I am fairly confident that each of us, at times, loses sight of the "big picture." Be it wishing away days at work; living for the weekend. Adding to an already lengthy to-do list. Then having to make room by removing the "unnecessary" things such as that phone call to a friend you've been meaning to make, putting off a fitness class for just one more day, or quickly grabbing fast food because now you don't have time to get fresh produce at the store. And in the midst of the chaos of what society deems important, we miss the beauty of everyday miracles. The little things.
Personally, the little things are my favorite. For example, this past Friday I set a reminder on my phone to see the Harvest Moon. Silly I know. But I will be the first to admit, I have a strange love for astronomy. All thanks to my first grade teacher, Cece Meyer. To this day, I can tell you the stories associated with each constellation and the unique pattern they create across the sky. And each year in September, during the full lunar phase, the moon appears significantly bigger and is a glowing ball of orange as it appears from below the horizon at dusk. This is what is known as the Harvest Moon. It's beautiful! I missed seeing it Thursday because I was "too busy" to remember, but I was not about to let that happen again. (Sadly this took creating the alert on my phone.) A dear new friend and classmate of mine was coming over to study, but little did she know we were going for a drive before losing ourselves in the joys of anatomy. We headed out east of town, turned down a dirt road into a cornfield, and parked up on a hill. My StarFinder app (See, I told you I loved this stuff!) traced the path the moon would be taking and the exact time we should be able to see it come up based on our location. Sure enough, after watching a rainbow sunset, a giant pumpkin slowly began to rise up over the endless fields. Based on my reaction, you would've thought I just saw Adam Scott or something. I was just so excited! It blows my mind to think that people can view the exact same thing thousands of miles away from the cornfield where I was standing. We spent some time just sitting there watching in awe and enjoying the moment. Afterwards, my friend kept laughing at what we had just done. But she did admit she enjoyed every minute.
Like I said, I appreciate simple joys.
Earlier in the day on Friday, all of us first year MD, PA, PT, and OT students hosted the annual donor memorial service. Families of all of the bodies we dissect are invited to a funeral-like event in honor of the sacrifice their loved ones made when they chose to donate their body to science. It is a way for us as students to express our gratitude and another form of healing for each family. We were warned prior that it can be an emotional afternoon. And that became evident rather quickly.
Prior to the service, an older gentleman with cerebral palsy spoke to us first-years. No words will do him justice, but to put it briefly, he has his table down in our lab picked out for when he passes away. He made the decision 10 years ago that he would be donating his body to the medical school. His story, faith in God, and appreciation of the blessings he's received despite his severe medical condition, were all incredibly inspiring. I will never forget one of his comments: "Each of you possesses the gift to change the lives of all of your patients." Now I'm honestly not sure why that struck me so powerfully that afternoon, because it wasn't fancy or even something I didn't already know. But seeing his condition, and hearing his weak yet mighty voice produce words straight from his heart, brought me back to the reality of why we are investing countless hours each day in the lab. A bold reminder that we are here for others, not ourselves. The smells that never fail to hit you like a brick, loads of memorized information, only to find none of our bodies are like the textbook, cursing every nerve and artery, and continually overcoming the bewildering fact that we are sawing and slicing away at a once living human being--has all blurred the big picture for each of us over the last few weeks.
Then if wasn't enough of an emotional roller coaster, it was on to the service. Once again another lesson far greater than the lectures on cardiac function only hours prior. I was captivated while watching each set of family members; analyzing their reactions as they listened to student speakers from the prior year, the tears formed in response to the music, and the evident pride as they lit a candle and stated the name of their loved one. After the ceremony, we spent time talking to the families. Not surprising, each was anxious to share their stories. I have always said one of the driving forces for myself personally when choosing to go into medicine is that every heart has a story. Things are rarely what they appear on the outside. When speaking to the families, this burning desire and passion to care for others was rekindled inside me. Something I admit I had temporarily pushed out of the way and replaced with feelings of frustration and stress.
Our first patient lying on our table down in the lab has a heart. And no, not just a heart with signs of previous hypertension, but one that has a beautiful story. One that beat faster at the sight of the love of her life. One that she listened to when deciding on what choices to make. A heart that endured pain, again not from internal dysfunction, but rather the suffering that comes with life.
Every heart has a story. One of the simple things I have so easily missed lately. I'm positive our sweet lady is looking down from above at the mess we've been making in the lab. I can guarantee she's had a few choice words to say in regard to what she's seeing us "perform on her" daily. And trust me, we have had our share of choice words while working on her as well. But now I just smile and laugh. What a brave soul she must have been knowing us rookies would be attempting to learn every single aspect of her body. So to our frustrating, abnormal, time consuming, and yet remarkable woman, I would like to say, thank you. If you only knew how much your sacrifice truly means to me and each one of my fellow classmates. Also, a thank you for the reminder we all needed; that life is full of ordinary miracles every single day. Maybe it's while discovering metastasis of cancer to the brain on a special lady in the lab, that I now also acknowledge the emotions she must have felt. Or perhaps, the simple rising of the Harvest Moon. Whatever it may be, the little things truly are the big, beautiful things and we cannot miss the opportunity to embrace each moment.
Humbly, yours.
xoxo
