Medical Advice from Vin Scully

Her life was at a crossroads. At the age of 27 she was barely making ends meet. She was working two jobs, at Disneyland and at an office, making just enough to pay her portion of the rent for the 2 bedroom apartment she shared with a roommate. With only a high school education she did not think she would be able to afford Orange County living much longer. She was debating moving back to her family home in New England. She did not have a job there, but she had family and a lower cost of living.

I asked her if she was going to school or had considered it. Her reply surprised and saddened me.

“I don’t have much self confidence,” she said, “I am afraid that I will not do well in school.”

It wasn’t just the reality of her low self worth that bothered me, it was the fact that her sense of worth was tied more to academic achievements and professional accomplishments than it was to who she was as a person. This attitude, when combined with her anxiety disorder, was paralyzing her. She felt badly about herself and she wasn't sure her fragile sense of self could withstand the threat of failure she associated with college.

I thought of how I could encourage her. I gained inspiration from an unexpected source. What came to mind were words I had heard Vin Scully, the great announcer for the Dodgers, say during a baseball game many years ago. The Dodgers had fallen behind after a fielder had dropped a ball. After commenting how the game would have been different if the ball had been caught, he said, “The saddest words of tongue or pen are those that read, ‘What might have been.’”

I shared the story with her, that regret at previous mistakes need not consume her, and that fear of future failings not lead to lifetime of regret, how sad it would be if later in life she found herself wondering how her life would have been different if she had only tried going to school. I encouraged her to consider counseling to help her overcome here low self-esteem, anxiety and fear.

I shared with her that I had similar self doubt when I started college. I thought I was smart enough for college but I was certain that I was no where near intelligent enough to pursue a career in medicine. I was interested in health care and, thinking I could be a registered nurse, signed up for a course in anatomy and physiology. The class included two weekly physiology lectures and a Wednesday evening anatomy lab course.

Each week in the lab included a quiz on the previous week’s instruction. To my surprise, I went 11 weeks in a row without missing a question. The professor recognized my potential and each week asked me, “Are you going to go to medical school?”

Each week I answered, “I can’t go to medical school.”

Each time he answered back, “You should go to medical school.”

His words stuck. A year later, after Lisa and I had been married for about 6 months, I found myself wondering, “Could I go to medical school?” The words of Vin Scully gave me motivation. I did not want my future self to look back wondering what might I been. I decided that I had to try. I feared failure, but I faced those fears.

I encouraged her to think about trying. It seems to me that failing to try is worse than trying and failing.

Bart

A Broken Mirror, But No Bad Luck

I wanted to be home. It had been a long day at the office and my trip had been delayed by an empty gas tank. I was late, I was hungry and I was in a hurry. I was two turns from home, on the busy street beside the local park that backs to our housing tract, when I saw it coming towards me. Bouncing out between the cars was a bright yellow soccer ball.

My foot instinctively moved to the brake, fearful that the ball would be followed by a child running out from between the cars. My fears quickly passed as a I saw a fence along the curb. The ball was alone on its journey into the street. As I came to where the ball was it took a high bounce that brought it to the exact height of my passenger side mirror. At 30 miles an hour a soccer ball generates significant force. I heard a “pop” as the ball hit the side mirror and then saw the mirror disappear from its plastic casing. I pulled over to survey the damage.

The plastic casing was intact and still attached to the car but the reflective piece was completely gone. There was naked black plastic in the place where reflected objects are "closer than they appear to be". I sighed and walked the 100 yards to retrieve the missing piece, back to where the soccer ball had appeared and the mirror disappeared.

As I walked, thoughts of frustration and anger began to rise, including, “Why was a child kicking the ball toward the street?” “Why wasn’t the coach paying attention?” and “I shouldn’t have to pay for this!”

I found my cracked mirror underneath a truck parked adjacent to the low fence alongside the practice area. I picked it up and turned toward the field and looked for the coach. He was a young man, in his late twenties or early thirties, standing about 30 yards away. He was absorbed in the impossible task of trying to get the attention of fifteen 6 to 7-year-old boys. I held up the mirror and called to him, “Excuse me!”

