In my last posting I reflected some on my physician; he is soon to be retired. I awoke this morning reflecting upon my father. Like his father, he was an ‘old-time’ doctor. He did it all. He was a family doc, he delivered babies (hundreds of them), he was also a surgeon (he was honored by the International College of Surgeons). He was on ‘call’ every day. He made house calls after office hours. He lived to be 91. He was never really sick; ten days before he died he became ill and then he decided that it was time and he let go and died. A few months after his death I wrote the following in my journal. I titled the entry (I seldom put titles on my entries): ‘Remembrance.’ Here is some of what I wrote:
Dad, it was not science that you believed in, it was the person. You demonstrated to me that science, as good as it is, is less than the human being, far less. You ‘used’ science in care-full ways. You lived medicine as an intuitive art. For close to sixty years you cared for human beings. You, literally cared for generations. I remember times when we were out and a family would be nearby; they would see you and with deep gratitude etched in their faces they would come over and thank you. I remember one family: a grandfather, a son, and his son’s son – you attended to all three.
As I grew into adulthood I could observe a tension. The tension was between ‘conventional wisdom’ and ‘personal conviction.’ You trusted your personal conviction more than conventional wisdom. You trusted your lived-experience; you trusted that reflection plus experience was the real learning. You were the ‘mature observer’. You trusted your ability to be attentive (you paid attention with intention and purpose). I remember a time, you were in your early 70s, and I was home visiting. You were a person of few words, so when you spoke more than a few I really paid attention. We were sitting on the porch, you had a book and so did I (we both loved to read). You had taken into the practice a young doctor; I asked you how it was going with him. After a bit of silence, you seldom ever shot from the lip – you seemed to always lead with reflection not words, you said something like, ‘He believes he knows it all!’ Mom, who was nearby, often supplied additional information. She said, ‘Your father means that Dr….. does not take time to relate to his patients, he doesn’t take the time to get to really know them. He goes by the book, not by the person.’ I looked at my father, his silence confirmed that mom was correct. I remember feeling sad (I am feeling sad as I type these words); I felt sad for my dad and for the young doctor.
Why do I care so much for you? You’re no different from the rest of us; you are a living paradox just like I am. In many ways your passions were a weakness, not a strength so you developed into the ‘strong silent one.’ YET….yours was the last as well as the first great honorable passion…a passion for the well-being of human beings. You fused two loves – the love of knowledge and the love of the person. You fused the love of the search with the love of understanding. Always, your impulse was to serve, to care, and to attend to those who were suffering. Many people, including your family, wanted a part of you. You did your best in attending to the many who wanted something from you – you were always clear, mom told me, that your first obligation was to be there for others (your wife, your patients, your children).
You strove to live this tearing tension; you strove to be the authentic man who sought his authentic place in the world. You could not do it all, yet. . . As human beings we are constructed to serve and we are constructed to care – you strove to do both as you understood your life’s calling. Overall, dad, I would say you did a good job. Thanks. I thank you and I thank you on behalf of all of those you served and cared for – for close to sixty years.
Here is a photo of my mom and dad, outside of their home on the day of their 50th wedding anniversary (July 20, 1985).
