Perspective And Empathy

I could see through the two window shields into her car.  Her forehead creased into a petulant frown and she mouthed the words over dramatically.

Asssssshooole

Five minutes earlier, I was packing up my papers at the nursing home when my pager went off.  I fumbled for the desk phone, my arms constrained by the bulky winter jacket I had just climbed into.  I tapped my feet and waited impatiently for someone to pick up the line.

Hello, hello Dr. Grumet?  I think she's dying.  Can you come now?

The ICU nurse sounded panicky.  It was early in the morning and the critical care specialist wasn't in the building.  I jumped out of my seat and sprinted toward the car.  The trip was less than a mile.  I turned onto the expressway and then made a right onto to the nearest exit.  I stealthily navigated a series of small streets punctuated by a stop sign.  As I came to the intersection another car pulled up facing me.  Seeing her right turn signal and knowing I was going straight, I made a superficial attempt at stopping and then rolled through.

While passing, I could see the anger seethe from her lips for my failing to abide by the most basic rules of the road.  She was furious.  I felt like laughing.  If she only knew that I was racing to the hospital in the most dire of circumstances. 

It was a matter of perspective.  But I couldn't be too angry.

Hadn't I been just as guilty?   How many times had I shook my head disapprovingly as an elderly patient hobbled into my office thirty minutes late?  Had I fumbled with the icy certainty of arthritic joints or the Himalayan distances crossed in the parking lot, maybe I would understand differently. 

It is shockingly easy to regret the futile decisions of  a panicking family when it's not your loved one lying in the hospital bed.

Perspective and empathy.  Different sides of the same coin.

The women in the car was right. 

I had been everything she hauntingly accused me of.

At times.