Have A Little...

Faith.  A simple word with complicated meaning.  It is a seed buried deep within our spiritual cores, ready to be nourished and blossom with the sprinklings of tragedy.  It is a belief that things will work out, despite our lack of vision for fate's secretive reasons of the bumpy journey we must endure.  It is an inherent hope that has either sustained us or has failed us miserably.  Yes, to me, this is faith.

We all have known faith.  Embraced it.  Bargained with it.  Coddled it within our breaking hearts. Placed it on a pedestal of worship. I have, too.  With undertones that may be religious, spiritual, or meditative, we lean against its pillars of reassurance.  Sometimes, as they say, it is all we have to cling to during desperate times.

Working in an emergency room for 16 years, I have seen faith present its various faces many times.  It may be within the circle of a grieving family, their hands clasped in prayer.  It may be in the young mother's eyes, watchful of her sick child lying in a hospital cot.  It may be in the older gentleman's anguished cries as I share the devastating results of his wife's testing.  It may be in the silent strength of the obvious love of a dying man's partner.  It may be in the ER staff's comforting whispers.  Faith cannot be contained, especially in tragic circumstances.  I tend to think it is a part of the coping fabric that threads all of our lives.

Why do I think that?  Because, those moments of my life where I had to believe in something more, where I had to dig deep within the rubble of my soul to scrape a little bit of sanity, were during intense, personal moments.  My son's illness.  My mother's death.  My grandmother's death.  A life-threatening injury to my father.  I swear, when my mother and my son were both simultaneously enduring chemotherapy, I stared faith right in the face and bargained with it.  Threatened it, even.  "If something happens to my son," I uttered to invisible universal ears while pulling at my hair, "I will never forgive you for it." Yes, I know faith.  It has been my best friend and my worst enemy.

After my son's initial diagnosis, I stood in the hospital corridors outside of his pediatric room, disheartened and in disbelief.  Cole had just returned from the OR where a mediport had been placed in preparation for an aggressive initial round of chemotherapy.  My spiritual guidance, Father Tom, stood beside me, recognizing my slipping faith.  "Why Cole?" I asked, over and over, tearful and angry.  "Why couldn't it have been me?  What kind of world do we live in for a child to endure this?"

Father Tom, in his infinite wisdom, answered my pleas with words that I still carry to this day.  His words, to me, exemplify the true nature of faith.  "Jim," he said, his voice husky and comforting, his arm wrapped around my trembling shoulders, "I can't answer your questions.  I wish I could, but I can't."  He paused slightly, choosing his words.  "I can only pray that at some point in Cole's life, on his journey, the answers of 'Why?' will become more evident.  That the reasons will be more clear to all of us of why he was chosen to endure this illness."  In other words, in staring at a big, suffocating fog of nothingness, Father Tom was telling me that I must have faith.

How does one do that?

At my rock bottom, the openness of my mind was staggering. I listened to any words of support and encouragement, my hopes and faith hinging onto any little hint of a better tomorrow. I'd walk away from family and friends, my mind reeling and spitting out their words to suit my recovery, my belief system.  Ultimately, I learned to believe that all things in our lives happen for a reason. I had to arrive at the belief that Cole would survive and thrive, that the years we will have together would be many.  To not arrive at this point would have meant a certain death in an unattainable part of my core.  I was learning to survive by walking the path that my faith created.

Cole survived.  And as I type these words, I whisper a silent thank you to those universal ears of faith that fulfilled my every request.

Every day, though, followed by every week, every month, and every year, there is more profound sadness, more tragedy, that requires us to dig deep and rediscover our faith.  To recommit ourselves to examine our morals and ideals while we cope with a crisis.  A few years back, another setback occurred in my life, plummeting me even farther into my spiritual well.  Cole had veered from remission while my mother concurrently fought a losing battle against leukemia.  And I was back to the same dark place that I had turned my back on just a few years earlier.

Again, though, my faith sustained me.  It wasn't easy.  But now, with things going well, especially after my very own first health setback, I sit here and appreciate the moments of goodness in my life.  I have learned, from these various experiences, to give my attention to faith during the good times, too.  My faith has been tested and tried and, fortunately, has sustained me in my times of need.  It is my time to feed some nourishment back, during the good times, to those who have surrounded me with smiles and encouragement and and unwavering friendship and love. A phone call. A card. A lunch date. A smile. Some kind words.

It is a two-way street that I have learned to travel with faith.

Where does your life sit right now, on this very day?  Are things going well for you?  Are you facing crisis?  Are you recovering from or approaching a trying moment?  Are you engaged in the environment surrounding your life? How is your support system?  And, most importantly, how is your faith?  Do you think maybe that little seed patiently waiting to sprout within you, in a moment of need, might appreciate a little attention now?  If so, give it some.  Sow it.  Water it. Feed it.  Coddle it.  Embrace it. The effort taken now to examine and understand your faith will reap you rewards when you most need them.

All around me, including dear family and friends, including strangers and patients in the ER, I see daily struggles occurring.  At times, I feel helpless and out of sorts, my seat on the sidelines but a useless location to witness another's misery. But I know, from continuing to grow as a compassionate and kind person, that good times will prevail if one can just hang in there. So, please, just hang in there.

And have a little...                     

Heroes Among Us--Gigi

The world just lost another angel. A hero. An ordinary person with extraordinary kindness and love.

Do you ever stop to think how often through your typical day you pass by an angel or hero and simply don't know? Busy, busy, busy. We have things to do, errands to run, and phone calls to make. We keep strangers at arm's length. And the cost of this hurriedness is simply that we fail to share and learn about one another. Every face we encounter holds a history, a story to be told, and sometimes those stories are remarkable and breathtaking. The unfortunate thing is that we will never know if we don't take the time.

