It’s one thing to feel sad, and to be upset, and to cry. It’s another thing altogether to confront those feelings. In the absence of being able to properly confront them, sometimes just taking a good long look in the mirror gets the job done.
The other day I did just that. Blood-shot eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and unshaven chin, I thought long and hard about the person staring back at me. I tried to look into my eyes but it was too painful, and felt unnaturally awkward. So my eyes strayed to my cheeks. I stared at them because there was nothing else to stare at. And I noticed something peculiar – a large, ingrown hair, slinking under my skin. It was nearly completely unnoticeable, but in the absence of anything else to do – that is, except more crying – I felt the urge to rip it out. So I picked, and clawed, and scratched…all to no avail. This just won’t do, I said to myself. I’m a surgeon – I have better ways.
The next day I found an unused disposable scalpel at the hospital. Perfect, I thought. I slipped it in my pocket and hurried home after the day had ended.
I brought my face close to the mirror and strained my eyes to focus on that spot as best I could. I caught a glimpse of those same eyes in the mirror – there were no more tears or blood-red capillaries. Only rage, and obsession. Perhaps this is progress.
I unsheathed the blade and held it up close to my skin, and marveled at the cool steel as it reflected the bathroom light. My eyes were angled such that I was straining to focus the blade and my skin in the mirror – I saw two of everything. I tried to steady my hands against each other and against my face, but they were shaking rather significantly. Not good for a surgeon. I had to focus. I brought the scalpel closer, focused my eyes, and steadied my hands. I let out a long breath.
And I cut.
And then I cut again. And then a few more times. Every stroke took off a little more skin, and shed just a few more blood cells, and came that much closer to exposing that damned ingrown hair. And it burned with every pass. It stung. It was real pain – but it was pain I was controlling. And for a moment – a precious moment – it was all the pain in the world, and all of my pain too. No other pain mattered. And I alone controlled it.
It was finished. The hair was exposed. Out it came, and into the trash went the scalpel. I caught my breath and looked back into the mirror. My eyes were hollow. My face was scared. And I am still alone, though more hideous than ever.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Drowning
Today it’s raining rather hard. The sky is unusually light for the amount of rain that’s falling. Walking in, I stood and stared skyward, stretched out my arms, and tried to open my eyes. There was water all around me – soaking my cloths, falling up my nose, getting into my eyes. The light grey clouds above almost seemed like a place I could escape to.
I read an article the other day about an elite surfer. He described what happens when you wipe out on a really big, serious wave. You go under violently, of course, but then the wave keeps pummeling you while you’re underwater. You open your eyes and look up, and the blazing sun dances its way through the ocean, reminding you of the peace and safety above. But you can’t get there – you have to endure and take your beating until the wave has passed and you can surface. The trick of it all is that you have to be strong enough to not drown until your pummeling is over with.
Recently I’ve been taking a beating like I’ve never felt before. I don’t know exactly when I fell off the really big wave, though I know now that I am surely underwater. I’m taking my licks as best I can. But I’m beginning to feel as though I’m drowning.
I stood outside today so I could look upward, and pretend I could see a light, and know that there was something up above that offered peace and safety. The trick of it all is that I need to be strong enough to not drown in the meantime.
I guess time will tell. But for right now, between me and you, I’m getting close to closing my eyes, opening my mouth, and taking in a big, final, breath of water.
Fortunately for me a car drives by and startles me. I walk into the ICU where sick patients need me. The rain beats against the windows – a reminder of the wave that is still crushing my heart.
I read an article the other day about an elite surfer. He described what happens when you wipe out on a really big, serious wave. You go under violently, of course, but then the wave keeps pummeling you while you’re underwater. You open your eyes and look up, and the blazing sun dances its way through the ocean, reminding you of the peace and safety above. But you can’t get there – you have to endure and take your beating until the wave has passed and you can surface. The trick of it all is that you have to be strong enough to not drown until your pummeling is over with.
Recently I’ve been taking a beating like I’ve never felt before. I don’t know exactly when I fell off the really big wave, though I know now that I am surely underwater. I’m taking my licks as best I can. But I’m beginning to feel as though I’m drowning.
I stood outside today so I could look upward, and pretend I could see a light, and know that there was something up above that offered peace and safety. The trick of it all is that I need to be strong enough to not drown in the meantime.
I guess time will tell. But for right now, between me and you, I’m getting close to closing my eyes, opening my mouth, and taking in a big, final, breath of water.
