Tag: story

To Let Go.

Despair.

Asphyxiated by the device
meant to grant you life

you pleaded to be released.

Lines running
through your veins
fighting to give you strength-

they only imprisoned you.

You-
always present
aware of the
commotion about you.

Bustling nurses
weeping children

through it all
your eyes were
locked onto mine.

“Help me let go” was your plea.

You grabbed my hand
shook your head

as if you knew this act
had been playing
long enough.

As if someone had
interrupted your journey
toward the place

you were meant to go.

So we released you.
Withdrew your tube
diminished your drips.

Severed the chains that bound you.

We comforted you.

You turned
toward your children.

Through a surge of strength
you assured them

it would be okay-
that through your going on
they would go on.

Then you turned back to me.

Though undeserving
of your last moments

you entrusted them to me.
You held my hand
held my gaze.

“Thank you,” was what you said.

And then you took your last breath.

And let us go.

 •       •       •

This patient has been in my heart lately. This post is a re-sharing of an account of our last encounter. A gentle reminder to treasure each moment given. 

 •       •       •

The Background Story

A Memory of Ground Beef.

Once when I was on a specialized heart failure service, I took care of a teenage boy. He had a form of idiopathic dilated cardiomyopathy and had a big heart…in, obviously, more ways than one.

He loved baseball, pumpkin pie, and horses. His family owned a farm, so before he got sick, he would often go horseback riding. He also loved to draw.

We—a team of five physicians—took care of him for a month while he was waiting for a heart transplant. He liked us. We liked him. So he drew us as well.

I thought he was clever. He thought I was even more so. All because he liked my joke:

“What do you call a cow with no legs?”

“Ground beef.”

That was it. He was just a great kid, trying his best to live the life given to him.

I found out recently that he passed away. And today I found the drawing he gave me. And I wept.

It used to be, that at the end of our visits, we would both say to each other, “Ground beef!” with a wink. It perplexed everyone else, but we knew exactly what we were talking about.

So here’s to you, dear buddy…

Ground beef 😉

A Blessed Christmas Tragedy.

A bustling hospital. An unexpected arrival. A frigid Christmas eve.

I was saying goodbye to another patient when fate collided us.

“I’m sorry father,” I heard his son say, “you can no longer live with us, but here is a nice doctor who will find you a home. Merry Christmas, dad.”

Pretending not to notice his son’s exasperation as he pleaded for him to stay, I choked down the anguish from my own awareness of what was being witnessed and proceeded to examine him. 

Bound to the prison of his seat—scared, bewildered, frail—he looked so lost. He asked why, what he did wrong, where his son had gone, not fully comprehending the chaos surrounding. A deep sigh escaped pursed lips as I searched within for an answer that failed to come. Taking his hands, contorted by disease, I gazed into eyes dulled by years gone by—their hope fading beneath a glimmer of fear of an iniquitous present and that of an unpromised future–and I made him a promise I wondered if I myself could keep. 

“It’s going to be okay…you’ll see.” 

But hours pass, and it was not okay—he couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t eat, and the only sound I heard as I passed the door of his half-vacant room was the resonance of muffled tears.

Behind a mask, I also let myself weep.

*    *    *

Soon the day ended. I entered his room, prepared to make my final rounds. But instead of a bid goodbye, what came out was an exclamation of the first words that came to my mind.

“Sir, I think we should have a party!”

And that was what we did.

A 90-year-old veteran. A 30-year-old internist. A 20-year-old nurse.

Gathered around his bed, over reconstituted hot cocoa, he shared with us his history, his joys, his life’s adventures. Over paper cups of chicken broth, I told him my story. As the muted treble of holiday cheer dripped through the bedside radio, together we heralded in, with bittersweetness, the arrival of Christmas Day.

He then took my hand.

As I started to apologize for the late hour, he stopped me. Eyes still glimmering, I heard him laugh, and I believed I finally caught a glimpse of what was the real him.

“Thank you for a blessed Christmas,” he said.

Yes.

A blessed one, indeed.

Little Luis.

 

• Monteagudo, Bolivia •

Meet little Luis– otherwise known as Puppydoc’s partner in crime. He was a regular visitor to the hospital, as his father had tuberculosis and was undergoing a long course of treatment. 

Since the hospital was a scary place for Luis, we always tried to make the visit pleasant for him. In short, what began as innocent playing quickly escalated to mischievousness as little Luis and Puppydoc discovered the treasure that was the hospital candy stash.

As you can imagine, the supply rapidly diminished into their tummies.

(But don’t worry; Puppydoc later replenished the stolen candy with a fresh stock of Dum Dums.)

😊

 bolivia-boy

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