Burned

I’ve just wrapped up another month at the burn center. My rotations at that little specialty ICU over the years have managed to coincide with some emotional times in my life, and as a result they’ve proved the starting place for some important revelations.

Burn victims have the potential to be some of the sickest patients in the whole hospital. But aside from just that, one of the most difficult things for the families and friends is the total disfiguration of their loved one. Your skin is your largest organ, and when it’s violently removed it can have a devastating effect. Just last night I was asked by a women where I might find her dearest friend in the world whom she had traveled to visit. I didn’t know what to say – she was standing right in front of him. But his face was missing, and the tracheostomy tube at the base of his neck was a gruesome reminder that we were performing for him the most basic of human needs – breathing.

How could this be? Her pain was so clear. Just last week he was fine, working long and happy hours at his store, spending time with his family. She’d seen his recent picture on Facebook – on her computer she could still see his precious face and look into his eyes and feel that trapped happiness that was more temporary than he could have ever imagined. How can change come this dramatically, and this quickly? How is that even possible?

I have no idea. But consider this. As I started to walk away another family member, from two rooms down, popped his head out and tried to get my attention. He’d spent many evenings here, and I’d spent plenty of time speaking with him and his sisters over the long month explaining all aspects of our care. “Hey Doc,” he said as his eyes locked on mine, “thanks for giving us our mom back. She looks terrific.”

In every possible sense, the burn center is a transformative place. I guess I just never imagined myself being transformed there. Then again, if this line of work didn’t change me somehow, I’d wonder if maybe I wasn’t missing something. Lord knows, I’ve missed plenty of things before.

Answers

Last night I went to the bar again. Alone. I drank beers and watched the hockey game. I wasn’t saying much of anything – just keeping to myself, as I have been. A part of me wanted to talk, but I didn’t have the courage or the energy. Furthermore I didn’t have the right person to talk too. I prayed for comfort and peace.

A woman came and sat down next to me. She wasn’t quite old enough to be my mother, but she was pretty close. She was dressed kind of like a rural hippie professional, and when she ordered wine and pulled out a stack of papers and a pen, it became obvious that she was college professor doing some late grading. She made some idle chitchat – I was polite, but kept my eyes fixed on my beer.

Not what I had in mind, I said to myself, in the hopes that God would hear me. I don’t think this is what I need at all.

And that’s when she started talking. She actually lived in NYC, and taught sociology. She was down here visiting her mother, who lay dying at a nearby hospital. She, her brother, her aunt, and the medical community seemed not to be on the same page with regards to their loved one’s final wishes. “Organizational death” as she called it, was a terrible thing to witness. She went to tell me that this particular bar was where her family gathered after he father died, and she quietly – though desperately – hoped that maybe by coming here this particular evening her mother would peacefully die a dignified death.

Somewhere in there I understood that maybe, just maybe, I was actually the answer to her prayer, and that perhaps I was what she needed in that moment of grief. And I realized further that maybe what I needed wasn’t so much the right person to talk to or the right set of words to say – what I needed was to feel wanted. And at that moment, in that bar, I had a strong sense that I was, in fact, needed, and that I had a definite purpose, and a future to fulfill.

Footsteps

I took a walk today. Though I’ve barely spoken all day, I figured I didn’t have to stay in one place either. So I boiled some water, made myself some chi, put on my warm coat and scarf – an old gift – and walked.

I spend a lot of time looking down when I walk. I always do, actually, but more so these days. It probably started because I’m tall, so I naturally do things to compensate for that. I slouch. I know I have a tendency to stand with my feet relatively far apart, effectively lowering my eyes closer to the height of whomever I’m speaking with. But I know that when I walk I often just stare down. And I can actually picture my feet in different places. I can picture the hallways of one of our hospitals late at night, staring at my feet as they carry me to the next task - exhausted. I can picture my sneakers in a city in Haiti, in the mud of the earth, taking me quickly past the poverty and to the clinic where I attempted to do some good. And today I looked at my feet as they carried me away from my home and outside – away, anywhere.

Eventually I looked up. I saw lots of couples walking, some dogs, runners, bikers, and geese, which I’m told can bite if you get too close. I kept my distance. I looked out at the river as I finished my tea, with the skyline rising behind it. It was the perfect recipe to smack me with the sense of loneliness I was trying to avoid by walking in the first place.

So I came home. At least, I think this is home.