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On Doctoring: Stories, Poems, Essays: Reynolds, Richard, Ed.: blogger.com: Books
Jim Gallagher rose from his chair, wincing in pain, and I watched as he shuffled across the waiting room toward me.
As we shook hands at the door to my office, I was struck by the difference between us. I was a young Black doctor in my twenties, working as a medical resident at the Manhattan V. Hospital, on Twenty-third Street and First Avenue. Jim was a portly white man in his seventies. Years of stress were evident in the small vertical wrinkles marking the sides of his face, and in the bags under his eyes.
When we reached my office, Jim told me his story. In a halting cadence, he said that he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer nine years earlier, in He had completed forty-eight sessions of radiation, sending the cancer into remission—but then, five years later, it had returned.
He began to suffer back pain, and a CT scan showed that the cancer had migrated to his spine; it soon invaded his bones, making walking difficult. He had researched his prognosis and knew how much time he had left—he thought he had maybe two years.
As an earnest young physician, I wanted to provide him with a different kind of experience. It had never occurred to me to pose such a question to a patient before—I asked on a whim. In response, Jim reached into his sports-jacket pocket and pulled out a rectangular black leather calendar book. He was, he said, a poet. He handed me the book.
Inside were some of his own poems, and copies of verses written by some of his favorite poets—Carl Sandburg, Walter de la Mare—typed out and carefully stapled or taped onto each calendar page. Writing poetry, he said, was one of the main sources of joy in his life, doctoring essay poem story. But it was only in the past few years that he had found himself writing all the time. As I thumbed through the pages, I saw poems of different lengths and forms.
I took a minute to read one, while Jim sat in front of me. It was a fragile time And we lived it carefully, Making sure there was Not too much distance Between the soft words And the gentle giving Knowing time was limited But not dividing Or counting it In days and weeks Or looking for a sign Of its end. The poem reflected my initial sense of Jim—who gave me permission to tell his story and quote from his poems—as a man faced with his own mortality, trying to capture or rewrite his own concept of time.
I handed the book back and told him that I would be happy to read more. He left. That evening, while wrapping up my day, I reviewed his chart. I saw that he had been coming to my hospital sincebouncing from oncologist to oncologist until finding his way to our primary-care clinic. He was on an antihormonal therapy called abiraterone, meant to starve the cancer cells in his prostate of the hormones that they needed to grow, doctoring essay poem story, and he struggled with the side effects—debilitating doctoring essay poem story and joint pain.
A couple of months later, Jim arrived for his next appointment, doctoring essay poem story. We greeted each other like friends. His voice was stronger, and he told me a few stories about his life and travels while I checked his neck for swollen lymph nodes and palpated his back for tenderness. He had served in Vietnam, in Army intelligence, then spent decades working around the world for a global industrial-manufacturing company. Now retired, he spent most of his time at home, in New Jersey, with his wife.
As I moved gingerly through the physical exam, Jim occasionally lurched forward in doctoring essay poem story. I noticed that telling these stories seemed therapeutic for him. He took a deep breath as he moved off the table, and mentioned doctoring essay poem story his back pain was causing a slight limp.
I thought that a lidocaine patch and a back brace might help. Before ending the visit, I asked him how his poetry was going. Jim asked me if I wrote poetry. I told him that I had been writing most of my life. But studying and practicing medicine turned out to be all-consuming. At home, I left a blank sheet of paper on my desk, in case inspiration came, doctoring essay poem story, but I was always rushing out the door or off to sleep.
I was also coming to terms with being gay. I started slipping into the same depressive symptoms that I was learning about in my medical textbooks. The page remained blank. When he asked to read one of my poems, I told him that I would send him one soon. At our next appointment, Jim was walking better.
The lidocaine patches were helping, but he still had some back spasms. I said that I would prescribe some muscle relaxants, and refer him to a physical therapist and a nutritionist, doctoring essay poem story. But, as he was leaving, he handed me a new poem. I read it later, seated and sandwiched on my subway ride home:. His words helped me forget for a moment the sea of human bodies surrounding me on the train.
I started a few poems to give to Jim, but never doctoring essay poem story them. So I decided to look back at my older pieces. Jim wrote me back. Next to some works by Auden. Born in in a working-class neighborhood near the Brooklyn Navy Yard, he majored in literature, at St. Jim stopped writing poetry after college. He enlisted when he was twenty-one, and arrived in Vietnam on the second day of the Tet Offensive, working on a team providing intelligence support for the 3rd Brigade, 1st Infantry Division.
In the mid-nineties, he settled back in New Jersey with his wife. The farther the cancer spread, the more he felt compelled to write.
Memories flooded his mind. Sometimes, the pain in the bones is so bad. I did all the things a primary-care doctor should do. But our visits kept coming back to poetry, doctoring essay poem story.
Our final visit was in June, I was leaving the V. for Columbia University Doctoring essay poem story Center, where I was to begin training in infectious diseases. We reviewed our plan for his pain, which was under pretty good control, doctoring essay poem story. Then we took some time to talk about how far we had come.
As a parting gift, he handed me a black binder with a transparent cover. They were accompanied by illustrations or photos, mostly shots of nature. When I asked Jim whether he still hoped to publish his collection someday, he said that his mind had changed, doctoring essay poem story. He had been discouraged after hearing how daunting the process was. I told Jim that I would read every page, and that, doctoring essay poem story, even if it never got published, the collection would always have a prominent place on my shelf.
We hugged each other goodbye, and promised to remain in contact. That evening, he e-mailed. It has been a doctoring essay poem story and meaningful experience to have been associated with you, doctoring essay poem story. A few weeks later, he e-mailed again. Even a perfect artist On the journey from trained eye To perfect hand and brush Could not hope to translate And move from this compelling place Onto waiting blank canvas What eyes have tasted and drunk.
I learned a lot from Jim about medicine, especially when it comes to treating hospitalized, critically ill patients. I often meet people after a severe infection has ravaged their bodies. Most of them have so much less time left than Jim did.
And Jim gave poetry back to me. Death asked who is she? Donned in colorful headwraps doctoring essay poem story gold earrings A mother, a muse My patient, there with me. The treatments only keep the inevitable growth at bay. Sometimes, I think that the only reason he holds on is to get more poems written.
His e-mails usually have a finished poem attached, or an update on a specific work in progress, doctoring essay poem story. Then he updates me on his cancer, his latest medication and its side doctoring essay poem story, why he is changing oncologists, and other medical matters. He always asks for my opinion. He mostly relaxes at home with his wife and his five-year-old cat, Bao Bao. There is no more travel for him—just travel stories. The fall before COVIDI e-mailed him from France.
I was sitting in an uncrowded train to Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, drinking warm coffee, doctoring essay poem story, eating fresh bread, and I wrote him a poem:. Peace, the whir of the train Floating by rows of trees And tilled soil The sun lands lightly on the hills Dripping between leaves A lush summer in Lyon Children on small bicycles Waving to parents through windowpane Winding through thin alleyways Laughter rising to the sky The squares of St Rémy Caught in tranquility.
A few days later, doctoring essay poem story, on Veterans Day, I sent him a picture from Paris of a fiery sunset above the Seine. Recently, I called Jim. His voice was raspier, but he had the same husky laugh and self-deprecating humor.
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, time: 7:00On Doctoring: Stories, Poems, Essays | JAMA | JAMA Network
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