Throughout the day,
I open the door and call out “Narapela” or “Next” and look at the end of the
waiting bench for the next patient to come.
It is almost instinct, a patient leaves my room, I follow them out,
reach the door and look down the hallway for who is next as I call out.
In some ways, as I
stand at the door frame and call out next, I am forgetting about what has just
transpired in that room. Maybe I just
told a patient that they have terminal cancer and I can’t heal them, maybe I
told a mom or dad that their son or daughter has TB, maybe I told a young
mother that she has HIV, maybe I told a family that their daughter is healed
from pneumonia and they don’t need to come back. It doesn’t matter what just happened, when I
stand at that doorway in some ways, I have to forget and let go of what just
happened, because there are still patients to see today, and they need my medical
expertise as much as the last one did.
Many days, I call
out next without difficulty, at times, even relieved that a patient or family
has finally left my room. But there are
times when calling out next is hard.
Times when I would like the opportunity to sit inside my room, with the
door closed and cry about what just happened, or cry out to God about the lack
of healing that has occurred or the injustice that has happened. Times when I just need a little bit more
time to remember, to process, or to think about what I just saw or what just
happened. These are the more trying
times.
On Monday, I had
one of those times. I have cared for
Jordan for a number of months now, as he has battled acute leukemia. I knew a
few months ago, that our attempts to cure him with chemotherapy didn’t work,
and tried to mentally prepare myself for the downward spiral that would happen,
but preparing didn’t help. For the past
month, I have seen Jordan a number of times in the ER – getting IVF or getting
an IV Antibiotics – whatever little things we could do to keep him going, at
times admitting him for a blood transfusion.
Each time, I would look at him and wonder how much longer he had and yet
each time, he would look at me and smile, and I knew we had some time
left. Not so on Monday.
Monday, I walked
into the ER to see another patient, and saw Jordan with his parents around his
bed. As I got closer, he didn’t look at
me, he didn’t smile, I hugged his mom and knew we were at the end. I managed to hold back the tears until I
turned and walked away. Walked back to
my OPD room, where now I was expected to call out next and forget that this
little boy that I (and many others) had poured our hearts into him and his
family in the past year trying to fight his leukemia, was about to leave this
earth.
In some ways, I
wanted to be able to say next, to forget that Jordan was about to die, to try
and ignore the heartache and the tears, but you can only ignore it so
long. I looked at the patient bench, as
I tried to hold back the tears on my way to my clinic room and saw that the
whole bench was full. Full of other men,
women, boys and girls who were hurting and sick and came for healing in some
form (whether physical or spiritual).
They were sitting on that bench because they needed a doctor to see them
and treat them, they came to see me. So,
I blew my nose and called out next, knowing (hoping) that I might be able to
bring healing and life to one waiting, since I couldn’t for Jordan.
Jordan went to be
with the Lord on Monday evening, and today (Tues) I got up and went to work,
and in doing that, it was like calling out next. At times, I hope that by going to bed, I can
forget the failures, struggles and heartache that happened the day before. But the real challenge is not to forget what
has just happened, but to learn from it, to allow the heartache, the struggle,
the failure, or the success to help make me a better doctor or missionary
today. To call out next, knowing I have
something more to offer today than yesterday, or to this patient than the one before,
and to give your all to what you are doing today, even when/if it is hard and
hurts.
