Over my nearly forty years practicing Emergency Medicine, I have attempted to hone my skills of observation, smell, sight and hearing, in order to better diagnose the ailments set before me. It is fair to say, because of this, I have diagnosed at least as many thyroid problems and melanomas in visitors to the ER as I have in my actual patients.
Allow me to now begin a separate story, then braid them together. Recently ,my wife Sabrina, and I were invited to visit a local monastery. Although a confirmed hermit [I go to work reluctantly, my lunch money placed in an envelope, then placed with care in my pocket, my mittens pinned to my jacket by my patient wife who scoots me out the front door; I have to be threatened to leave the house to drive to Krogers], I looked forward to this visit; and I don’t know why.
There I met Father Christopher – the Abbott [that’s like being the CEO of the company] and Father Kenneth. I admit I had some problems calling Father Kenneth ‘father’ having children of my own older than he. But he was gracious; a formidably intelligent young man of wide intellectual acquaintance.
In Father Christopher, the Abbott, I found a man of surpassing kindness, derivative, no doubt, of his faith. All lives have bookmarks; events you never forget, no matter how long you live. This will be one of mine.
I had been bothered though about something I had noticed about Abbott Christopher: a darkness on the top of his head that flashed just now and then as he bent forward to listen. Melanoma perhaps?
Towards the end of our visit, in front of other guests and Fathers, I explained I would, as a physician, like to more closely inspect that darkness. Obligingly he removed his glasses and bowed his head. I took his face in both hands and indeed, there was a rash unlike any I had seen. It was flat, brownish, smooth-margined without scaling, redness or tenderness. As I removed my finger, I noticed it came away covered in brown.
I released the dear man’s face and stared at my finger. Father Christopher smiled softly and asked, “Is that the rash?”
Still staring at my finger, I said, “I don’t understand this.”
“Perhaps, son, the explanation lies in the fact that it is Ash Wednesday.
Ash Wednesday; when members of the Catholic Church put a small amount of ash on their heads.
Sabrina later told me that in conversation with the Father, he had learned of my work and said of me, “He is then a member of a noble profession.”
Certainly what he said of my profession is true, but that I might be its most acute practitioner was suddenly in grave and manifest doubt. Prior to my ‘examination,’ I had assured the Abbott that should he or any of his brethren get sick, please call me.
Having executed the aforementioned diagnostic blunder, I am convinced Father Christopher, should a medical extremity occur at the monastery, will run his fingers down the Yellow Pages listings, urgently seeking the name of anyone who has ‘MD’ behind their name, rather than risk diagnosis and recuperation to a man who cannot tell rash from ash. I’ll not sit by the phone.
Yet, it all ended well. When it came time to say ‘good-bye’, I received not only another gentle smile, but a hug from the Father, a gesture which told about him all that needs to be said of his humanity and his spirituality.
I am left to conclude: the really neat thing about being me is I afford myself my own comic relief… at my own expense… usually in public… with God looking on… and probably – nay – most assuredly giggling… [Sigh.]
By Lucky Garvin [email protected]