He Swept My Floor

 My son is currently facing one of those big life choices: which path to choose after college. He is currently pre-med, but we all know that while many are called, few are chosen. Meaning, not everyone who intends on going to medical school will actually find themselves on that journey. He has also set his sights on possibly applying to a PA (physician assistant) program as well. At any rate, his desired outcome is to work with patients in healthcare and he is diligently preparing himself now, however it may look in the future.

Someone close to him recently said, "We've decided you need to go to medical school because one day you'll look back and regret not going all the way."

Upon hearing this, I immediately bristled. While I believe my son is smart enough to get into medical school, if he chooses some other graduate degree program I will be proud of him and will never see him as not having gone "all the way." And here is why: My son's reasoning for going into the medical field--at least in part--is to have a positive impact on the lives of others, and he doesn't need to be an MD to do that.

I may not know a lot, but I know a lot about what I do know. And what I do know about is being a patient. I've spent my fair share of time in the hospital, in the clinic, in the ER, in the waiting room, in a procedure room, or in recovery room, blah, blah, blah. I've interacted with everyone from surgeons to nurses, CNAs and patient care techs, therapists of varying specialties, pharmacists, EKG and imaging technicians. . . the list goes on. I've been impacted both positively and negatively by all, no special credential needed.

I recall an interaction I had during one of my early admissions. I was in the ICU. It was a very scary time. They were listing me for my heart transplant while also trying to fix my erratically beating heart at the same time. I was bewildered, scared, felt awful, and hated the terrible situation I was in (seriously, I was in this awful room in the ICU with no windows, no privacy, and NO toilet). The cardiothoracic surgery team came in to meet me. I don't remember much from that meeting, but what I do remember was after everyone else left, this one PA stayed behind. With tears in his eyes he said, "What you're going through is very scary. We'll do everything we can to help." 

During a particularly rough pre-transplant clinic visit (it may have been when I was told I'd have my listing paused whiled I was treated for thyroid cancer, but I can't really remember) I broke down in tears. I'd been pretty stoic up until this point. I finally hit my threshold and it all spilled over. I sobbed. My fake eyelashes fell off. My nose ran all over my face. It was embarrassing. The doctor hugged me. You have to understand, these doctors don't do that--or at least they never hugged me before. Then, that weekend on her time off, she called me to check in and see how I was doing.

Still, I absolutely dread my visits to the cardiac clinic. I sometimes come away feeling either gas-lit or hopeless. Fair to say, the clinic isn't my favorite place to go. But there is a medical assistant who compliments my outfits, she tells me I look nice. That makes me want to put in effort when I go to my appointments, to show up with a smile on my face, to show the team supporting my health that I'm worth it.

I've had nurses hold hold my hand, patient care techs remember my name and greet me personally with a smile, echocardiogram techs talk to me like I'm a real human, and doctors treat me more like a friend and less like a body in a bed.

But one of my favorite stories to tell is about the time I was in the hospital being treated for Lippy. I was trying to make the best of it--trying to find the silver lining. There was this housekeeper--he swept my floor--who came into my room almost every day, smiling beneath his mask--I could tell by the way his brown eyes shone. Aaron, being the conversation maker that he is, felt compelled to ask him where he was from. He paused his sweeping and happily began telling us his story.

A refugee from Eritrea in East Africa, he had spent 14 years in forced military service and 15 years in an Ethiopian refugee camp before coming to America. He had spent time in Seattle before finding his way to Salt Lake City. He had a wife and five beautiful children--which he proudly showed us pictures of. He bragged about his daughter who had earned a scholarship and was attending a local college. 

And then he humbly and tenderly told us about his son, whom he thanked God for before telling us how he had become involved in a gang and ended up dying a victim of senseless violence at a trailhead east of the city. I instantly remembered hearing about this incident in the news. My heart broke for him, this unassuming housekeeper.

“I do not judge,” he said. “I thank God; he was a gift.”

This man, in his vulnerable authenticity, without knowing it, made me feel seen, made me feel valued, connected and human again. And maybe that's just the medicine I needed to begin to heal.

The lessons--and there are ALWAYS lessons-- I took from this experience are: Never let adversity dim your light; Never let your circumstances interfere with your ability to connect with another person and do what you feel called to do; Life itself is the best course in kindness, the best training program in compassion; There is no gatekeeper stopping anyone from being a decent human; And there is no credential required to have a positive impact on someone's life.