He immediately looked over. When he saw the mirror in my hands his head dropped and his hand went to his forehead in a gesture of frustration. He walked over to me with an apologetic look on his face. His words matched his expression. “I’m sorry,” he said, “They were supposed to be on water break and he kept kicking the ball. I told him to stop. I will tell him and tell his mom.”

All thoughts of anger and frustration faded as I realized the truth of what had happened. A young coach was doing his best to control a group of energetic little boys. One of them had kicked a ball at a time and in a direction he was not supposed to and a freak accident had occurred. The young coach was now confronted with a middle-aged, shirt and tied man holding a damaged mirror. The coach was fearful of anger and a demand for compensation.

I looked at the coach and the players and realized that the cost of replacing the mirror would likely be a significant burden to them and little burden to me. I could likely rant and rave and claim my right to compensation but what was the point in that? I felt my angry heart soften.

“I can afford to have the mirror fixed,” I said, “but I think he should know what happened so he can learn to be more careful.” The coach called the little boy over. The boy looked fearful as he approached, as if he was expecting to be yelled at and punished. He was clearly relieved when he learned that neither was going to happen. I showed him the mirror, told him I knew it was an accident, but that he needed to be more careful, because it costs money to fix things even when they are accidentally broken. Then I walked away.

As I walked back to my car I realized how much I had changed over the years. Growing up my parents had instilled in me a strong, albeit corrupted sense of “right” and “wrong.” I was taught to assert my rights and get what I deserved. Grace and forgiveness were not Barrett family values. On the rare occasions that forgiveness was given it always came with a price, a debt that would have to be paid or guilt that needed to be felt. There was no such thing as an innocent mistake to my father.

I thought back to the lectures and verbal abuse I had received as a child for innocent mistakes I had made and the associated ever present fear of doing wrong. I remembered times when my father insisted that I confront someone who had wronged me to demand that I get what was coming to me. That was the Barrett way. As i got into my car I took comfort in the realization that it is not the Barrett way any longer.

I drove away with the realization that the coach and the boy had no idea who I was, no way of knowing how to find me in the future, and no way of ever paying me back for the damage that I had been done. I decided that this way, the way of grace, is the best way to respond.

-          Bart

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A Baby Taken, Hearts Broken

I wasn’t ready for the tears. Patients don’t typically cry during visits for diabetes, especially when their sugars are well controlled and their labs are all normal.

The tears started when I deviated from the standard medical questions. As I was wrapping up the visit I asked, “How is the rest of your life going?” Immediately they came, prompting the need for a box of facial tissues as well as additional questions. It was clear her heart was broken.

She had lost her grandchild a month earlier. The child hadn’t died, it had been taken away.

He son and daughter-in-law had adopted a daughter. Unable to have a child on their own their prayers had been answered when their adoption attorney found a woman unable to care for the baby she was carrying. They brought her home the day she was born. Life was perfect and she was perfect and my patient was in love with her grandchild.

28 days later the birth mother changed her mind and in an instant the child was taken, taken to live in a car with her birth mother, never to return to the family that had fallen so completely in love with her. They were left with an empty nursery, broken hearts and the question, “Why?” echoing in their minds.

My heart broke along with my patient’s as she told me her story. I battled to hold back tears but eventually gave in and let them flow. I thought of my adopted daughter, of how she had immediately and permanently captured our hearts, and imagined the magnitude of my patient’s loss and the depths of her grief. I struggled to find words of comfort and solace. we talked for nearly 20 minutes. 

At the end of our conversation we walked out of the exam room together. I stopped at the nurse’s station and said good-bye. She turned to walk to the exit, paused for a moment, then reached into her purse and turned back. As she did I noticed she had her phone in her hands. “I want to show you something,” she said.

She quickly scrolled through her photos and stopped on the image of a beautiful month old baby. Her hands trembled as she showed it to me. “This is her,” she said, telling me what I already knew. My heart broke again for her as I looked at the photo. Impulsively I touched her shoulder and guided her back into the exam room. I closed the door and held the phone with her, joining her in staring at the picture.

“Can I pray for her?” I asked. I looked at the photo with tears in my eyes and prayed. I prayed for God’s protection and love, that the child would grow up healthy and loved, and that she would one day be reunited with her adoptive family in heaven. It was a helpless prayer, the only thing I could do. I gave her the phone and a hug and she left the office. 

