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Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Who Are These Like Stars Appearing?
The other night I found myself sitting atop the grand steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. It’s a magnificent walk up those steps, as the columns slowly come closer and nearly envelop you as you gain the summit. And the result is a spectacular view of the city, which, from this vantage point, continues to buzz with life but at a much softer decibel. It’s a nice place to sit and take stock of things.
This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself on art museum steps when my mind is heavy. Throughout my college years I often would steal away to the steps of our own art museum for a time to think – steps that, while smaller than the ones in Philadelphia, are equally grand in their own way. The key difference was that instead of a view of a city skyline, the museum steps in Brunswick, Maine, offered a view of the stars. Sufficiently removed from the din of the first-year dorms, and shielded from the cars on Maine St., the steps of the Walker Art Building provided a dark sanctuary perfect for stargazing.
The stars in Maine are, as you might imagine, amazingly brilliant. Some nights there seemed to be more stars than not – as my eyes adjusted, I began to see more and more stars and less and less empty space. It always struck me that, as I looked at those stars, I was really looking back in time. The light I was seeing wasn’t new light, but rather light that had been traveling to Earth for many, many years. And it finally arrived! Their beauty is literally timeless. Shooting stars seemed not uncommon – an exhilarating thrill amidst the tranquility. The universe seemed full, ablaze, and uniquely visible. And while I felt tiny beyond measure, I still felt as though I had a part to play in the grand cosmic design of things. I felt connected, peaceful, and happy.
I would always wish on those stars. In those days I’d often wish for a deeper understand of religion and the universe, or of a way to grasp the cosmos that seemed right in front of me. Sometimes I’d wish for things that more superficial, but at that moment were vitally important to me, like success in a lacrosse game or a good showing at hockey tryouts. Maybe even a good test score. Perhaps I had higher expectations of things back then, but I think my wishes all stemmed from the genuine happiness that used to be a part of me.
On some nights I would share my stargazing with another. Those were the best nights of all, because then the part that I had to play in the universe seemed clearer.
But that was a long time ago. For now the twinkling lights of the Comcast center will have to be my substitute for a starry night in Maine. It may not be ideal, but it’ll have to do – and it has it’s own charm, I suppose.
As I stood to leave I noticed one stubborn star poking through the light haze that is ever-present in a large city. This one little star was just bright enough to be seen, as if it was looking for someone to take notice. And so I did. I noticed! Did it maybe notice me? And though I was alone, I couldn’t help but think that somehow that star was trying to bring me back to another time – maybe even another place – though for what reason I wasn’t quite sure.
I closed my eyes and made my wish. And I wished for happiness.
This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself on art museum steps when my mind is heavy. Throughout my college years I often would steal away to the steps of our own art museum for a time to think – steps that, while smaller than the ones in Philadelphia, are equally grand in their own way. The key difference was that instead of a view of a city skyline, the museum steps in Brunswick, Maine, offered a view of the stars. Sufficiently removed from the din of the first-year dorms, and shielded from the cars on Maine St., the steps of the Walker Art Building provided a dark sanctuary perfect for stargazing.
The stars in Maine are, as you might imagine, amazingly brilliant. Some nights there seemed to be more stars than not – as my eyes adjusted, I began to see more and more stars and less and less empty space. It always struck me that, as I looked at those stars, I was really looking back in time. The light I was seeing wasn’t new light, but rather light that had been traveling to Earth for many, many years. And it finally arrived! Their beauty is literally timeless. Shooting stars seemed not uncommon – an exhilarating thrill amidst the tranquility. The universe seemed full, ablaze, and uniquely visible. And while I felt tiny beyond measure, I still felt as though I had a part to play in the grand cosmic design of things. I felt connected, peaceful, and happy.
I would always wish on those stars. In those days I’d often wish for a deeper understand of religion and the universe, or of a way to grasp the cosmos that seemed right in front of me. Sometimes I’d wish for things that more superficial, but at that moment were vitally important to me, like success in a lacrosse game or a good showing at hockey tryouts. Maybe even a good test score. Perhaps I had higher expectations of things back then, but I think my wishes all stemmed from the genuine happiness that used to be a part of me.
