Listen to the Teachers around You

The snow was still falling, but for the most part the storm was over. It would take many days, however, before life in our small community would return to normal. Blizzards weren’t something that happened in Ohio, but there it was, a thick blanket of snow that had been whipped into incredible roof-high drifts that blocked roads and curved around homes like sand dunes on a beach. It was in the earliest days of my career, and the fire academy hadn’t adequately prepared me for what I would encounter during those cold January days long ago. For three days I sat huddled with colleagues in the cold dampness of the firehouse, gasoline generators supplying electricity for only our most essential needs. Rescue runs once escorted by police cars were now led by snow plows. The brightness of the snow stood in stark contrast with the darkness of our mood.

Paramedic training hadn’t adequately prepared me for what I held in my hands. The frantic man tried to get his wife to the hospital, but the car was hopelessly stuck in the snow despite hours of desperate digging. The petite woman was frightened. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her doctor had told her that she had another month. Instead of a warm hospital bed, their dining room floor had to make do. It was my first delivery.

Their infant daughter couldn’t have weighed more than five pounds. The smallest hand that I had ever seen closed around my little finger as her squint opened to reveal brilliant blue eyes, eyes that seemed to focus on mine. With a sharp gasp her mouth opened, her chest rose, and I witnessed the miracle of the first breaths of life. The cold that had followed me for days melted away, and I was left with a sense of incredible awe and wonder. While only minutes into this life, those eyes seemed to speak of ageless wisdom. It was a contradiction that I did not understand at the time, but I had a long way yet to travel on my journey.

A decade would pass before I would see eyes like those again. The fire service had been just a stop on the path that I was to take, a path that would lead to medical school and an invitation into the lives of incredible people. Roger Harrold was one such person. I met him during my residency at the VA hospital. The VA was a great place to learn medicine. It was a world of fathers and grandfathers, of heart-touching stories and of lives in need. Inevitably, patients would become family. Such was the case with Roger.

Early one morning found me sitting on the side of Roger’s bed. I had been up all night and still had many tasks to complete before I could go home, but at that moment Roger’s bedside was the place where I most wanted to be. I had only known him for a month, but it was an intense month. Much of each day was spent with Roger. There had been physical exams to conduct, procedures to perform, and medication to administer. But there had been much more. We shared our thoughts, our dreams, and life itself. By the time I knew that Roger was dying, we were already family.

As I held Roger’s hand, thickened and weathered from age and hard work, I was struck by his piercing blue eyes. They were eyes of infinite youth, of peace, and of great wisdom. With the most gentle of smiles and a soft gasp I witnessed the last breaths of life. It, too, was a miracle. While I had seen death before, I had never participated so completely. I was often touched by the brevity and fragility of life—one moment you are alive, and next moment you are not. But what came next? What would become of the experiences, memories, and knowledge that took a lifetime to collect? They were questions without answers, but in those eyes I had seen understanding of great depth. Indeed, there would be much more to come for Roger. His journey would not end that day.

Medical school, conferences, and journals all contributed to my knowledge of medicine, but they could not teach healing. An ancient Asian proverb tells us, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” My patients became my teachers, and those breaths of life from long ago helped me to get ready for the special lessons that they would bring to my life. The ability to wonder and to be open to all possibilities are not easy traits for physicians trained in tradition, but without them I might never have recognized my greatest teachers.

Alex was one of those teachers. A well-known figure in our community, he was the definition of success and accomplishment. While he had been a patient for many years, he was a difficult person to get to know well. Despite his success, he never seemed to smile, and I often wondered if he was happy. One afternoon, Alex stood waiting for me in an examination room. Two weeks earlier, Alex had died. He had been experiencing unusual sensations in his chest and collapsed, and died, in the waiting room of the emergency room. Had he not been at that place, at that time, he never would have been resuscitated and left the hospital alive. This day, Alex wore a broad smile when I entered the exam room. It was the smile of a happy man. “Dying was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said. In that moment I knew Roger had been right. There was much more to come after the last breaths of life.

There are moments in life powerful enough to change us instantly and forever. Far too often, though, these special moments come when we are not present to notice, lost in dramas of yesterday or our plans for tomorrow. Perhaps wisdom is living the richness that each day offers, being present to recognize those moments with the power to transform us, and seizing them before they can slip away into the currents of time.

Physicians are entrusted within the lives of their patients, lives woven from the threads of spirituality, touched by the mysteries of the universe, and filled with stories to tell. These stories can teach of a miraculous place and shine light on the path that will take us there. You do not have to be a physician, though, to learn of such things. These secrets of meaning and happiness are ours for the taking. They are hidden in the stories told by the old man down at the barber shop, displayed in the gardens of the lady next door, visible in the gaze of the stranger at the bus stop, and felt in the handshake of an old friend. They are everywhere.

We are surrounded by ways to improve our lives. Many of us won’t, not for lack of desire, but because we have not learned to listen to the teachers around us and to wonder.