The community was wonderful," Caros said. "It felt like I had the spirit taking care of us the whole time. One of the first patients on the first day walked in and said, 'We're home.' "
Bellecourt praised Caros' selfless work and that of the two other doctors who started the clinic, who have since retired. "They were not only the lifeblood of our community, they were the life-givers," he says.
Including her time at the Indian Health Board, Caros, 63, has been doctoring in the neighborhood for 34 years. "Her work wasn't just about treating patients," says Zillehuma Hudda, chief finance director at NACC. "It was about supporting and advocating for the Native American community."
Fighting lead poisoning
In the 1980s, while employed at the health board, Caros did pioneering work, educating the medical and Indian community about the need to screen children for lead poisoning, which can cause brain damage, and pressed the city to get landlords to clean it up.
"She was a strong force for educating all of us about the problem of lead in the community and recommending aggressive treatment and follow-ups for children," says Dr. Marjorie Hogan, a pediatrician at Hennepin County Medical Center who teamed up with Caros over lead poisoning issues when Hogan worked at Children's Hospital.
Caros also became a major advocate for treating children with fetal alcohol syndrome (FAS).
"We knew our population was struggling with alcohol," she recalled. "Dr. Krush and I started screening every pregnant woman, asking them about their drinking. What we found to our horror was than 80 percent of the women were drinking during pregnancy." The clinic worked to find support for mothers, including treatment programs.
Advocating for others
Dr. Pi-Nian Chang, a retired pediatric psychologist at the University of Minnesota, said Caros became an integral part of a local medical team focused on FAS, training social workers, doctors and clinic staff how to identify families and deal with it. "She worked her heart out," Chang said.
Antony Stately, a psychologist who grew up in the neighborhood, has succeeded Caros as CEO at the clinic. The animosities have faded, and the clinic now has a collaborative relationship with the Indian Health Board.
Caros, the mother of two grown daughters — one a family and marriage therapist, the other an attorney — has written a book of poetry and is trying to publish a second one about her clinic experiences. She's currently in graduate school at Hamline University studying creative writing.
It's one of many passions. Over the course of her lifetime, she said, she has been arrested about 20 times in peaceful disobedience protests.
Now, Caros wants to take some time off before she decides what her next challenge will be.
"I want to do something meaningful," she said.
Randy Furst • 612-673-4224
Twitter: @randyfurst
From small businesses to giants like Target, retailers are benefitting from the $10 billion industry for South Korean pop music, including its revival of physical album sales.
