Close Encounters 3

The event I am about to describe is an occurrence that made me involuntarily twitch for the remainder of the hour, spontaneously shudder for days and induced an uncontrollable tremble I fear will be with me for the rest of my life. The cause? My husband added another day to my work schedule.

I still feel quite faint from the interaction.

It has taken me a few days to gather my thoughts on how to appropriately describe the final patient encounter that occurred in my husband’s medical practice last week because I have been distracted by the HUNDREDS of hours I will soon punch into the time clock. (Just for the record, we don’t really have a time clock in the office. That sentence was a visual entirely intended for my spouse.)

The final patient encounter from last week is not for the weak stomached. If you are like me and lack not only a medical background but also any interest in the various fluids a body can manufacture, this may be especially difficult for you to read. Unless of course, you are a nine-year-old boy, then you will think that the following account is altogether appropriate and beyond cool and may even try to re-enact the entire scenario for your friends at school.

A patient checked into our office last week carrying several clear ziploc bags down the hallway that leads into one of the exam rooms. Before I could stop my eyeballs from seeing and my feeble brain from understanding, I correctly identified various colors and lumps that are consistent with the mucous that has been known to soar from one’s nose or cleared from one’s throat (Otherwise known as snot. That’s for the nine-year-old boy.)

Before I continue, I want to fully acknowledge that mucous makes folks feel really bad. It makes me feel bad. When it is clogging up airways and noseways (yes, that’s a medical term – I’m sure of it) all you can think about is ridding your body immediately of the substance that Shrek likes to eat. In fact, I have now witnessed the lengths people will go to in an attempt to ensure that their physician understands, observes and dissects the innate evil that resides in their phlegm.

However.

Allow me to offer a few friendly suggestions to consider before you feel compelled to blow the substance from your nose or clear the loogies from around your tonsils, rushing to your doctor’s office with the evidence bagged, tagged and ready to file in your chart:

1. If you describe the color of your mucous to your physician, it is unnecessary to actually bring it in for him to see. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

2. If, heaven forbid, you were to discover a foreign substance enveloped in the mucous, a detailed description of your discovery will suffice for any real life proof you could offer. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

3. If you were to recount the thickness of phlegm you are experiencing in your nose or throat, then said phlegm can remain inside of your body without actually exampling it for your physician. THE DOCTOR WILL BELIEVE YOU.

I asked my husband later how he reacts when presented with a bag of green, slimy fluids that I’m convinced God did not expect others to see. He responded, “I react the same way I do with all of my patients, regardless of whether they bring an item for show and tell or not. I listen to their concerns, nod my head empathetically and try to hold onto the contents of my stomach.”

I’m certain that I have now exhausted the topic of phlegm, as well as provided more information than you really wanted to know when perusing various blogs you hoped would bring a little joy. But now, at least, you know to save the ziplocs for your child’s lunch rather than for mucous storage, which is the way the Almighty intended. That’s biblical.

My blogging has made me an hour late for work that is going to result in a written reprimand filed in my records from the boss. (Or at the very least, a dramatic eye roll while looking at his watch.) Plus, all of this focus on mucous has made my throat feel funny. I think I need to clear it, drive to the office and show the remnants to my husband. Maybe he can put that in my records as well.

Saved

“That doctor saved my husband’s life.”

The soft-spoken words of the attractive, middle-aged woman took me by surprise. She had just barely walked up to the checkout window, laying her purse on the shallow counter and her emotions on her monogrammed sleeve, when greeting me with this simple, yet somewhat forthright statement.

I wasn’t familiar with the patient, nor did she know that the doctor to whom she referred sometimes drooled on my pillow when sleeping, but it was clear that this was information she felt compelled to share, the importance of which superseded the business of scheduling a follow-up appointment or providing the co-pay.

“Really?” I responded. “What happened?”

The woman recounted an office visit she initiated on her husband's behalf. She recalled to me that her husband was somewhat agitated about the appointment, protesting loudly about the interruption it would cause for his standing tee time, further arguing that it didn’t make much sense to see a doctor when there obviously wasn’t anything wrong with him.

Nonetheless, the man kept the appointment, and met my husband for the first time during his physical exam. The golfer didn't have any health issues or any symptoms suggesting concern; he just wanted to appease his wife with this yearly consultation he hoped would ease her unfounded worry.

During the exam, it was discovered that there was something peculiar sounding in the thingamajiggy found on the side of the man's throat.

(The sweet lady was very specific about her husband’s condition, citing medical jargon that caused the neurons in my brain to scream, "WHAT?! I DIDN"T EVEN KNOW THAT THERE WAS SUCH A THING LOCATED IN THE THROAT! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

But because I am now considered professional personnel in John's office, all outbursts have to be kept to a minimum. In an effort to continue to hide what a true, medical moron the doc's wife happens to be, I nodded my head as intelligently as possible, faking my way through the medical terms that caused this couple such grave concern.)

The condition was imminently life threatening and surgery for the man was scheduled the next day. The blockage was immediately removed, leaving an angry six inch scar on his neck, but the opportunity for many more golf games completely intact.

Since that time, the woman continued to explain tearfully, she tells all who will listen, that her physician saved her husband's life. Family members, friends from church and long-time golfing buddies are now all patients in our practice because of the zealous and gracious message this woman proclaims. Her news, she says, is too good, too joyful, not to share with others.

Driving home this afternoon, I began thinking about the woman's reaction to the second chance at life her husband had been given. As a believer - as one who is just as grateful that Jesus granted me a second chance, allowing an eternal existence and an infinite number of golf swings - shouldn't I be just as zealous and gracious about the message that saved my own life? Shouldn't my news be too good, too joyful, not to share with others?

I don't have the medical capabilities, training or intelligence to prevent physical death for others, but I do have the capability, training and intelligence to impart the way to everlasting life. Just like those my husband treats in the exam room, situations that sometimes waver between life and death, the interactions I will have during this lifetime are strikingly similar. It is a matter of life and death for all those that I meet.

I know the remedy for an empty and broken life, and I pray that my passion, my compulsions, will mimic that of the grateful woman, who through a random doctor's appointment, was given many more nights to sleep beside her husband, allowing the same drool to accumulate on her pillow as I do on mine.

"I tell you the truth, he who believes has everlasting life." John 6:47