You’re listening to episode ten of Soul Chronicles, offering a soulful perspective on how to navigate the unique challenges of living with ongoing health conditions. Special thanks to Health Story Collaborative for hosting this monthly audio column. My name is Shaler McClure Wright and I’m a writer/creative living with Chronic Inflammatory Response Syndrome.
Story - When Doctors Are Among Us
Sometimes I feel like my life has been shared more deeply with doctors than with friends. We entrust doctors with our medical histories, and that makes them a special kind of confidant. The doctor-patient relationship is rightfully protected by healthy boundaries, but when treatment spans the course of years, circumstances can arise that allow the relationship between a doctor and patient to deepen beyond the pages of a patient’s chart.
At first, I might see a doctor as an unapproachable god, or an exotic shamant, or even as a befuddled wizard hidden behind a suspiciously dark curtain. But over time, I’ve been gifted with a few unexpected moments that lift the veil of star-struck admiration and allow me to connect with a doctor soul to soul.
I remember one such moment with my oncologist. She called me into her office to let me know I was ready to graduate from her care. But as she entered the exam room, intending to congratulate me on being ten years cancer-free, I couldn’t help but notice she seemed very troubled. “What’s wrong?” I asked. And after some reluctance, she replied, “Robin Williams is dead.” She had just heard the shocking news. The world had lost a great humanitarian.
We broke into tears. Looking together, we whispered the words, “Oh Captain! My Captain!”; it was the best we could do to acknowledge the truth of his death without becoming overwhelmed. We were referring, of course, to Robin’s inspiring role as English teacher John Keating in “Dead Poets Society.” It was a role close to his heart, and in that moment, memories of his performance softened our sorrow and made us smile.
We spent the next thirty minutes exchanging his lines from the film. I began with my favorite, “We didn’t just read poetry; we let it drip from our tongues like honey.” To which she replied, “Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary.” That seemed like a perfect ending. She offered me a hug. We never talked about my breasts. There was no need; we had been talking about them for more than a decade. That was the last time I saw my oncologist. But from that day on I knew we had more in common than my diagnosis.
Later that day I reminded myself of Walt Whitman’s famous line in context. Here’s the first couplet :
“O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,”
This poem marks the end of a voyage, the end of a battle; just as my appointment marked the end of my journey with cancer and the end of Robin’s life. Bittersweet as it was, Robin probably would’ve loved that.
If you’ve known a doctor who embraces their practice with the depth of a poet, you’ve been blessed. But it’s not unusual. In fact, the Journal of the American Medical Association has a regular section featuring practitioners’ poetry, and it’s edited by Dr. Rafael Campo. In an interview with Harvard Magazine, Campo explained, “Poetry allows us to hear the beating of the heart. It allows us to immerse ourselves fully in another person’s voice, and allows doctors to connect with patients on a more personal level.” His belief is reflected in his poetry, as in this passage from his poem “Cardiology”:
“They say the heart is just a muscle. Or
the heart is where the human soul resides.
I saw myself in you.”
Dr. Campo often speaks of healing and avoids the word ‘cure.’ “When a cure isn’t possible,” he says, “what do we still have to offer our patients? Our own humanity.” A precious gift indeed.
For those of us with ongoing health conditions, the psychological tension between seeking a cure and accepting our limitations can be strong. And doctors may be hard-pressed to find time to address this dilemma with humanity, but sometimes they find a way.
The doctor who diagnosed my chronic illness is a molecular biologist and medical pioneer. His research is as close to artistry as science can get. Not only does he embrace medical mysteries, he embraces them with enthusiasm. The way he explores the structural elegance of biology along with its functional mysteries is an expression of beauty—I guess you could say I see him as a Soulful Scientist.
My soulful scientist was the first doctor to give me tangible proof of my diagnosis, and he assured me that none of my symptoms was in my head. His belief in me and his careful, unhurried listening lifted me from the purgatory of disbelieving my own body. He also gave me confidence, and helped me learn to articulate the medical landscapes through which we passed.
