God is everywhere

There’s nowhere that He’s not

Whether lofty mountaintops

Verdant forests

Scorching deserts

Frigid arctic ice fields

Moon and stars

Bottom of the sea

Or busy city streets

He is there

Yet, there are times

When the pain of life becomes overwhelming

Tears stream down my cheeks

And I cry out

“Oh, God!  Help me!”

His answer never comes in words

Rather, the wind on my face is His kiss

The warming sun is His comforting embrace

And the earth beneath my feet is His reassurance

If I take the time to breathe

And look inside myself

I also find Him in my heart

Omnipresent, healing, loving

Never apart from me

Never apart from anyone

God

Some afternoons, I like to take a dip in the pool, and then recline on a lawn chair and mindfully observe the happenings in the back yard. Surprisingly enough, there’s a lot of action taking place, if I simply have eyes to see.

Just the other day, the weather was warm and balmy, and the light breeze that brushed across my face brought to life the wind chimes hanging next to Sheridan’s and my home, catching me by surprise with a lilting melody that emanated from the midst of silence. The sun was gradually falling behind the oak trees that flourish on our property, with a shining corona that contrasted with the dark green of the leaves and the royal blue of the sky. Our dogs, Karma and Buddy, were delighted that I was hanging around with them, and every so often they presented themselves for petting, their bright, innocent eyes filling me with joy.  After rubbing their furry heads, they frolicked and played, taking turns chasing each other around the back yard and barking at the chattering squirrels that taunted them from the trees.

As the evening progressed and the sun sank lower in the sky, I could hear the light, oscillating sounds of cicadas and tree frogs coming from the woods to the south, along with the comforting coos of mourning doves  When I gazed upwards, I saw Mississippi kites circling slowly overhead, looking for prey, prepared to streak downward through the darkening sky at a moment’s notice.  Looking straight ahead, I caught a glimpse of our hummingbird wind chime hanging from a tree branch over the pool, and I became amused when I discovered a blue dragonfly clinging to the string of the chime.  Over the past few weeks, I’ve noticed the same event occurring repeatedly, and I found myself wondering what that those beautiful insects were thinking.  Did they believe that the plastic hummingbird was a giant dragonfly, protecting them from creatures that would do them harm? Was there some sort of romantic attraction? Was the string simply in a convenient place for a siesta? One can only guess, but I smiled as I thought of the possibilities.

My mind started to wander, and I found myself pondering the events of my life, some happy, some sad, though in that hallowed moment, any concerns I had dissolved into the ethers, and I was filled with contentment.  I started to doze in and out, with brief, mellow dreams that moved in and out of my consciousness.  I immersed myself in the restorative milieu of the backyard and let the energy surround me.  I knew that I was healing, inside and out, and I felt grateful. As the Zen Buddhist master Thich Nhat Hanh once said, “Present moment, wonderful moment.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

“The highest reward for a man’s toil is not what he gets for it but what he becomes by it.”

– John Ruskin

On July 1, 2018, when I drive to work at the emergency department, I will have traveled there for forty years. How is that possible? Where has the time gone? It boggles my mind to think of the events of my life that have passed since then.  Even though I’ve lived in several different locations during that period, my trip to the hospital has remained much the same.  Repeatedly, I passed though the intersection where one morning after a night shift, I was broadsided by an intoxicated airman who ran a stop sign.  Other than being knocked silly and having a mild neck injury, I ended up being as fit as a fiddle.  Oddly enough, adjacent to the site of my accident sits a large, sprawling cemetery, and I’m certainly glad the accident didn’t find me needing a place there.  Closer to the hospital, I drove past the location of a bustling weekend flea market, a now-closed tire shop and a series of convenience stores.  Oftentimes, as I mentally prepared for the intensity of my day, I motored past these nondescript spots without paying the least bit of attention to them, steeling myself for the inevitable traumas that I would soon face in the emergency department.  Someday these places will be distant memories, flashes from the past that have no meaning whatsoever.