Fortunately for me a car drives by and startles me. I walk into the ICU where sick patients need me. The rain beats against the windows – a reminder of the wave that is still crushing my heart.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
End of the Line?
You can’t make this stuff up.
This morning – after an early trip to the OR for a stab wound – as I was running around trying to get some of the paperwork together, a familiar tune came on over the hospital loudspeaker. It was Brahms’s Lullaby. And, as in this case in most hospitals, that means that a baby had just been born. It’s obviously a very calming song, and it usually has a very calming effect on me. And that effect is often magnified during a morning such as this one, where I had just participated in the care of someone who had suffered a violent injury. To be fighting death and yet be reminded of new life is a wonderful thing. But this morning, I confess, I was jealous.
I was jealous of the mother as she realized a new life had been created inside her. I was jealous of the father as he watched his wife deliver a child. I was jealous of the hopes, fears, dreams, and challenges that a baby brings. I was most jealous – can you believe this? – of the look my wife would give me right before things got really serious. It’s the look that says “can I do this? Is this real?” and the look I give back that says “of course you can do this – this is our child.”
I thought lunch might help my hurt. But after sitting down two unusual things happened. First, my colleague pulled out his phone and started showing pictures of his one-year-old baby boy. And then, right on cue, a whole train of pregnant women and their husbands came into the cafeteria. It seems they were getting a tour of the hospital, so that they and their families would be well-acquainted with the facilities during that emotional time. They were happy, nervous, and anxiously looking around, taking it all in.
That day – the day when I get to walk around the hospital, or look into my wife’s eyes, or hear the music – that day feels further away from me right now than it ever has before. It’s a day, I’m beginning to realize, that may never come at all.
And that is a horrible thing to feel.
This morning – after an early trip to the OR for a stab wound – as I was running around trying to get some of the paperwork together, a familiar tune came on over the hospital loudspeaker. It was Brahms’s Lullaby. And, as in this case in most hospitals, that means that a baby had just been born. It’s obviously a very calming song, and it usually has a very calming effect on me. And that effect is often magnified during a morning such as this one, where I had just participated in the care of someone who had suffered a violent injury. To be fighting death and yet be reminded of new life is a wonderful thing. But this morning, I confess, I was jealous.
I was jealous of the mother as she realized a new life had been created inside her. I was jealous of the father as he watched his wife deliver a child. I was jealous of the hopes, fears, dreams, and challenges that a baby brings. I was most jealous – can you believe this? – of the look my wife would give me right before things got really serious. It’s the look that says “can I do this? Is this real?” and the look I give back that says “of course you can do this – this is our child.”
I thought lunch might help my hurt. But after sitting down two unusual things happened. First, my colleague pulled out his phone and started showing pictures of his one-year-old baby boy. And then, right on cue, a whole train of pregnant women and their husbands came into the cafeteria. It seems they were getting a tour of the hospital, so that they and their families would be well-acquainted with the facilities during that emotional time. They were happy, nervous, and anxiously looking around, taking it all in.
That day – the day when I get to walk around the hospital, or look into my wife’s eyes, or hear the music – that day feels further away from me right now than it ever has before. It’s a day, I’m beginning to realize, that may never come at all.
And that is a horrible thing to feel.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Abandonment
A “friend’s” brother has a dog – a funny looking dog – who was apparently left as a puppy. When you leave the dog alone, even for a bit, he goes crazy – barking, jumping up into the window to see you leave. It’s said. The poor dog has a fear of abandonment. He was left as a puppy, and now he’s afraid anyone who takes care of him or loves him or whom he loves will leave him for good.
Another friend of mine – an old teacher/priest – once said that, after observing plenty of people face death, that the only thing that seems to matter is how well you have loved and how well others love you.
Relationships are complex, for sure. And mistakes happen. But strong relationships are supposed to endure. They endure because they matter. Because the people involved care. Because when you commit to something, you stay committed. That’s supposed to matter.
When those commitments fall short, people get hurt. When they are terminated, people get destroyed. And that destruction takes its form in the feeling of abandonment. The feeling of being completely left alone by the one you love, and the one who used to love you. It’s terrifying how thoroughly you can be hurt by someone.
I’m the dog barking crazily. I’m a dog! I’m looking at the window at anybody I’m close to as they walk away, even if I know it’s just for a little while. I’ve now been abandoned.
Another friend of mine – an old teacher/priest – once said that, after observing plenty of people face death, that the only thing that seems to matter is how well you have loved and how well others love you.