On some nights I would share my stargazing with another. Those were the best nights of all, because then the part that I had to play in the universe seemed clearer.
But that was a long time ago. For now the twinkling lights of the Comcast center will have to be my substitute for a starry night in Maine. It may not be ideal, but it’ll have to do – and it has it’s own charm, I suppose.
As I stood to leave I noticed one stubborn star poking through the light haze that is ever-present in a large city. This one little star was just bright enough to be seen, as if it was looking for someone to take notice. And so I did. I noticed! Did it maybe notice me? And though I was alone, I couldn’t help but think that somehow that star was trying to bring me back to another time – maybe even another place – though for what reason I wasn’t quite sure.
I closed my eyes and made my wish. And I wished for happiness.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Door #1
Everyday when I come home from work I get the same anticipatory sensation. I never really realized it until today, but I get progressively more excited as I walk closer to the door, and put the key in the lock and start to slowly turn it. I pause as the lock clicks into place, as if I’m listening for something, or someone, and don’t want to barge in. My eyes close just a little bit, and for a moment I’m back in a happier time, long ago. I can picture the apartment the way it used to be, and I fool myself into thinking that maybe this has all been a terrible dream, and that when I cross the threshold I’ll see for myself that everything really is ok. I hold my breath and hope – I don’t want to go on in case I’m wrong.
I don’t know if this is the best or worst part of my day. Either way, it’s total denial. And it’s totally pathetic.
Of course eventually I open the door and step in. The door closes behind me and I lock it quickly. The apartment is completely different than then one in my head. And empty. Home.
I tell myself that one day I really will be excited to come home, and what’s more that there will be a home that is excited to have me. It’s just not now.
Big day in the OR tomorrow…I’m off to bed.
I don’t know if this is the best or worst part of my day. Either way, it’s total denial. And it’s totally pathetic.
Of course eventually I open the door and step in. The door closes behind me and I lock it quickly. The apartment is completely different than then one in my head. And empty. Home.
I tell myself that one day I really will be excited to come home, and what’s more that there will be a home that is excited to have me. It’s just not now.
Big day in the OR tomorrow…I’m off to bed.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
M & M
Today I had the pleasure of presenting at our weekly “M & M” conference. The “Morbidity and Mortality” conference is held every week in an effort to promote self-examination in the hopes of improving the quality of care. It’s sort of like a condensed version of Lent, only more public. We scrutinize all of our patients’ outcomes, and try to learn from the ones that don’t go right. It’s a noble thought but, especially in the surgery world, it has the tendency to become slightly contentious. In fact – back to the Lent comment for a moment – some have described it as a crucifixion.
It’s a difficult thing to stand up in front of all your peers and say, “I did this, and then that bad thing happened.” Today I told the story of a patient who died. He needed an operation. We gave him one. He had a heart attack and died. The implication is that it’s my fault.
I presented the case in detail, and had every aspect of it questioned. Can you imagine a room full of white coats scrutinizing every detail? Did he really need the OR? Did he need that particular operation? What could have been done differently? He died, after all, so surely SOMETHING could have been done. I did my best. In the end, there really wasn’t anything I could have done.
Still…as miserable as it was to relive that sad sequence, it’s a good exercise to look carefully at the past and evaluate it in the hopes of preventing a bad outcome the next time around. And what better thing can we do after a death than try to use it to the benefit of the next patient?
And they’ll always be a next one. At least I hope so.
It’s a difficult thing to stand up in front of all your peers and say, “I did this, and then that bad thing happened.” Today I told the story of a patient who died. He needed an operation. We gave him one. He had a heart attack and died. The implication is that it’s my fault.
I presented the case in detail, and had every aspect of it questioned. Can you imagine a room full of white coats scrutinizing every detail? Did he really need the OR? Did he need that particular operation? What could have been done differently? He died, after all, so surely SOMETHING could have been done. I did my best. In the end, there really wasn’t anything I could have done.
Still…as miserable as it was to relive that sad sequence, it’s a good exercise to look carefully at the past and evaluate it in the hopes of preventing a bad outcome the next time around. And what better thing can we do after a death than try to use it to the benefit of the next patient?
And they’ll always be a next one. At least I hope so.
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