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...                     

Continued Prayers, Wishes, & Hopes

I pulled up my last-year wishes for you and found myself nodding my agreement as I read, finding that the sentiment and spirit are as strong today as when I wrote them one year ago.

My continued prayers, wishes, and hopes for you and yours...have a Blessed and Happy Holidays.

Another holiday season is upon us. For all the unbridled joy and excitement that surrounds us, however, there is an uneasiness within my core that seems to seed itself every year. I don't think I am alone.

I have seen enough heartache through the year to know that joy and excitement can be very temporary. Can you even imagine wrapping presents only to return them after the holiday season because of an untimely death, never having the chance to give them? Over the holiday season, especially, heartache seems to magnify itself into a swirling tornado ready to touch down on so many lives. I've seen a lot of energy spent outrunning that tornado.

So, for all the happiness, I still can't help but be reminded of how hard these upcoming days will be for so many. My heart goes out to them. Especially the children.

How do I remember the important things in my life? And not just over the holidays, but every day? I know I have been blessed in my life. When I think of these blessings, none of them have to do with material things but rather things that spiritually feed my soul. Companionship, loyalty, kindness, and love. And more love. These make me a better person.

So, in the spirit of this holiday season, I share just a few of my prayers, my wishes, and my hopes with you.

I pray for my family, my friends, and those in the world that are in need. I pray that my son remains in remission for another five years, and another five years after that. I pray that my mother can look down on my family and smile. I pray she knows the power of her prayers, asking a forgiving God to show my son mercy and take her in His arms instead when they were both battling their malignancies. I pray that I can be gracious in adversity, always.

I wish for my family, my friends, and those in the world to know love, to embrace kindness, and to step outside the box and give more of themselves. I wish for endless hugs. I wish for good health. I wish for every child to know warmth in their heart and comfort in their soul. I wish for peace.

I hope that the ripples from compassion will disperse beyond our wildest imaginations. I hope that random acts of kindness multiply. I hope that thoughts of others will replace thoughts of ourselves. I hope that we all remember that we are in this together. I hope that your joy, your happiness, and your excitement is not temporary but rather infinite.

I pray you have a wonderful holiday season. I wish for all your expectations to be fulfilled. I hope the most important presents you will give this holiday season are gifts you can give each day through the year.

Happy Holidays...

As always, big thanks for reading... To my amazing readers...I truly hope this holiday season is blessed and happy for you and all the people in your lives.

How Do You Sleep?

One of the more common, non-emergent complaints I hear in the ER is about sleeping, or the lack thereof. Although the patient is usually being seen for a more serious, emergent issue, if their sleep is not solid, they tend to skillfully bring it up regardless of what else is going on.

"Maam," I said, "it appears by your EKG that you are having a heart attack."

Despite chest pain so intense that my patient was clutching her chest, she still stammered, "But what can we do about my sleep?"

Or, imagine my elderly male patient in the midst of a stroke, with the left half of his face drooping, his speech slurred, and drool sliding down his chin. "I shant schweep adt nichte."

"Pardon me, sir, but what did you just say?" I asked.

Thankfully, the nurse starting his IV understood him. "He said, 'I can't sleep at night.'"

See what I mean? I've even had a patient share her insomnia issues during a pelvic exam. Maybe if she had slept more and fooled around less, I wouldn't have had to do this exam for her itchy, malodorous discharge in the first place.

Barring the situational, temporary reasons (for example, a death in the family), sleep disorders are typically viewed as chronic, long-term illnesses and, as such, should be treated by one's family doctor. Sleep studies may be necessary, and there are several options of treatment to prescribe, all requiring close follow-up. All reasons for me not to treat a patient for this disorder. I will, in a pinch, prescribe a few days worth of medication for a patient if their daily life is being severely affected, but that's about it.

Several years ago, after some prompting by my wife, I underwent a sleep study. It seems that I was having bouts of snoring and gasping for air in my sleep, per my wife. I'm not sure how she knew this, seeing that her head hits the pillow and a six-to-eight-hour coma immediately follows. But yes, she insisted, this was happening. So I took her word for it and pursued the testing.

I arrived at the sleep lab suite around 7:30 p.m, nervous and not sure what to expect. After checking in, I was shown to a huge bedroom, professionally decorated, with a queen-size, pillow-top bed beckoning for my company. "Come, Jim" it whispered to me, "come and let me wrap my big, down-filled arms around you." I think I heard the 40-inch TV calling, too, but I could have been imagining that.

