Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Back then, this woman and I talked dozens of times. I stood by her during a difficult period of life. Yet as she reached out her hand for mine, I couldn't recall her or her mother's name. We exchanged pleasantries and eventually moved on. She likely didn't detect my mental lapse.
When I became a physician, I promised that I would remember each and every patient and family who lived and died under my care. As the years pass, my vessel has become so full that the details often run over. After being a part of countless life altering experiences, the emotional muscle memory loses it's resilience.
And thus the irony of being a physician. Your face becomes seared in the brains of many who must be forgotten to make room for the needs of those who remain. You become a dream catcher, catching the peaceful sleeper's nightmares and holding them till the sun washes away all the specifics. But something remains.
It is in the ashes of those remnants that my writing takes form.
I try to capture the gift.
The gift that each soul has left behind.
Posted by Jordan Grumet at 6:10 PM