Angels in the ER (32 page)

“I told you my father died several years ago. He was in his mid
seventies when that happened. He was an organic chemist, a professor, and the smartest man I have ever known. He had a lot of interests, but one of his passions was birds. He wouldn’t allow any cats around the place, because they would bother the birds and drive them away. And his favorite was always the bluebird. I’m not sure why. Maybe their color, or their personality. But whatever the reason, wherever he lived he would build houses and feeders and work hard to attract bluebirds. And he was always successful. When I would visit and we would walk through the yard and talk, he would never fail to point out a particular birdhouse and describe ‘the bluebird family’ that lived there. I never quite understood his fascination with these birds, but I accepted it as part of who he was.

“He’s buried about twenty minutes from here, in the cemetery behind the Neely’s Creek ARP church. My mother is buried there too. About a year after Daddy died, I found myself on a highway not too far from the church. I had some time, so I drove over to the cemetery. It was a weekday afternoon and no one was around. It’s a beautiful old cemetery, wide open, with a large magnolia near the place my parents are buried. I walked over to their graves and just stood there for several minutes. I read their headstones and it struck me that our lives, it seemed, could be summarized in just a few words and a few dates. But of course that’s not true. These were my parents, and a lifetime of memories came to my mind. They were good memories, and yet after a while, they became sad and painful. And I found myself feeling just like you described. I was without parents in this world. My mother and father were gone. I knew those pieces of granite didn’t truly mark their presence. They were somewhere else. But they were not in a place where I could see them, or feel them, or talk to them. And at that moment, I was alone and lonely.

“I turned around and looked at the magnolia tree. It was tall and strong and graceful. And I knew my father would have liked it. All of a sudden, a movement caught my eye and I turned back around, facing the two headstones. And there it was, a bluebird. It had come from who knows where and perched itself on Daddy’s headstone. It
just stood there, looking at me, cocking its head from side to side. And I just looked at it. A coincidence? A fluke? No. You will never convince me of that. It was a moment I will never forget. After a minute or two the bird flew away, and I was alone again. But the loneliness was gone and the sadness had disappeared. I still miss them, my mother and father. There are times when I miss them more than others. But when I feel their absence the most, I can draw on that moment, on that experience. And I know I’m not really alone.”

“Hmm,” Paul murmured. “You know, I don’t think that was a coincidence either. And that’s all I’m looking for. Some kind of sign, something that’s real for me, just like that was for you.”

“And you will have it, Paul,” I told him. “It will come in its own time. Let me tell you one more thing, something that recently happened and that I’ve only shared with a few people.

“Not too long ago, one of my sons and I were cleaning out the attic. We’ve lived in our house for more than twenty years and have accumulated a bunch of stuff. Mostly things that should have been thrown out a long time ago. Anyway, I found a big cardboard box way back in one of the corners and was moving it toward the steps, where there was better light. I had no idea what was in it. As I was moving it, the bottom broke and a lot of stuff spilled out. There was a stamp collection I’d had when I was nine or ten years old. And there were my Boy Scout things—merit badges and an old cap. And there was a plastic department-store bag, sealed with some dried-up Scotch tape.

“I picked up the bag and opened it. Inside, I found a bunch of old letters. It was hot up there and I was curious about these letters, so I told my boy I was going downstairs for a minute. If he wanted to take a break, he could go ahead. I went down to our empty guest room and spread the envelopes out on the bed.

“Before I go on, I need to explain a little about what was happening in my life at that time. Or at least in my professional life. My business partner and I were experiencing a difficult situation, one that was requiring a lot of time and thought. And it was becoming very
uncomfortable. We were faced with making a decision that could cost us a lot if things didn’t go well, but that could eventually put us in a better circumstance. At any rate, we were in a tough spot, and a lot of my mental and emotional energy was consumed with trying to figure out the right thing to do. And sometimes I just wasn’t sure.