After the tech showed me to my private bathroom, I changed into some appropriate sleepwear. You might be asking yourself--what's appropriate? I'm going to let your imagination answer that question. Just be aware, though, that they videotape you through the night as you sleep. And then post that video on YouTube. Just joking. Suffice it to say, I would suggest that one wear more than just the usual home sleepwear. And newer, too. Please, on behalf of all the sleep-lab techs in the world, don't show up in a stained, big-daddy Hanes t-shirt. Or tighty-whiteys. Or a moth-eaten thong. Or nothing at all. Especially nothing at all!

After changing, I climbed into bed. Soon, the tech came into the room. I was nervous, obviously, and likened this anxiety to how a 60 year-old fat, balding guy must feel while lying in his hotel bed, waiting for his prostitute to arrive.

The tech, a nonchalant, easy-going guy, explained the whole process to me. "First, we 'll attach these electrodes to your head, then your chest and finally your arms. After that, we'll leave you alone. You can do whatever you want--watch TV, read a book, whatever--until around 10 p.m. If you aren't sleeping by then, we'll ask you to turn off everything. Don't forget," he continued, "besides monitoring you, we'll be watching you on video." He pointed to the cameras in the upper corners of the room while he spoke. "Any questions?"

No questions, but just a silent prayer. "Dear God, I beg of you, keep me from scratching myself or making a fool of myself tonight. Amen." I added a bargain for good measure. "Oh, and if you do, God, I promise to give every ER patient a turkey sandwich, a warm blanket, and unlimited lemon pudding during the next week."

The tech left the room. I looked around, all this comfort surrounding me, and all I could do was think "How the hell am I going to sleep with all these wires hooked up to me?"

Well, I read a little, I flicked through the 1000 available TV channels, and finally, around 10 p.m., I turned off the lights. There's no way, I thought to myself, that I'm going to fall asleep. I pictured my wife at home, smiling, arms and legs spread out, sleeping soundly alone in our bed. I had the bad feeling that I had been set up.

Next thing I knew, though, I was being nudged in the shoulder. "Hey," I heard, "it's time to wake up." Through groggy, squinting eyes, I peered slowly around, clearing my mind's disorientation. That's right, I reminded myself, I was in the sleep-lab and, wouldn't you know, just had my best night's sleep in about ten years.

"You did great," the new male tech said. "Let's get you up and out of here." I got up, moved to the side of the bed, and he removed all of my electrodes. I got a quick shower, cleaning all the gel off of my head and body, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and headed home. I didn't need to hear the official results, I already knew--everything would come back normal.

Yeah, well, I'd like to call a penalty--the sleep-lab guys cheated. Unlimited channels, private room with bathroom included, big pillow-topped bed with down-filled comforter, the bed all to myself--who the heck couldn't sleep within those luxuries? The wires were but a mere distraction.

Have any of you had a sleep-lab study done? Similar experiences? Would you like to share how it went? What you wore? Let me lower my voice three octaves, like the great Barry White's, to a whisper and ask again. "Hey you, yeah you, how you doin'? What did you wear during your sleep lab?"

It took me some time, but I have my sleep all figured out now. Three, no four, things work for me. One, no alcohol. It's been shown to interrupt your sleep cycles, so I cut out my nightly glass of wine. Two, a great book. Three, Tylenol PM. Just one, occasionally. And four, in a pinch, 1/2 of a 10 mg Ambien tablet. I still have half of a thirty-day supply prescribed from last November. Take it on an empty stomach and within a half-hour, I'm a little woozy. Next thing I know, I wake up and it's morning time. And life is good. Bring on the day!

This isn't medical advice, just what works for me. Sometimes, though, it works too well. After taking a Tylenol PM several nights ago (I'm in the midst of several busy ER shifts), I woke up the next morning, horrified. On the ottoman beside our bed, my laptop computer sat with the top opened. Here, after taking my Tylenol PM, I had the brilliant idea to email a few people about their kind comments left on my blog. Rereading those emails this morning, I could only laugh and send those readers a follow-up email, apologizing for the ramblings. Forgive me if you got one.

Okay, I gotta run. I feel the Tylennnnnolll PPPPPMM kkickkkkkingggg innn aaagainnnnnnnn. Seriously. As we used to say when I was younger, "Good night, sleep tight. And don't let the bed bugs bite."

As always, big thanks for reading. Next post will be Wednesday, March 10. See you then...