Her story reminded me that I live in a world full of hurting people. I am surrounded by broken and breaking hearts, by people wondering where God is and what he is doing, people who are losing hope and struggling to make it through the day. People who have a burden they need to share with someone else, people who need love and prayer and someone to care.

I am reminded that no matter how busy I get, I should never be too busy for them. I need to be open and aware, to be the one who asks the right questions and then takes the time to listen.

- Bart

Thanks for reading and sharing. Please pray for the baby, for the family that has her and the family that lost her. 

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The Girl in the Harley Store

Sometimes brief encounters have a lasting impact. We were in Pennsylvania on vacation and on our way back to our home base in Hershey after a day trip to Philadelphia. We had spent the day exploring some of the birth sites of our nation, places like Independence Hall and the site of Ben Franklin’s home and print shop. We were 30 minutes away from “home” when we decided to take a detour to visit a Harley Davidson store.

I had zero interest in owning a Harley but a great interest in buying a t-shirt. A friends of ours was a big Harley guy and collected T-shirts. We thought it would be nice to grab one from one of the many Harley stores in central Pennsylvania. We found a store and after taking a few moments to orient ourselves made our way past the bikes and upstairs to the T-shirt section.  After several minutes of browsing and debate we selected a shirt and made our way to the register. The clerk was a pleasant young woman who seemed to be in her very early twenties.

In the course of our conversation we shared that we were from California. Her eyes lit up (apparently not a lot of Californians visit Harley stores in central Pennsylvania) and she asked us where in California we lived. She did not know where Orange County was so I told her we were about 20 minutes from Disneyland, which impressed her even more. She told us that she hoped to be able to go to California some day. The way she said it led me to believe that she wasn’t sure she’d ever make it out west, that she understood such a trip would likely be forever beyond her financial reach. She mentioned that the farthest she traveled was Hershey, about 10 miles away.

I was struck by how different our lives were. We lived in a beach town in Southern California with theme parks, beaches and mountains and Hollywood within easy driving distance. She lived in a small town where the single theme park in nearby Hershey was a big deal. We had traveled more and further in a week than she had in her life time.  She could only dream of traveling. She lived in a part of the country where jobs were scarce and times were hard while we lived in an area of immense wealth.

As we drove away I thought about these differences. we lived in the same country and spoke the same language but lived completely different lives. What was normal and common for me was unfathomable to her. We consider ourselves to be normal middle class people yet to her we seemed incredibly wealthy. Our brief interaction reminded me of how easy it is to forget our blessings and privilege, how easy it is to lose sight of the opportunities afforded us simply because of where we were born and the talents God has given us. I have more to be thankful for than I often realize.

- Bart

A Facebook Debate with a Good Outcome?

Facebook has gone nuclear. It is always blowing up about something but in the last few weeks it has gone nuclear. Everyone is at someone’s throat about someone’s political post. Immigration and deportations, Travel bans and Circuit court rulings, protests and counter protests have all served as fodder for raging political fires.

Reading the posts and the comments (I know, I know, NEVER read the comments) one thing is overwhelmingly clear. No one is listening. Lot’ s of people are talking, but no one is listening. I have yet to read a single comment saying, “Why do you feel that way?” or “Tell me more, I would like to understand where you are coming from?”

I decided to counteract this trend a few weeks ago. A Facebook friend I have not seen since high school made a liberally leaning comment on another friend’s post and I decided to respond. Instead of posting a comment, I sent him a message-

You are on the left and I am on the right. We are both writers. I am wondering if you would be interested in a genuine dialogue on some of the issues. I would love to engage with someone who disagrees with me without either side attacking the other.”

Over the course of the next several days, we dialogued. We exchanged emails on taxes, health care and media bias. We found a few areas of agreement and many more where we saw the world from completely different perspectives. Neither of us changed our minds.

The most important thing we agree on is that both of us love our country and want what is best for it and that neither of us wants to destroy it. Beyond that, we are still friends.

Something to think about the next time you are tempted to type out an angry comment. If you’re not willing to dialogue in private, you probably shouldn’t say anything.

- Bart

thanks for reading and sharing. Comments and questions are welcomed, and personal messages are especially welcome!