“Anyway, I looked at these letters and realized they were all addressed to me, and they had been written by my father. The postage dates were during the years I was in medical school, almost thirty years ago. I picked up one of the letters and opened it. It had been a while since I had seen my father’s handwriting, and somehow this stunned me. I don’t know why it did, but seeing his handwriting…it…it…a lot of things suddenly came back to me. And then it was as if he were right there in the room with me.

“I don’t know why I picked up that first letter. I just grabbed one and started reading it. After the first paragraph, I realized why he had written it. I was in my first year of medical school, and during that fall, I was really down. Not that I was having trouble with school. Sure it was tough, but I was doing fine. I was just wondering whether I was in the right place, doing the right thing. I had talked to him about it and told him I was even thinking about doing something different. Looking back on it, and being a father myself as I read that letter, I had a moment of regret for having burdened Daddy with this. But now I realized he had been listening, he had taken me seriously, and he had taken the time to sit down and write this letter to me.

“At that moment, he was right there with me. I could see his face and hear his voice coming to me from the pages I held in my hand. At first, he talked about some of the hard times he had experienced. And then about the difficult situations other family members were going through. Finally, he addressed my situation. And his message to me was clear. I was in the right place and I was doing the right thing. And one thing he said stood out and struck a chord. ‘You won’t be able to experience the joys of 1974 and 1975 if you don’t endure the hardships of 1973.’ I remember reading this letter when I was in medical school, and I had known he was right. I had endured that
period of my life and had found the other side of that difficult time to be much better and much brighter.

“And suddenly I realized he was talking to me about my present circumstance. He was talking to me right then, thirty years after he wrote those words. He was telling me to endure—to pick the right course and stay with it. To remember that it might exact a cost, but that a better day would come. And I knew then my partner and I were doing the right thing. It was the advice I needed at that moment, the confirmation I had been looking for. And I thanked my father.”

I was finished. I wondered if I had said too much to this stranger. But I felt a strange and rare calmness, and was grateful for this moment.

There was no sound from the corner of the room. I got out of the chair, paused briefly by the bed, and turned towards the door.

“Thanks, Dr. Lesslie.”

I stopped and looked back at this man, still faceless in the darkened room. “No, I need to thank you, Paul,” I told him.

I stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind me. For a moment I stood there alone, in the quiet. What had begun as an inconvenience had become a gift, a blessing. It was unexpected to be sure, but it was a true blessing.

I walked to the elevator, my father at my side.

 15 

Who
Is
My Brother?

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus.
“Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart
and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all
your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’” “You have
answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But Jesus was questioned further:
“Who is my neighbor?”

In answer he tells the story of the man beaten by robbers and left
for dead, and the response of three different passersby, including
the “Good Samaritan.” Then he questions his listener:

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man
who fell into the hands of robbers?” Jesus asked. The expert
in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

—
FROM
L
UKE
10:25-37

M
ost of us are seldom exposed to the reality of the truly destitute, the truly unfortunate, and the truly untouchable. We see it only through the aseptic medium of the TV screen or the computer monitor. In the ER, our exposure is up close and personal. We have to approach these circumstances from a dispassionate and technical standpoint, doing the things we are trained to do: stabilize, diagnose, treat. And then, in a quieter moment, we are left to sort out the more human and philosophical meaning of what we have just experienced.

Sometimes, we can’t even begin to imagine.

“ER, this is Medic 2. Is the doctor nearby?”

I was sitting at the counter of the nurses’ station, finishing up the chart of the patient I had just seen in room 3. It was a two-year-old boy with a temp of 104. He had a rip-roaring ear infection but would do fine with antibiotics and something for pain.

Lori picked up the radio receiver and glanced at me, raising her eyebrows in question.

I nodded and glanced at the clock across the hallway.
10:30.
It had been a quiet evening, especially for a Monday. But it was cold outside, low twenties. And though normal for mid-January, cold weather sometimes kept people indoors and at home.

“Medic 2,” Lori answered. “Dr. Lesslie is right here. Just a second.”

She handed the receiver to me and then walked over to the child in room 3. I placed the receiver in its cradle and punched the speakerphone button.

“This is Dr. Lesslie,” I said. “What’s going on?”