Friday, May 07, 2004
In this life...
...to live. to burn with. to smoulder alongside.
I wanted this. Do not be sorry.
Once upon a time, a child sat before a panel of adults; faced with the question of Why - Why do this. Why be. Why search for. What calls you? He answered, slowly. Ad-libbing with his soul as the words choose themselves, his carefully pre-scripted answer entirely forgotten in the depth of the moment :
I want. To help where I can, to alleviate suffering, perhaps even to heal. To remove pain.
And where I cannot, to be present. To hurt alongside. To understand.
And where I cannot, to be there for those that remain. To offer solace. To touch.
There was a moment of silence. And then four adult heads nodded, just once, in unison. There were no further questions then. The most senior of the adults said, quietly, "we would like you to join us".
Regret. He chose poorly in the end, and opted instead for the cold, professional secularism of a godless university.
I asked for this. This is my cross to bear.
*******
In this death...
One of those who trod the path before me that I respect the most was an old, ailing man, always immaculately dressed with permanently mussed-up hair and smelling faintly of moth balls. I was his fly on the wall, allocated to him by my university. Observer.
In the early days, I liked him, but did not yet respect him. He often gave me charge of his countryside surgery, and sat quietly in the corner. Sometimes he made noises suspiciously like snores. Just resting his eyes.
As he drove us home, his left hand would judder a little. Watching, listening, I couldn't help but realise this small, kindly, stoop-shouldered man had Parkinson's. Old, frail. Tired.
The moment of catharsis came when one of his young patients (with known depression) decided to take a walk in a dark tunnel into the light. Of an oncoming train.
The train driver was badly shaken-up. Apparently the youth had made no attempt to escape. He hadn't even flinched - he'd seemed almost to welcome his instant of oblivion. Apparently he'd stopped taking his antidepressants.
This gentle, tired octeganarian seemed strangely callous about it all. He visited the boy's mother to silently hold her hand as she cried. He spoke gravely to the police coroner. Busy, busy, bees. (or rather, bee and fly.)
And then he did something I've never seen another doctor do.
He went to the funeral. And took his fly on the wall with him - Why, I do not know.
Kneeling with my head bowed during the service, I sneaked a glance to my left, wondering if perhaps the old man had drifted off again. He certainly looked it, head bowed, eyes in shadow, keeping so, so still. And then I noticed the tears falling intermitently out of the shadows of his averted face to the ground. Frail, weak and stoop shouldered, but his white hair blazed in the sudden shaft of light that shone down briefly upon him through the saints in the stained-glass windows above, this aged Knight of humanity.
(I remember the service well, the pall-bearers slow-marching heavy-shouldered down the aisles to the tune of Chariots of Fire, staring grimly at their feet. His girfriend trailing behind, her large eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Long blonde hair, tall, graceful, and utterly beautiful. What could have moved him so, to part from her like this? And the boy himself, so young and fresh-faced, eyes closed in final, peaceful repose. Someone I could have been friends with. Someone my age.)
Love, and courage. Closely intermingled. Dying, over and over again. For someone else.
******
In this life...
To listen. To know a mind, and heart. And yes, perhaps to learn something along the way, lessons in life.
But not merely to listen.
To speak as well. To share.
To ask for nothing in return; giving, for the giving.
Pleasure, in the receiving - optional. But very much present.
Voice : Wait, and watch. The pieces are... poised? And every now and then, one falls.
Think nothing, watch.
Listen. In the interminable silence, for the next click as a pin engages it's chamber. For the next distant plink, as a pebble strikes water after an eternity. Or perhaps an indignant squeak from the March Hare, waiting at the bottom.
heh.
I wanted this. Do not be sorry.
Once upon a time, a child sat before a panel of adults; faced with the question of Why - Why do this. Why be. Why search for. What calls you? He answered, slowly. Ad-libbing with his soul as the words choose themselves, his carefully pre-scripted answer entirely forgotten in the depth of the moment :
I want. To help where I can, to alleviate suffering, perhaps even to heal. To remove pain.
And where I cannot, to be present. To hurt alongside. To understand.
And where I cannot, to be there for those that remain. To offer solace. To touch.
There was a moment of silence. And then four adult heads nodded, just once, in unison. There were no further questions then. The most senior of the adults said, quietly, "we would like you to join us".
Regret. He chose poorly in the end, and opted instead for the cold, professional secularism of a godless university.
I asked for this. This is my cross to bear.
*******
In this death...
One of those who trod the path before me that I respect the most was an old, ailing man, always immaculately dressed with permanently mussed-up hair and smelling faintly of moth balls. I was his fly on the wall, allocated to him by my university. Observer.
In the early days, I liked him, but did not yet respect him. He often gave me charge of his countryside surgery, and sat quietly in the corner. Sometimes he made noises suspiciously like snores. Just resting his eyes.
As he drove us home, his left hand would judder a little. Watching, listening, I couldn't help but realise this small, kindly, stoop-shouldered man had Parkinson's. Old, frail. Tired.
The moment of catharsis came when one of his young patients (with known depression) decided to take a walk in a dark tunnel into the light. Of an oncoming train.
The train driver was badly shaken-up. Apparently the youth had made no attempt to escape. He hadn't even flinched - he'd seemed almost to welcome his instant of oblivion. Apparently he'd stopped taking his antidepressants.
This gentle, tired octeganarian seemed strangely callous about it all. He visited the boy's mother to silently hold her hand as she cried. He spoke gravely to the police coroner. Busy, busy, bees. (or rather, bee and fly.)
And then he did something I've never seen another doctor do.
He went to the funeral. And took his fly on the wall with him - Why, I do not know.
Kneeling with my head bowed during the service, I sneaked a glance to my left, wondering if perhaps the old man had drifted off again. He certainly looked it, head bowed, eyes in shadow, keeping so, so still. And then I noticed the tears falling intermitently out of the shadows of his averted face to the ground. Frail, weak and stoop shouldered, but his white hair blazed in the sudden shaft of light that shone down briefly upon him through the saints in the stained-glass windows above, this aged Knight of humanity.
(I remember the service well, the pall-bearers slow-marching heavy-shouldered down the aisles to the tune of Chariots of Fire, staring grimly at their feet. His girfriend trailing behind, her large eyes glassy and red-rimmed. Long blonde hair, tall, graceful, and utterly beautiful. What could have moved him so, to part from her like this? And the boy himself, so young and fresh-faced, eyes closed in final, peaceful repose. Someone I could have been friends with. Someone my age.)
Love, and courage. Closely intermingled. Dying, over and over again. For someone else.
******
In this life...
To listen. To know a mind, and heart. And yes, perhaps to learn something along the way, lessons in life.
But not merely to listen.
To speak as well. To share.
To ask for nothing in return; giving, for the giving.
Pleasure, in the receiving - optional. But very much present.
Voice : Wait, and watch. The pieces are... poised? And every now and then, one falls.
Think nothing, watch.
Listen. In the interminable silence, for the next click as a pin engages it's chamber. For the next distant plink, as a pebble strikes water after an eternity. Or perhaps an indignant squeak from the March Hare, waiting at the bottom.
heh.