Relationships are complex, for sure. And mistakes happen. But strong relationships are supposed to endure. They endure because they matter. Because the people involved care. Because when you commit to something, you stay committed. That’s supposed to matter.
When those commitments fall short, people get hurt. When they are terminated, people get destroyed. And that destruction takes its form in the feeling of abandonment. The feeling of being completely left alone by the one you love, and the one who used to love you. It’s terrifying how thoroughly you can be hurt by someone.
I’m the dog barking crazily. I’m a dog! I’m looking at the window at anybody I’m close to as they walk away, even if I know it’s just for a little while. I’ve now been abandoned.
Mistaken Identity
We’ve all heard stories about mistaken identity in the medical world. A patient gets the wrong procedure, or the wrong medication, or the wrong study…I can’t say I’ve ever been involved in anything even remotely serious – at least, not that I’m aware of – but I’ve had a few stumbles. I’ve had to ask patients which side we’re operating on, or make sure we’re doing the right surgery – it’s all part of the checks built into the system.
Just this morning I was trying to find a patient before the OR. The nurse handed me the chart and pointed to an elderly woman in a stretcher. There’s your pre-op, she said kindly. I opened the chart and started reading as I walked. Suddenly the chart was taken out of my hands and a new one put in its placed. Sorry, the nurse said, this is the correct chart. She gave a sheepish smile. No worries.
Yesterday afternoon I got an email that made me stop dead in my tracks and break out in a cold sweat. The title of the email was simply my last time, and the body of the email was a forward with several correspondences. I didn’t recognize the return address, but it seemed like he wanted me to review a conversation. He was a lawyer, a “family defense” lawyer. It seemed that his client – who shared my last name – was being sued for divorce by his wife. The emails were a series of conversations between lawyers who were trying to clarify the ugly details. Somehow it got forwarded to me by mistake.
I read it again. And again. And again. And every time my heart raced faster and my face got more flushed. This isn’t supposed to be me, right? Are lawyers trying to find me? Is my wife suing me? My heart was drowning myself out. No, it was clearly an accident – right? – check the names again. It’s just a mistake, but one that stung more than most accidents are capable of. It hurts to even think of it. It wasn’t me. Relax! It wasn’t me! But so close. Too close.
It’s a funny thing, to have your identify mistaken. And it’s odd to realize the different levels that it can be hurtful. There’s the simple insult of being confused with someone else. But there is also hurt in confronting the confused situation. Is it better or worse than my life? Is it too close to home? Is it possibly knife-piercing foreshadowing?
I hate being confused. I hate confusing others. Know me for who I am. And let me know you for who you are. Then, finally, there will be peace.
Just this morning I was trying to find a patient before the OR. The nurse handed me the chart and pointed to an elderly woman in a stretcher. There’s your pre-op, she said kindly. I opened the chart and started reading as I walked. Suddenly the chart was taken out of my hands and a new one put in its placed. Sorry, the nurse said, this is the correct chart. She gave a sheepish smile. No worries.
Yesterday afternoon I got an email that made me stop dead in my tracks and break out in a cold sweat. The title of the email was simply my last time, and the body of the email was a forward with several correspondences. I didn’t recognize the return address, but it seemed like he wanted me to review a conversation. He was a lawyer, a “family defense” lawyer. It seemed that his client – who shared my last name – was being sued for divorce by his wife. The emails were a series of conversations between lawyers who were trying to clarify the ugly details. Somehow it got forwarded to me by mistake.
I read it again. And again. And again. And every time my heart raced faster and my face got more flushed. This isn’t supposed to be me, right? Are lawyers trying to find me? Is my wife suing me? My heart was drowning myself out. No, it was clearly an accident – right? – check the names again. It’s just a mistake, but one that stung more than most accidents are capable of. It hurts to even think of it. It wasn’t me. Relax! It wasn’t me! But so close. Too close.
It’s a funny thing, to have your identify mistaken. And it’s odd to realize the different levels that it can be hurtful. There’s the simple insult of being confused with someone else. But there is also hurt in confronting the confused situation. Is it better or worse than my life? Is it too close to home? Is it possibly knife-piercing foreshadowing?
I hate being confused. I hate confusing others. Know me for who I am. And let me know you for who you are. Then, finally, there will be peace.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Community
An old teacher of mine – a friend, really – once reminisced on a job interview he had at a new school. And he remembers feeling this: that what made this particular school special was that he had an overwhelming sense that this would be a wonderful place to experience a tragedy.
