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(1928 - 1978) By Robert P. Herwick, M.D. |
Francis Sullivan was born in Long island, New York, the son of an Irish immigrant father who was in the dry goods buisiness. His mother died when Frank was quite young and he was never particularly encouraged to pursue higher education. This he did on his own. He was involved in the Arts and Theater from an early age and at the same time showed a remarkable intellectual ability in early school. He received a scholarship to Cornell University in Ithaca, NY, where he gravitated towards the sciences and later, pre-medical studies. Interestingly, while at Cornell he discovered wrestling and became a member of the varsity wrestling team, an interest which he would carry with him in later years.
Frank matriculated to Cornell Medical School in Manhattan. During his four years of med school he re-established his connections with the Art World of New York and actually helped support his studies in this manner. After graduating, he went on to a residency in Internal Medicine at Minot North Dakota in the US Air Force and after realizing that what he really wanted to do was Dermatology, was accepted to a position in the residency program of UCSF. He arrived in San Francisco in 1958 and immediately became re-involved with the Art and Theater community of San Francisco. Over the ensuing years he was the physician to the Geary and Curran Theaters and became part owner of the "Little Theater" which had it's heyday in this city in the 1960's and 70's.
Being a man of many talents and interests, Frank became team physician to the Olympic Club Wrestling Team and traveled with them to the Olympic Games in Munich in 1972.
During these years he made his first visit to Rome and immediately fell in love with that Eternal City and with all things Italian. He began to study Italian and to take increasingly frequent trips to Rome, decorating his Union Street apartment with all manner of Italian artifacts, modern art and religious articles. The restrained Irish soul had been reborn with an Italian heart and his life changed forever. He began a quest to start a dermatology practice in Rome, to provide that city with a much-needed English-speaking well-trained dermatologist. In order to qualify for an Italian medical license he quickly learned that he would have to do a full year of internship: something that would have made keeping his practice alive in San Francisco impossible. One day he was having lunch in a Roman tratoria with the chief of police, who had become part of his widening circle of friends there. By sheer coincidence, sitting at the next table was the Minister of Medicine who had the power to grant a medical license and who also just happened to be the best friend of the chief of police. After all his years of bureaucratic dead ends, he had his license within weeks—no internship required. Frank then began many years of practicing three months at his San Francisco 450 Sutter St. office and then three months at his office in Rome on the Via Gregoriana. There his medical office doubled as his living quarters, the patient examination room becoming a dining room for his many dinner parties. He became closely involved with the art world in Rome and hung out with a most interesting crowd which included Gore Vidal among other characters. Whenever he returned from San Francisco to Rome he would fill his suitcase with as many sample drugs and creams as he could fit. These were simply unavailable in Italy and in those days very few things dermatological were obtainable from pharmacies. He managed to offer the English speaking community of Rome, and many Italians as well, a United States style medical practice which was conducted with the bare rudiment of modern equipment and medicaments. The fact that an Irishman was able to pull this off in a country as pazzo and wonderful as Italy was a true miracle and a delight to behold for any visitor.
Francis J. Sullivan was the most non-materialistic selfless
person I have ever met. One time when my wife and I were staying in his
apartment when I was about to return to San Francisco from my two year
stint in the Air Force, he returned from Rome to move back in as we moved
out. After consuming the obligatory bottle of Tuscan red which accompanied
him, we were about to leave when my wife complimented him on a rather valuable
Whistler lithograph which was hanging on the wall. Without a second of
hesitation he took it down and gave it to her. There was no refusing this
or any other gift: he simply had no attachment to any possession that even
approached his attachment to his friends. One learned not to admire any
of his possessions or one found oneself forthwith to be its new owner.
All of this proceeded from a spiritual side to Frank,
about which an entire book could be written. He truly lived on a higher
plane and this quality literally radiated from him like an aura. It is
no wonder he had so many friends and disciples who absolutely adored him.
Frank died of a liver ailment the day before his 50th birthday, having endured a long and painful plane flight a few days before to be able to die in his beloved San Francisco. Hardly a day goes by when his name doesn't arise in a conversation with a former patient, a friend or an Olympic Club member. The mark he made on this town will not soon be expunged, nor will his friendship to so many soon be forgotten.