The phone rang. I answered. “Hello?”
I’m Dr. Crawford,” came the response. “I’m a paleontologist. Do you know what that is?”
“You study fossils.”
“Correct!” He sounded so pleased, I thought I might be getting a prize in the mail.
“I am seeking the petrified remains of Hominus Garvinii.”
“Well, I’m Lucky Garvin…”
“Close enough…”
“Question, doctor, do fossils move and talk?”
“Why no, not as a general rule.”
“Then as a general rule, I don’t yet qualify. Be patient; call back later.”
Nevertheless, like all of us, I am slowly approaching fossil-hood.
There are several stages in everyone’s life, as we all know. I’m approaching one now. It’s called ‘Retirement.’ As hard as it is for me to even acknowledge, I know the time is coming. I’ve practiced medicine so long, in some cases, I’ve treated four generations in a family. A fellow in the ER not long ago, a fellow with grey, balding hair related to me I had treated him when he was but a child! My able partners were raising their hands in grade-school for permission to visit the restroom when I began the practice of medicine; in some cases, they had not yet been born.
“That face in the looking glass, could it possibly be me?”
I have long known most people cannot understand emergency work. 9-5, Monday through Friday? Forget it. TGIF? Fridays introduce nothing into the thinking of an ER Doc. You’re held hostage to the schedule; you’re either working or you’re not; holidays, week-ends? There’s no such thing; you’re either on the schedule, or you’re not.
The eight hour shifts 7am, 9am, 3pm, 5pm, 11pm all require different strategies. For example: the other morning I arrived home at 1:00 AM. I took a sleeping pill, poured two fingers of bourbon, and began to read a calming book; no news, no adventure movies; no, nothing that would excite the mind. I fell asleep at 6:15.
Then, as always, my eyes snapped open at 9 AM; birds and animals to feed. I know it’s my choice to do wildlife, yet it seems odd it takes me five hours in the middle of the night to doze off. But I can’t leave my Sabrina all the morning critter-work to do. If I’m to work at 7 or 9 AM, I must try to fall asleep earlier than usual [I’m a night-owl by preference.] And don’t forget, when I go to work, I’m dragging sixty-six years along with me. It ain’t as much fun as it sounds.
So, should I retire now? If ‘No,’ then when? I have been a full-time ER attending for over forty years, and considering the demands, the stress and the pace, for a sixty-six year old man to have practiced a ‘young man’s game’ for so long is, trust me, unusual. Thus, I suppose, the call from the paleontologist.
I know full-well, despite polite protests to the contrary, I’m not the physician I used to be; my hands, my eyes no longer serve me as once they did. It was never my intent to be the best ER doc ever, I only wanted to do my best. Now there is, I fear, some slippage in even that simple prayer’s response. Technology is leaving me behind but, to some degree, that’s my fault. It just seems there is so much to stay up with: new drugs, new procedures, new instruments. My chronic fatigue, my gradually failing confidence – new-come to my awareness – nudges me forward to a decision I must soon make.
There was a time when, after a night-shift of twelve hours, I would head to the hospital parking lot, jump in my car, my bass boat hooked to the back, go fishing for the day, grab a few hours rest, and be back at work none the worse for short-sleep. Not so sure I could pull that routine off today.
I enjoy solving medical dilemmas when I am able; I benefit so from the people I meet during a shift. You can only treat the flu or a sore throat so many times before it begins to be, at best, old, at worst, boring. To stay in the discipline for years there must be an anticipation; the ‘purpose’ of the visit, as opposed to the ‘reason’ for it. You must love the folks; look forward to what they might show or teach you in order to remain engaged, fascinated.
Indeed, many of my writings over the years found their genesis in these encounters. A physician shows up for work, unconsciously assuming he will be the one giving the blessings [diagnoses, comfort, and so on], yet sometimes goes home himself blessed. Blessings are quite complicated things; it’s often hard to distinguish the giver from the recipient.
My days off are practice runs for the time I at last set medicine aside forever. But it’s an unsettling forfeiture to leave my patients; from whom I have learned so much. I doubt it was ever Heaven’s intent that I return there worse – or at least no better – than when I was first sent to Earth. For you see, for me, learning, becoming, is the Prime Directive. Yet, once I retire, and being a rather insular fellow – a true stay-at-home – how will I meet the strangers – my patients – who, over the years, have so occasioned my growth? Will I, in retirement, cease to become?
Perhaps I should content myself that Heaven has my address. As such, if God wants to reach me with an opportunity for growth or wisdom, I shouldn’t be hard to find, insular or not.
But all of life is cycles, and I will soon be completing this one… Such a difficult reckoning. If only I didn’t love medicine so…
– Lucky Garvin
Look for Lucky’s books locally and on-line: The Oath of Hippocrates; The Cotillian; A Journey Long Delayed.