But now, as I anticipate my upcoming, four decade anniversary in emergency medicine, my thoughts roll back to 1978, when I first began my career.  I was green, very green, and while I thought I knew a lot about medicine, little did I know at that time how much I still had to learn. Fortunately, not only did I have the support and shared wisdom of my physician colleagues, even more critical was the team of experienced nurses who had my back.  While my fellow doctors were helpful in my developing practice, day-to-day I worked much more closely with the nursing staff and ambulance service personnel. As I think back, my memories of them are as distinct as if they were yesterday.  For those of you unfamiliar with those in my past work environment, please forgive my diversion into the olden days and their associated recollections, vivid memories begging to be shared.

First, I must mention Ann, the nurse manager of the emergency department, whose innate, calm disposition kept the chaos in some modicum of order.  I never saw Ann lose her cool, no matter how dicey the situation, though I suspect on occasion she blew a gasket just like the rest of us. How could I forget Frankie, practiced and direct?  I never had to wonder what was on her mind about patients, because she always told me, whether I liked it or not.  Then, there was Carol, the night shift RN, who was more than just a learned nurse, she was a great friend, and I always appreciated her insights when difficult patients walked through the door.  Pam was Carol’s trusty sidekick during the wee hours, a solid, centered caregiver who held it together when things were going bad. Rick was a terrific nurse, great in times of catastrophe, yet he was also the ultimate cynic.  Countless times, when I asked him how he was doing, he raised his eyebrows and sarcastically responded, “Another day in paradise.”  Even now, I grin as I recall the disgusted look on his face. Barbara was one of our most emotionally collected nurses, and even though everything was going to hell in a handbasket, she remained as cool as a cucumber; she was a tough, hardened emergency nurse.  Over the years, she has moved on to more of an administrative role, and she has become one of my close friends and confidantes. Darrell was an EMT (emergency medical technician) who later became an RN.  As good as a nurse as he was, he was an even better volleyball player, and he was one of the stalwarts of the emergency volleyball team.  Besides those previously mentioned, I have fond memories of many others from 1978, including Donna, Norma, Peggy, Cobehy, Dan, Debbie, Maria, Glenda and Carol C.

At that distant time, the corps of paramedics and EMTs on the ambulance service were the finest that could be found anywhere.  The Grand Master of the paramedics was the knowledgeable and oh so wise Harvey.  He was like a walking encyclopedia, one who knew the fine details of Advanced Cardiac Life Support (ACLS) better than most physicians.  When the occasions came for our biennial re-certifications in ACLS, I shuddered when I discovered that Harvey was the one testing me. Under the pressure of his beady-eyed, intense stare, I would break out into a cold sweat, and I prayed to God that I knew the right answers to his incisive questions. Fortunately, after Harvey heard a few correct responses, he usually took it easy on me, for which I was most grateful.  Keith was another one of our superb paramedics, who, after his stint in the ambulance service, later redirected his skills to become the executive vice president of a physician billing service.  I have the highest respect for him and his accomplishments.  Judi was the lone female paramedic at our hospital in those male-dominated years, and she was Ms. Reliable, someone I could always count on to make the right decision in the field.  I want to also give shout-outs to the long-time director, Romeo, also brothers Tony and Jerry, as well as Joe, Sammy and Jeff.  Of course, I could never forget Randy and Andy, players of hot fiddles in a local country and western band. Charlie Daniels was a rank amateur compared to them.

I have chosen in this blog post to honor the memory of two very special nurses. Gail was an RN who I had worked with for a number of years.  She was atypical for an emergency nurse, in that she was generally quiet and soft spoken.  Hidden underneath her gentle manner was a caring and compassionate nurse, one who provided excellent care to those fortunate enough to have her as a provider.  One tragic day, when Gail was forty-nine years old, she contracted flesh-eating bacteria. Despite our heroic efforts, which included surgery and high dose IV antibiotics, she died on July 28, 2003.  In the aftermath, I felt like the wind had been sucked out of my sails, as from the beginning of my emergency career, Gail had always been there, and all of a sudden she wasn’t – an agonizing vacuum had been created. Another who deserves mention is Diana, who I had worked with for some time before she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  Diana was one of the most kind and loving persons I have ever met, and whenever she entered, her beautiful smile lit up the room. Her warmhearted attitude never changed, in spite of the ravages of her disease and the side effects of its treatment. While her body gradually failed, her spirit continued to be effervescent, glowing and kind.  She died on October 28, 1996, at thirty-nine years of age.  I’ll never forget her.

