A year ago today I boarded a plane for Boulder Colorado with
my Tsumo black heels, my pearls, and my baby blue shirt – his gifts wrapping my
feet, neck and heart. I hurried away from Portland to the safe refuge of
Colleen’s house; the quiet chateau in the fields of Colorado. I did not know
then that I carried a virus, which had been quietly replicating in my lymph
nodes, building an army to overwhelm my strained immune system. I settled into
my routine of question bank and memorization, intermittently communicating with
the man I so dearly loved, and so desperately wanted, but with whom I was at
odds on several fundamental issues. Wake, practice test, run, study, test,
study, dinner, sleep. Repeat.
For two weeks I carried on and at 10a, June 7,
2012 the viral army invaded and overtook my body. I had been at the peak of my
existence – brilliantly completing my third year of medical school with
accolades and confirmations that I will be a superior physician and cherishing the moments I had with patients that taught me so much of what I want to know; I was running
well – 7 to 8 miles a day in the glorious warm sunny Colorado mornings at the
base of the towering Flat Irons; I was studying for the second step of the
medical boards – I was unstoppable. June 9 I returned to Portland for a family
event and struggled to make it through three hours of meetings and the family
dinner that followed. The 6 hour drive to Boise with my mother came the
following day and the simple sun streaming through the window sucked my breath
away with fatigue overwhelming my senses. One more week of study, barely making
4 mile runs while tucked away in the mountains of Idaho. Exam day came with
each 60 minute block of 46 questions tearing at my lungs, my cardiac output, my vasculature, and my
skeletal muscles until 9 hours later I staggered home and collapsed into bed;
headache throbbing through my temples, my lungs heaving against the weight of
my chest, and my eyes catching vague outlines of structures and people, though
not able to create a cohesive picture. My existence was harshly reduced to 4
hour intervals which depended upon napping. Pushing through the viral
boundaries imposed on me resulted in the harsh punishment of shortness of
breath, headaches, and shaking chills. A week later I managed to drag myself
onto a plane to LA to complete the second part of the board exams. Sharply
dressed with my stethoscope decorating my neck, I fumbled and stumbled through
my 15 minute patient interactions hoping no one would see the damp clothes that
clung to my body beneath my short white coat. I flew back and collapsed in a
heap at my roommate’s feet. I observed the summer days like a child too short
to ride the roller coaster at the amusement park; my participation would have
to wait another year – when I would once again be able to stand without effort,
breathe without feeling the weight of my lungs, and see without my lids
snapping shut after a certain number of hours of staying open.
A year later I sit in the same Portland apartment with the
view of the river and the cascades framed by my front window and I watch the
soft spring rain kiss the earth, gently waking it from its winter hibernation.
The moments that have made up this past year flash through my mind, like the
senior high slideshow of memories to cherish before graduation and parting of
ways. My strength has subtly returned, like the fuller bloom of a dogwood tree after surviving yet
another winter. The viral war has chiseled away at my harsh, pointed, stony
corners beginning to reveal a rounding character, still awaiting its polish,
that stands in the place of my once immature, unchecked, and explosive
personality. Where formerly I
fought against the events and issues that did not please me or I felt detracted
me from what I thought was my path to walk, I have been challenged to cultivate
a theology of thankfulness; a discovery of my God in simply giving thanks for
what is around me – my response to His knowing and loving me. A thankful heart
cultivates friendship while an ungrateful one breeds rebellion. Perhaps this
year was less about adding a layer of medical knowledge and more about taming a
rebellious heart.
And so I shortly will enter year four of medical school with
it’s break-neck pace and steeple-chase obstacles. I await with breathless
anticipation the discovery of which specialty I will get to train and practice.
And hopefully, each moment along the way, I will be ever so thankful for all
the collective moments that got me this far and rest in the grace and the love
and the passion that is poured out for me every moment of every day by the God
who seeks after me.
love
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