Pedagogy

People often ask how I write so consistently. They wonder how I have so many stories to tell. But for me, that's like asking why I breath. My answer is always the same.

How could I not?

I wouldn't describe writing as fluid. To capture the moment to moment drama played out in the confines of the exam room is anything but straightforward. I grasp at the straws of fluency and try to clarify through garbled grammar and awkward phrasing.

But what choice to do I have? How else can I integrate the hum drum reality of family dinners interrupted by phone calls regarding code status and withdrawing life support? How do I explain why I tear up at the end of a sad movie yet negotiate pain and suffering as if I was a weatherman announcing another sunny day in San Diego.

When I stop writing my soul shrivels behind a protectionist shell. I become a shadow of the husband and father that I used to be. I transform from a healer to a nameless, faceless physician. The kind you look up in the index of some health insurance guide book.

But maybe, just maybe, when you read my words you'll feel a little bit closer to understanding.

Physicians will nod their heads in a shared brotherhood of traumatic experiences.

And patients will know that someone is finally listening.