In my upcoming book, The Pit: Memoir of an Emergency Physician, I will go into great detail about my thoughts on the field of emergency medicine, its inherent issues, and my feelings as my career gradually comes to a close.  But the primary purpose of this post is not to share my revelations, but rather, to take a walk down memory lane and express my deepest appreciation to  those health care professionals with whom I have worked, not only in the beginning, but also those throughout my career. These include doctors, nurses, paramedics, EMTs, physician associates, respiratory therapists, and x-ray and ultrasound technicians.  Over the years, as part of our job, we have all witnessed and shared in an enormous amount of suffering, mostly in our patients, but also in ourselves as we struggled with the trauma of what we have seen and experienced. From the bottom of my heart: Thank you, everyone!  The personal sacrifices you have made to help others are far greater than the general public could ever know.

So, in response to the quote at the beginning of this blog, how has emergency medicine affected me?  What have I become?  While it’s often hard to examine oneself dispassionately, when I look deeply at my start in emergency medicine, and compare that person to what I am now, I smile. Not only have my clinical skills improved, I am much more mellow and easygoing, and certainly more accepting.  That said, I still have a bit of an edge, something every good emergency physician wears like a badge of honor.  Since I began my practice, I couldn’t be more grateful, not only for what my career has done for me, but also for those who have allowed me to serve as their physician.

Would I do it all again?

Undoubtedly.

“The early bird gets the worm.”

– Proverb

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”

– Benjamin Franklin

From the beginning of time, a thick, suffocating layer of guilt has been imposed upon anyone who made the unfortunate decision to sleep in.  No matter that you were up late the night before laboring around the house, or that you had worked your fingers to the bone over the preceding weeks at your stressful, screaming meemies job. The overall societal consensus was that if you didn’t spring into action at the crack of dawn, you were assumed to be a lazy, indolent, good-for-nothing – one who preferred to take it easy rather than put in an honest, hard day’s work.  Yes, in the eyes of Benjamin Franklin and his army of over-achievers, simply because you chose to loll in bed, you were destined for ill health, poverty and poor decision making.

With this in mind, just recently I had a very busy schedule, with lots of difficult shifts in the emergency department, and after this flurry of pressured activity, I went to bed, exhausted. When I woke the next morning, I fought off Ben’s admonition and made a conscious choice to stay in bed and relax. Lying there resting, a kaleidoscope of thoughts began to float across my mind, some from times past, others from the present, and some from an anticipated future.  While a number were enjoyable, some were disturbing, others frightening, and some exhilarating.  Whatever their quality, I smiled at them and let them cycle though my consciousness until they lost their power and dissipated.  I closed my eyes, once again fell into a deep slumber and in moments visited Dreamland.  As opposed to late night dreams that are often forgotten, I clearly remembered these subconscious reflections when I woke a short time later.  After examining these dreams, a totally different, unique set of thoughts greeted me, and once again, I dispassionately let them move in and out of my mind.  Much like the classic Clint Eastwood movie, “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” they were what they were, and I did not attempt to control or judge them.  A short time later, though, I once again went to sleep, more dreams occurred, and the continuum of thoughts to dreams and dreams to thoughts went on for hours until, refreshed and relaxed, I stretched, rose from bed and engaged the day. Now, as I think about it, in many ways this process was like a deep meditation, and much spiritual work had been accomplished.

As I ponder my morning of R & R, I believe we are long overdue for a different mindset about sleeping in.  What we sometimes forget, in our driven, goal-oriented Western society, is that a balance is necessary between activity and passivity.  In the East, this is best demonstrated in Taoism, where our dualistic world is represented by the yin and the yang, which together make up an indivisible whole.  Good and bad, light and dark, wisdom and foolishness, day and night, truth and falsehoods, and yes, activity and passivity, all make up the dichotomy that is our Universe.  In other words, you can’t have one aspect without the other.

The long and the short of this is: I vow to let go of the need to be an early bird. No longer will I feel guilty about staying in bed and relaxing, or, in general, taking it easy, for not only will the extra rest do me good, also healthy, sacred healing can take place. I don’t plan to sleep in every day, but when I do so, I will enjoy it to the fullest.  After all, no matter what Benjamin Franklin said, I deserve to sleep in every so often, and have some quiet moments to balance my oftentimes frenzied life.

Sleeping in can be a spiritual practice, don’t you agree?