17 years ago, one of my closest friends put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Why? I have no idea. I can only assume that it was from some deep seated depression that he never discussed, never let come to the surface. Oh there were plenty of times for it to come up as we spent most of our days together studying for exams, dissecting cadavers, and peering through microscopes. He and I would talk about what life would be like after the big day when we would turn in our short white coat (traditionally worn by medical students) for the regality of the long one. Graduation was but a few short years away and man, were we ready for it.
But only one of us made it.
The thing I regret most is that I never got to say goodbye. One day he was here, the next he was not. There are still so many questions I have surrounding that time that will remain unanswered. Why did he do it? Why didn't he come to me for help? Why did he think life was so terrible that death was a better option? He was obviously tortured by some silent demon, a dark and petulant creature filling his head with falsehoods. He let these thoughts control and twist his perception of reality. That was the only way this could have happened.
At your funeral, I could not bear to have you leave. As I squeezed my eyes tighter, I thought I could keep your essence here if I just concentrated hard enough. I was so focused on the hurt, the anger, the sadness that I missed the beautiful, soft violin playing in the background. Bach's Ave Maria slowly seemed to grow louder in my consciousness forcing me to open my eyes and pay attention.
Pay attention to the fact that you were gone and you were not coming back.
Pay attention to the fact that even though you were gone, there were others that were still HERE.
Pay attention to the fact that I must go on. For both of us.
As that soft melody drifted through the church, I couldn't help but feel your spirit floating higher and higher with each note. Without care or constraint, you were free at last from whatever mental anguish you harbored.
I miss you, my friend. Always have. Always will.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
A Letter To My Father on His Retirement
A Letter To My Father On HisRetirement
Dear Dad-
As I write this letter, you are in the final days of a 50+ year medicalpractice. I have been fortunate to have viewed your career througha very interesting lens. I have been able to see it as a son, a patient,a medical student, and finally a colleague. It is this latter view thathas allowed me to fully realize what a phenomenal career you havehad.
As your son, I saw a very busy father and husband. Working mostdays of the week, you were constantly bombarded with incompletecharts and insurance forms brought home to our kitchen table. Thelast thing you wanted to do after a busy day of work was MOREmedicine. With tiny slips of paper holding the phone numbers ofpatients who had left messages, you would systematically call eachone and spend as much time as needed to answer any and allquestions.
When all you wanted to do was watch the evening news, you werealways available to examine your children's friends, even when youwere not their doctor. From your Laz-E-Boy you would dashchildren's hopes for a day off of school with nothing more than aflashlight, a spoon, and a peek at their throat. You never grumbledabout needing to make phone calls to worried patients even whenthey interrupted our baseball games or birthday parties. We weren'tupset. We knew that was just part of who you were and what yourjob demanded. We didn't have full ownership of our father, evenwhen we should have.
I never really appreciated the fact that I didn't see a pediatriciangrowing up. You were the one to decide whether I had to go toschool and more times than not I was on the bus whether I felt like itor not. I can remember only a handful of times I was ever onantibiotics because you knew that medicine usage was to bereserved for only serious cases of infections.
Of course, then there were the catastrophes. You were there for mewhen I cut open my leg in a baseball dug out requiring minorsurgery (stitching up muscle and skin after a metal bar had sliced mythigh to the bone). You did that in your office...your office! As aphysician, I can appreciate that what you did then was somethingthat wouldn't happen in this day and age. You knew you could dothe job as well as the ER and without the hassles of filling out insurance forms or sitting with a hysterical 7 year old for hours on end.
Dear Dad-
As I write this letter, you are in the final days of a 50+ year medicalpractice. I have been fortunate to have viewed your career througha very interesting lens. I have been able to see it as a son, a patient,a medical student, and finally a colleague. It is this latter view thathas allowed me to fully realize what a phenomenal career you havehad.
As your son, I saw a very busy father and husband. Working mostdays of the week, you were constantly bombarded with incompletecharts and insurance forms brought home to our kitchen table. Thelast thing you wanted to do after a busy day of work was MOREmedicine. With tiny slips of paper holding the phone numbers ofpatients who had left messages, you would systematically call eachone and spend as much time as needed to answer any and allquestions.
When all you wanted to do was watch the evening news, you werealways available to examine your children's friends, even when youwere not their doctor. From your Laz-E-Boy you would dashchildren's hopes for a day off of school with nothing more than aflashlight, a spoon, and a peek at their throat. You never grumbledabout needing to make phone calls to worried patients even whenthey interrupted our baseball games or birthday parties. We weren'tupset. We knew that was just part of who you were and what yourjob demanded. We didn't have full ownership of our father, evenwhen we should have.
I never really appreciated the fact that I didn't see a pediatriciangrowing up. You were the one to decide whether I had to go toschool and more times than not I was on the bus whether I felt like itor not. I can remember only a handful of times I was ever onantibiotics because you knew that medicine usage was to bereserved for only serious cases of infections.
Of course, then there were the catastrophes. You were there for mewhen I cut open my leg in a baseball dug out requiring minorsurgery (stitching up muscle and skin after a metal bar had sliced mythigh to the bone). You did that in your office...your office! As aphysician, I can appreciate that what you did then was somethingthat wouldn't happen in this day and age. You knew you could dothe job as well as the ER and without the hassles of filling out insurance forms or sitting with a hysterical 7 year old for hours on end.
Through the years, I was spared the late night visits to the ER andthe long doctor's office waits. I never developed the fear of goingto see the doctor because I knew that the very important man in thewhite jacket would be tucking me in my bed that night. Safe andsound.
When I told you that I wanted to go to medical school during myfreshman year of college, you appreciated the gravity of thisdecision even when I did not. You knew that I had the intelligencefor medical school but you wanted to make sure that I had the otherintangible qualities that make a proper physician, ones that wouldearn the respect and love of peers and patients alike. Patience,dedication, and above all, compassion for others were keys to asuccessful career in medicine, ones that you had cultivated so well.So what you did was unconventional but highly effective. Youarranged for me to be a nurse's aide at the local hospital whereempathy and compassion was all I could offer. I knew nothing aboutmedicine so my experience was to be of pure service to others.Bathing the patient who had just had a stroke, cleaning up after thepatient who had stooled in his diaper, sitting with the dementedpatient who was too scared to be alone. It was a stroke of genius. IfI sank, you saved me years of struggle and potential discontent withmy job. If I couldn't enjoy what I was doing when I had noknowledge, how could I enjoy it years later when I had theeducation but potentially lacked the desire to continue to care? Butif I swam....yes, if I swam, well, then you knew I was doing it for allthe right reasons and I was well on my way to not just a profession,but a life of genuine altruism.
Once I completed medical school and residency, I came to rely onyour counsel for “the learning years” of my private practice. How doI deal with a family after the death of a patient? How do I balancehome life with the ongoing pressures with my time at work? How doI remain compassionate to those patients that drive me absolutelycrazy? You have helped me through every step of my life and havebeen the consummate role model for all of my life's endeavors. Youradvice has been invaluable to me and has shaped the doctor andperson I am today.
I now want to offer you some advice. As the sun sets on your career,I want you to realize how important YOU are. Not just as aphysician, which has been your persona for so long that you may notfeel as if you can separate it from who YOU truly are. YOU are awarm, caring, sensitive person who has been freed from the bondsof servitude. Go gently into retirement and start the rediscovery ofYOU. Rediscover dreams long since put on hold. Rediscoverrelationships neglected. Rediscover life and everything in it that has passed you by these 50 years.
Congratulations, Dad. You deserve every bit of relaxation coming toyou.
I love you.
Chris
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