Enter Gigi. Someone who always took the time.

Gigi was an EKG technician at our hospital. Almost nine years ago, as I have touched on previously, my son was diagnosed with a rare malignancy that required him to be on chemotherapy for a year. He failed to stay in remission and had to undergo a second complete year of chemotherapy to achieve remission again. Since then, he has been in remission for five years and is an extremely well-adjusted, bright, athletically-gifted boy who makes my chest swell with pride. Through his experiences, I have learned much about life, about love, about compassion, and especially about embracing the daily moments that hold the simplistic joys that many feel come only with big life-events.

What I was learning at that time in my life, however, Gigi already knew. She was frequently called down to our ER to do EKGs on patients and she could be overheard in conversation with them, asking them frank, sincere questions about their health, their lives. She seemed to really care and enjoy her interactions with each new face.

I didn't really know Gigi, however, until one day when she approached me soon after my son's initial diagnosis.

"How is your son doing?" Her voice had startled me and I looked up from my chart to find this middle-aged woman with a soft perm, intense eyes, and a big smile talking to me.

"Pardon me?" I asked, surprised at her bluntness. Most people either tiptoed around me or asked me directly about my son. I appreciated the latter approach and Gigi did too, obviously.

"Your son. I just found out about him and I'm praying for him and your family I just wanted you to know."

She was a stranger and yet, looking into her eyes, she was my immediate friend. I couldn't break my gaze with her. I knew that she got me, that she understood. She looked beyond my face and forced smile to see the hurt and anxiety that I was carrying.

"I'm Gigi," she said, holding out her hand. I took it and introduced myself. And she really did want to know about my son. How was he was doing? What medicine he was on? How was he adjusting to having a mediport? She genuinely cared and her thoughtful questions reflected that caring.

After a few minutes of conversation, she had to go do a stat EKG and I had to return to my patients. But before we parted, she asked "Can I have a hug?" A hug from Gigi, I learned that day, held more compassion that a hundred Hallmark cards. It was genuine and heartfelt--not just a quick expected pat on the back.

Through the years since, we learned much about one another's family, yet every time I saw Gigi, her first question to me would be about my son. "How's that boy doing?" His return to good health brought many authentic smiles to her face.

About a year ago, in the midst of a crazy shift, Gigi approached me with some worry on her face.

"Doc," she said, never once calling me anything else despite my urging to use my first name, "I'm really worried." She proceeded to explain that she had some abdominal bloating and intermittent pains for months but was afraid to approach her doctor. She felt it would be bad news and didn't want to face it or ruin her husband's recent retirement.

"Gigi," I said, "let's get you in a room. I want to do an exam and run some tests."

"Oh, no," she said in true Gigi fashion, "I'm off tomorrow and these patients need you today. Let me come in tomorrow to see you and I'll bring my husband along. I'll do whatever you say, but tomorrow, okay?"

Of course, Gigi. The next day, as I knew she would, she did come in with her husband. He was just as I pictured Gigi's husband to be--kind, considerate, supportive, and worried. Gigi and I had never taken our friendship beyond the hospital's walls and it was my pleasure to match her husband's face to her loving stories about him.

Unfortunately, Gigi's workup did reveal some serious findings. She had cancer. Cancer that had aggressively spread beyond its primary site.

With this news, I approached her room with a heavy heart. And knowing me as well as she did, she knew the minute I walked in the room that I held heart-breaking news.

"Just tell me, Doc. Don't sugarcoat anything."

I pulled up my chair, grasped her hand, and explained all her results very thoroughly. She cried, her husband cried, and I cried. It simply wasn't fair. Hardworking, decent, compassionate, loving--none of these traits had protected Gigi from something bad. It was her right, I felt, to only have good things occur in her life. I was really affected by her results and through the rest of my shift, I heavily relied on my Naphcon A eye-drops. It was now my turn to pray for her and her family. We admitted Gigi to continue her workup of identifying her type of cancer, its location, and its staging.

Remarkably, my son and Gigi had never met and, encouraged by my wife and I, all three of our kids made Gigi get-well posters. The next day, Cole and I hand-delivered the posters to her. She was in her hospital bed, her husband sitting in the corner, when Cole and I arrived. We knocked and walked through her room door. After looking up at us, Gigi immediately reached out her hands for Cole, who instinctively walked to her bed and sat down beside her. Gigi wrapped him in her arms and my lucky son received the same exact hug that I had received nine years earlier. If it was possible, his hug was even more magnificent than mine had been.

Through her battle, Gigi never once lost her faith or let her beautiful spirit waver. We shared hospital visits, phone calls, and cards, which never seemed to be enough to satisfy this sender's aching soul. She was, as you would expect and hope, surrounded by loving family and friends throughout her ordeal. She braved multiple rounds of chemotherapy and radiation and, despite her body's failings at times, pushed forward in attempts to beat off her disease. "I'm not doing this for me," she said, "I'm doing this for my family."

Sadly, though, Gigi passed away before the holiday season began.

Gigi was never defined by fame or fortune, but rather by compassion, kindness, and love. She embraced humanity wholeheartedly and clearly enjoyed touching the lives of others. If she hadn't taken the time with me nine years prior, reaching out to me in a dark moment of my life, I would have missed having an angel here on earth as my friend.

Gigi, I thank you for taking the time.

As always, thank you for reading. We all have a Gigi or two in our lives, hopefully more--if you want to share a little about your Gigi, feel free to in the comments. Next post will be Wednesday, January 13.