- Home
- /
- Stories
Stories
When Dads Fail
My youngest son Camron, was only ten years old—and he was feeling bereft, because he’d lost all connection to his friends. His iPad was on the fritz, less than a year after we’d purchased it.
Camron had yet to dive into the electronic age as his classmates had done. Mostly he played outside with his dogs and cats, fed and chased his goats and bounced on the trampoline with his brother. But during the one hour per day when we permitted him to play games online with his friends, he grinned from ear to ear and laughed nonstop.
Now his iPad had quit working.
What I Know By Heart
Knowing things by heart usually means having them memorized, at your fingertips. Song lyrics, birthdays, phone numbers, the poem I learned in second grade.
These days, for me, knowing by heart is a different exercise. What I know by rote, what I remember, are the dosages of medications, their side effects, and illnesses that can mimic or interact with various behavioral conditions. Hypothyroidism can look like depression; palpitations aren’t always panic attacks. I have medical knowledge, learned in school and accumulated over many years.
What I know by heart, though, is different.
Turning the Tables
My iPhone screams me awake, as it does every morning. Recently this incessant screeching has become less irritating, as I’ve grown more accustomed to the demands that clinical education makes on a third-year medical student. I begin my routine: shower, scrubs, microwaved breakfast sandwich, then out into the dark morning, actually looking forward to my day.
I’ve been on a roll in my new family-medicine rotation, enjoying my time with my supervising doctor and learning quickly under her tutelage. It feels as if it’s coming together—the pages upon pages of textbooks and notes replaced by real patients and newfound responsibilities.
Recurrence?
In bed, at midnight, nearly asleep, I roll from my back to my side. Suddenly, the universe spins. Or is it just my head spinning? If I were standing, I’d fall over.
I lie still, breathing, and waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Why am I so dizzy? I haven’t had any alcohol. I drank a lot of water today. I didn’t even take any of the medications in my cabinet that help me sleep.
Oh shit. A not-unfamiliar thought enters my head: Has the cancer gone to my brain?
The First Time
“KCE 357 to the Jerico Fire Department,” says the dispatch radio at our community’s volunteer fire department. I volunteer here as both an emergency medical technician (EMT) and a chaplain; I’m also the full-time pastor of an Episcopal congregation.
“Ambulance needed at 45 Lilac Court for the unresponsive person, possible cardiac arrest.”
This is a high-priority call, albeit one that is common in our small town.
I hop into my car, equipped with an orange nylon “jump kit” of medical supplies, and head for 45 Lilac Court, ready to begin treating the patient before the fire-department ambulance arrives.
What If…?
During my first two years of medical school, the service-learning program I most enjoyed was Sickle Cell Superheroes. This program matches medical students with teenagers (or “kiddos,” as I like to call them) who are transitioning from pediatric to adult hematology for management of their sickle-cell disease.
My kiddo was Harry, and I absolutely adored him.
“I Know You Don’t Want to Be Here…”
It’s been an interesting year. Eight months after having a large kidney stone removed, I was diagnosed with very early stage cancer—small, low grade, etc. The treatment (surgery) would very likely cure the cancer. The specter of cancer meant that I found this surgery physically easier, but emotionally much harder.
The aftermath of the surgery was interesting in unexpected ways, too.
Six months after surgery, at one of my periodic follow-up visits, I was sitting awkwardly at the end of the exam table, dressed in the standard patient gown and sheet, and waiting to see Becky, the nurse practitioner I’d been assigned to that day.
Playing the Odds
“The odds of anything going sideways are less than one in a hundred,” the cardiologist said.
I was only half listening—too busy signing the papers indemnifying the Medical Colossus against any undue outcomes from my pending cardiac catheterization and probable stent placement.
“Less than one in a hundred,” he repeated.
No problem, I thought.
“I Fell Out of the Sky”
It had happened before; the previous time, it was a phone call on a Tuesday morning. This time, the message came by email on a Friday.
“Do you remember me?” wrote the sender.
“Do I remember you?” I wrote back. “I think of you often and fondly, although it has been over twenty-five years since we last spoke, and thirty-four years since we first met.”