It’s an odd notion to have during a first impression, maybe, but it’s an important feeling to have. Oftentimes it might be a school, or a church, or a workplace. But let me say this: it is also a wonderful thing to experience that feeling in a person.
I see a lot of tragedy at work. And I see a lot of different family dynamics take on that tragedy. I see people dying in the most dignified way, with their families and loved ones all around. And I see people dying who desperately want to keep fighting, and keep living. And I see people dye alone, without anyone there to love them except some doctors and nurses.
I often think – what will my death look like? Who will be there? I’m sure plenty of folks will stop by or be sad for a bit – but who will really be there with me? Holding my hand, and tying to make me happy, even at the last? And who wants me to be there at her death? Who really wants me there, offering my love, and my support? Anyone?
For a combination of reasons, I slept well last night. And I slept on my left, of all things, and even woke up that way. And today, for the first time in a long time, I felt just a little bit like myself.
It’s an odd notion to have during a first impression, maybe, but it’s an important feeling to have. Oftentimes it might be a school, or a church, or a workplace. But let me say this: it is also a wonderful thing to experience that feeling in a person.
I see a lot of tragedy at work. And I see a lot of different family dynamics take on that tragedy. I see people dying in the most dignified way, with their families and loved ones all around. And I see people dying who desperately want to keep fighting, and keep living. And I see people dye alone, without anyone there to love them except some doctors and nurses.
I often think – what will my death look like? Who will be there? I’m sure plenty of folks will stop by or be sad for a bit – but who will really be there with me? Holding my hand, and tying to make me happy, even at the last? And who wants me to be there at her death? Who really wants me there, offering my love, and my support? Anyone?
For a combination of reasons, I slept well last night. And I slept on my left, of all things, and even woke up that way. And today, for the first time in a long time, I felt just a little bit like myself.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Back Pain
Driving in the car this morning I realized how badly my back hurt. Back pain is something new to me – it wasn’t pleasant. But realizing why it was there in the first place was even less pleasant.
I love to fall asleep – I just love the whole process of coming to peace at the end of the day and realizing that tomorrow will come anew. The words of The Book of Common Prayer – so often uttered at Evensong in my childhood – wisp me away:
O LORD, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last. Amen. (BCP)
So falling asleep is a peaceful thing. I hear these words and roll on my left side. I sleep on the right side of the bed – that’s my side – so I turn to my left so I can see.
The problem is I can’t turn on my left side at the moment because I don’t want to see. Because there is nothing to see – there is only emptiness. So I slide as far to the right as I possibly can and turn on my right. And it’s uncomfortable. And rather than hearing soft words of prayer and drifting slowly away, I grit my teeth and tense my back.
It’s no surprise then that driving this morning – a trip that is always shorter than I think it is – my back started aching. I tried driving faster, but I couldn’t help but notice that the ETA on the GPS never changed. How could that be? I even got stuck behind a truck near construction, and again the ETA never changed. I was trapped in that car for as long as it was going to take me. For a moment I felt I had lost any control on my life – on my sleeping, my psyche, my body, even where I physically was.
The only thing to do was keep driving. Eventually I would arrive at my destination. Eventually.
I love to fall asleep – I just love the whole process of coming to peace at the end of the day and realizing that tomorrow will come anew. The words of The Book of Common Prayer – so often uttered at Evensong in my childhood – wisp me away:
O LORD, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last. Amen. (BCP)
So falling asleep is a peaceful thing. I hear these words and roll on my left side. I sleep on the right side of the bed – that’s my side – so I turn to my left so I can see.
The problem is I can’t turn on my left side at the moment because I don’t want to see. Because there is nothing to see – there is only emptiness. So I slide as far to the right as I possibly can and turn on my right. And it’s uncomfortable. And rather than hearing soft words of prayer and drifting slowly away, I grit my teeth and tense my back.
It’s no surprise then that driving this morning – a trip that is always shorter than I think it is – my back started aching. I tried driving faster, but I couldn’t help but notice that the ETA on the GPS never changed. How could that be? I even got stuck behind a truck near construction, and again the ETA never changed. I was trapped in that car for as long as it was going to take me. For a moment I felt I had lost any control on my life – on my sleeping, my psyche, my body, even where I physically was.
The only thing to do was keep driving. Eventually I would arrive at my destination. Eventually.
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