from my journal, 1-10-08
The 2 young men walked into the gallery for the first time about 2 years ago. As I do with all visitors I welcomed them to Gallery 5, introduced myself, and learned that they were members of the 101st Airborne stationed in nearby Fort Campbell. They were interested in art and were visiting the Lowertown galleries for the first time. They were quiet, but not shy, and spent a great deal of time looking at all the art and seemed to enjoy just being in the gallery and studio. Yes, they had served in Iraq and were glad to be back home. I remember being impressed at how nonplussed they were about that, as if it was all very routine. I also remember the uncertainty I felt trying to understand what appeared to be a contradicion, 2 young, very professional appearing soldiers so interested in art.
I told them I would take 50% off the price of anything they wanted, and Richard bought a small clay mono type. David told me how his father would enjoy seeing my work since he worked creating art for the major studios in Hollywood.
Over the next 12-18 months they returned 3 or 4 times, each time spending no less than 30-45 minutes looking at the art and talking about how they enjoyed the opportunity to do so. David spoke frequently and fondly about his father who obviously instilled in his son the appreciation of art.. They were both anticipating returning to Iraq in the fall of 2007 with their now familiar casualess. David’s wife accompanied them on these visits, and on their last visit his dad was with them. He seemed to enjoy the art just as his son said he would and that visit lasted well over and hour.. When they left my last words to them were, “take care of yourselves and come back to see me”. I admired them for their uncomplaining commitment to their tasks as soldiers, simply doing what was expected of them.
This morning the studio phone rang and the caller ID listed an out of town number I did not recognize. As soon as David’s dad identified himself, his voice flat and halting, I knew, and the tears began as he told me that “David fell”: he was killed by a sniper’s bullet while on patrol 2 days ago. The pain and grief in his voice was palpable. My own grief was immediate and uncontrollable, made worse when he told me how much David enjoyed his visits to my gallery and would I please send a copy of my book to David’s wife, and one to him. It seems such a small thing to do for such a great sacrifice.
That was early this morning. Now my sadness is accompanied by anger. I am angry that we are told we are at war, and yet nothing is asked of us. Our military is at war, the thousands of young men and women who are in Iraq, and those that have been there are at war. Their families, parents, spouses, children, and other loved ones are at war. Richard is at war and David was at war. David’s death has made the war personal for me.
An “I support our troops” bumper sticker doesn’t do it. All americans should be sharing the sacrifices that these young men and women and their families are bearing. It is the responsibility of our leaders to show us how. Instead we are not allowed to see and feel the tragedies of war, it is hidden from us, presented only in a sanitized form. And that is a disservice to David, his family and his comrades. My anger is not about whether or not this is a justifiable war, it is about the way in which it is not allowed to truly enter into our collective consciousness. It is about the leaders who are afraid to ask the country to make any real sacrifices because we have this wonderful all volunteer military, and they can do it for us.
(I will complete the Paducah artist relocation program tomorrow)
Showing posts with label Death and dying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Death and dying. Show all posts
Friday, January 11, 2008
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Mrs. Garowski and mom
March, 2002
Mrs. Garowski is dying, and based on what I saw when I visited her at home today I expect it will occur fairly soon (weeks). It was only a few weeks ago that she was in the office and we talked about hospice; the most recent tests had revealed a progression of her disease in spite of the chemotherapy and we both agreed that further treatment would be futile. She and her husband were ready for hospice care, but she asked, almost pleadingly, would I still be seeing her, and of course I said I would, and I did, this afternoon. The change in her condition was dramatic and I promised I would be back soon.
Driving home my heart was heavy, mourning not only for her, but for what I was giving up...the opportunity (and the privilege) to serve Mrs. Garowski, and others like her. I feel I have the gift to do this work, but with equal certainty feel it is time for me to move on to other work, and this makes me sad. It also makes me determined to apply myself fully and honestly to the work ahead.
Seeing this elegant lady on her deathbed also reminded me of mom, and her last weeks and days with us. And I realize once again how, even in her death, she gave to me. My mother taught me about dying as no one else could have, and as a result of that, I I have been able to give more to my patients. May God shine brightly on mom and Mrs. Garowski and may my new work be worthy of both of them.
Mrs. Garowski is dying, and based on what I saw when I visited her at home today I expect it will occur fairly soon (weeks). It was only a few weeks ago that she was in the office and we talked about hospice; the most recent tests had revealed a progression of her disease in spite of the chemotherapy and we both agreed that further treatment would be futile. She and her husband were ready for hospice care, but she asked, almost pleadingly, would I still be seeing her, and of course I said I would, and I did, this afternoon. The change in her condition was dramatic and I promised I would be back soon.
Driving home my heart was heavy, mourning not only for her, but for what I was giving up...the opportunity (and the privilege) to serve Mrs. Garowski, and others like her. I feel I have the gift to do this work, but with equal certainty feel it is time for me to move on to other work, and this makes me sad. It also makes me determined to apply myself fully and honestly to the work ahead.
Seeing this elegant lady on her deathbed also reminded me of mom, and her last weeks and days with us. And I realize once again how, even in her death, she gave to me. My mother taught me about dying as no one else could have, and as a result of that, I I have been able to give more to my patients. May God shine brightly on mom and Mrs. Garowski and may my new work be worthy of both of them.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
MY MOTHER’S LAST GIFTS
My mother died in 1991 after a year long srruggle with cancer . Six years earlier she and my father moved into a small house they built on our farm so they could be close to Patience and me. They were both in their seventies, and as an only child we thought it would be good to have them nearby. We didn’t know at the time just how good that would prove to be. I was working two 12 hour days a week in an urgent care area and Patience was working part time as a recovery room nurse. So, when my mother’s illness progressed to the point where she needed more attention we were there to provide it. In addition, my daughter Beth was living with them at the time and was also available for additional help.
