NickydocDocs

So yeah.  Vacation.  I just got back from one.  Anyone that knows me knows that I'm simply not afraid of hard work.  I tuck my chin, grit my teeth, and bull my way forward.  I don't stop to think about it--I just do it.  While I'd much rather lay on the couch all day and watch Star Trek, that, regretfully, has never been my fortune.  I am certain that I would have no problems living a life of leisure.  If I were to win the lottery, I would have absolutely no compunction in quitting my job, buying a private island, and devoting the rest of my life to the search for the perfect coconut.  I can do nothing all day and be perfectly content.  While I love my job and the things that demand my time and attention, I am equally happy to play with my dogs all day, putter around the house, and lay out in the sun (weather permitting).  When I went home to Russell, KY, for a vacation last week, I was reminded of one of my life's greatest treasures--having perfect days line up one after the other, like those decks of cards that my Dad used to play poker with--with absolutely nothing to do.

My mother and sisters fed me.  They, like many southern women, have a special place in their hearts for the family's 'baby boy'.  No matter how hight (or low) my life has been, they have been right there.  These are among the benefits of being raised within a southern matriarchy.  I returned to work rested, patient, and tranquil.  It lasted for exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes until I came down with a 103.2 degree temperature.  

It's odd to say outright, but sickness is my trade.  I wake up every morning and every morning I'm faced with the critically ill and dying.  Like most physicians, I rarely talk about it.  While evidence and knowledge inform every decision I make, the time comes in every life when scientific legerdemain fails.  The irrevocable fact is that everybody dies and almost everyone is surprised and afraid when their card comes up.  I still comfort--cradle fevered heads and hold fragile hands--when there's nothing left in my medical quiver of arrows.  When I have no magic bullets left, I have only my compassion and tenderness to offer--no pharmaceutical shields, potions, or magical procedures--just me and the values life continues to teach me.  In short, I am afforded the absolute blessing of offering up the absolutely best part of me every day.  I'm grateful for that.  However, with my recent (thankfully brief) illness, I found myself on the other side of the stethoscope.

One minute I was feeling fine and the next I had a fever of 103.  I had taken the usual tylenol/advil/cold medicine remedies and my fever continued to rise.  I got confused, dizzy-headed, and bone-crushingly tired.  When I couldn't get my fever to come down, I got plain-old frightened.  It had been a while since I had been afraid like that.  Heck, I still have that 13 year-old man-boy's spiritual sense of immortality.  For those few hours, I had convinced myself that I had meningitis, then leukemia, then a brain tumor.  In retrospect, I realize it was just an incredibly high temperature for someone my age.  The fever came down, the gorilla-cillin antibiotic a colleague of mine called in finally worked, and I'm feeling back to 'normal'.  However, I realize that, one day, one of those things (or a host of others) will, in fact, be my fate.

One day, it will actually BE a heart attack and not heartburn; a stroke and not a headache; or fatal pneumonia and not an altogether garden-variety bronchitis.  The 'worst-case scenario' will be the 'reality-based scenario'.  I've thought a lot about it, and I continue to ask myself 'what will comfort me?'  In logical procession, and certainly more importantly, how can this inform my interaction with the sick and dying?

The answer?  The tenderness of presence.  Simply stated, being there.  In my experience, people avoid visiting sick friends and family members because of their own fears of mortality.  It's awkward and scary, but it reminds each of us that we're all mortal.  Yet every life, in my experience, has a fundamental need--a need to have someone bear witness.  Every life, I believe, has an essential need of testament, especially at the end.

Was I dying?  No, but there were a few moments there that I wasn't quite sure.  Panic was definitely hiding in the shadows.  But it reminded me.