I graduated from medical school in 1965, completed 4 years of residency and 2 years in the US Navy medical corps, became board certified in internal medicine, and completed nine years of private practice, and in all that time I cannot remember one class, conference or other teaching experience in dealing with death and the dying patient. All that I knew came from reading Kubler-Ross’s book, Death and Dying. My mother was about to change all of that!
My parents managed to maintain some semblance of a normalcy in the early stages of the disease, in spite of several hospitalizations. But as the disease progressed, and her condition deteriorated, Patience, Beth, and I became more involved in her day to day care. Eventually our local hospice was called in. As my mother’s pain increased, managed by morphine, she never complained, even as she became increasingly dependent on others to manage the routines of daily living. In the weeks prior to her death we began taking turns sleeping in the bed next to her because of increasing mental confusion and unexpected needs. She began to withdraw from us, not speaking, and often calling out to her beloved Gace, a deceased older sister who was more like a mother to her during her childhood. When my mother died, my father, Patience, and I were at her bedside holding her hands. (The circumstances of her last few hours were remarkable and will be described in a later post on this blog.)
The relief I felt from her death was overshadowed by the sadness of our loss. We were all tired from the time and energy, both emotional and physical, that we spent on her care. But in the days that followed I realized how fortunate we were to be able to be by her side through all of the stages of her dying and death. She was not alone; we had the opportunity to tell her all of the things we wanted to say, especially how much we loved her. In her suffering, she gave us that gift, to be a part of her illness and her death. I cherish every moment of those final months, weeks, and days, as well as the final moment itself.
My mother also taught me everything I needed to know about death and dying, and how it effects both the patient and the family. That knowledge served me and my patients well when I decided to return to a full time general medical practice one year later. (We opened an office in the front part of the old pig barn on our farm, but that is also another story.) I learned how incredibly important is for both the patient (and the family) to be at home, surrounded by family and friends when they die, And, I learned that it is imperative that the physician caring for a terminal or near terminal patient also consider the family within the scope of his or her care.
Then there is her final gift, one I cherish every day of my life. Beth, who had been looking for her place in life since she completed college 2 years ago, turned to Patience and me at the dinner table some months after her grandmother’s death and said she knew what she wanted to do. We both looked at her in anticipation of this announcement, and when she said she wanted to go to medical school...I could not believe my ears! Even now, as I recall that moment, my eyes get rather moist. Beth is now practicing medicine (internal medicine) with a partner in Middletown, Delaware and she is a wonderful physcian.
These are only a few of the memorable gifts from a dying grandmother and mother.
I graduated from medical school in 1965, completed 4 years of residency and 2 years in the US Navy medical corps, became board certified in internal medicine, and completed nine years of private practice, and in all that time I cannot remember one class, conference or other teaching experience in dealing with death and the dying patient. All that I knew came from reading Kubler-Ross’s book, Death and Dying. My mother was about to change all of that!
My parents managed to maintain some semblance of a normalcy in the early stages of the disease, in spite of several hospitalizations. But as the disease progressed, and her condition deteriorated, Patience, Beth, and I became more involved in her day to day care. Eventually our local hospice was called in. As my mother’s pain increased, managed by morphine, she never complained, even as she became increasingly dependent on others to manage the routines of daily living. In the weeks prior to her death we began taking turns sleeping in the bed next to her because of increasing mental confusion and unexpected needs. She began to withdraw from us, not speaking, and often calling out to her beloved Gace, a deceased older sister who was more like a mother to her during her childhood. When my mother died, my father, Patience, and I were at her bedside holding her hands. (The circumstances of her last few hours were remarkable and will be described in a later post on this blog.)
The relief I felt from her death was overshadowed by the sadness of our loss. We were all tired from the time and energy, both emotional and physical, that we spent on her care. But in the days that followed I realized how fortunate we were to be able to be by her side through all of the stages of her dying and death. She was not alone; we had the opportunity to tell her all of the things we wanted to say, especially how much we loved her. In her suffering, she gave us that gift, to be a part of her illness and her death. I cherish every moment of those final months, weeks, and days, as well as the final moment itself.
My mother also taught me everything I needed to know about death and dying, and how it effects both the patient and the family. That knowledge served me and my patients well when I decided to return to a full time general medical practice one year later. (We opened an office in the front part of the old pig barn on our farm, but that is also another story.) I learned how incredibly important is for both the patient (and the family) to be at home, surrounded by family and friends when they die, And, I learned that it is imperative that the physician caring for a terminal or near terminal patient also consider the family within the scope of his or her care.
Then there is her final gift, one I cherish every day of my life. Beth, who had been looking for her place in life since she completed college 2 years ago, turned to Patience and me at the dinner table some months after her grandmother’s death and said she knew what she wanted to do. We both looked at her in anticipation of this announcement, and when she said she wanted to go to medical school...I could not believe my ears! Even now, as I recall that moment, my eyes get rather moist. Beth is now practicing medicine (internal medicine) with a partner in Middletown, Delaware and she is a wonderful physcian.
These are only a few of the memorable gifts from a dying grandmother and mother.
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