Recently my doctor let me know—very gently—that some of my discomforts would remain; they would improve with treatment, but they wouldn’t go away. “You might be at the point where you’re trying to fix the unfixable,” he suggested. My heart sank and I told him, “The hardest part of being a patient is developing patience.” He agreed and offered this story, “The way I develop patience is through birdwatching. Last week, I saw a swarm of birds land on an impossibly small limb of a marshside tree. And I wondered how could so many fit, and how could such a small limb support their weight?”
At that moment I realized how I felt; exactly like those birds. How did he know that was the perfect image to offer me? I wanted to thank him for the compassionate way he delivered unwanted news, so after our meeting I added a caption to an image of birds crowded on a branch, and sent it to him. It said:
“When you're feeling alone
and shaken, take a breath
and remember,
You're not the only one
standing out on a limb.”
And to my surprise, he replied—by sharing a haiku he had written while out on the marsh that day. It said:
Flocks of waxwings sweeping,
Sheer dives end on twigs,
Too small for so many birds.
I had no idea he was a poet! With three little lines, I could imagine the dramatic effect of so many patients taking a sheer dive in health, and I could feel the insufficient support system that would bend under the weight of their crash landings. Twigs, too small for so many, too light to bear the impact. With that image in mind, I remembered I was not alone and that gave me more patience.
But the haiku wasn’t his only surprise. Doc and I had been meeting by phone (because he lives far away) and that limits one’s body awareness. So he decided it was time to let me know, in simple, clear language, that I was not the only one out on that metaphorical limb. He revealed that he is unfixable too. He has Parkinson’s Syndrome, and while it had been under control for a long time, he was experiencing his third relapse. Last month he was not well enough to travel to a medical conference where he was the keynote speaker.
My first reaction was willful disbelief. How could a healer be in need of healing? How could this be? I needed more. So I asked, “How did you learn to live with what you could not change? How did you move from patience to acceptance?”
In a way, I was asking him to offer me a serenity prayer for the medically unfixed. Patience. Acceptance. Courage. Wisdom. Four words to live by, but I needed a fifth; an actionable word. When I expressed my frustration, he laughed and said, “I’m not sure if I told you, but there is another element tied to caring for the unknown…” his voice sparkling at the opportunity to share his secret weapon—“Doggedness. Churchill’s ‘never give up.’”
Yes, my soulful scientist had been demonstrating the healing power of dogged determination through the example of his own life—when one is limited in the physical sense, one can visualize instead. His honest admission of his struggle offered me encouragement that I too could adapt. And while his words were still fresh, I found myself wondering how often a physician’s inner dialogue might be at odds with their professional vocabulary, and how frustrating that must feel.
Rafael Campo describes the dichotomy between a physician’s inner and outer thoughts, between what he is obliged to share and what he would prefer to share, in his poem “What I Would Give.” In the three stanzas I’ve selected, he expresses this contrast:
“What I would like to give them for a change
is not the usual prescription with
its hubris of the power to restore,
to cure;”
[...]
what I would like to offer them is this,
not reassurance that their lungs sound fine,
or that the mole they’ve noticed change is not
a melanoma, but instead of fear
transfigured by some doctorly advice
I’d like to give them my astonishment
at sudden rainfall like the whole world weeping,
and how ridiculously gently it
slicked down my hair; I'd like to give them that”
I love how he describes hubris as part of his challenge, while at the same time hinting that his job can often feel boring and routine. I love how he expresses that attempting to transfigure fear with medical advice can seem inadequate when compared to the transfiguring beauty of nature. In this poem we can feel the depth of his compassion.
Once upon a time, healing could be conversational— soulful as well as medical. But in today’s world the opportunity for conversation is usually limited; although soulful doctors will still use their creativity to try. It’s as if they remain mindful of another timeless line from “Dead Poets Society”—“This is a battle, and the casualties could be your hearts and souls.”
Once we realize our greatest tool for connection is our humanity, we’d do well to remember one more line from the film. “Medicine is a noble pursuit and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.” And we can help ourselves do this by honoring the five pillars of our ‘unfixed’ serenity prayer: patience, acceptance, courage, wisdom… and dogged determination. In a landscape of medical uncertainty, these are the words that will guide our soul.
Link to Walt Whitman’s full poem “Oh Captain! My Captain!”
Link to Rafael Campo, MD’s full poems “Cardiology” and “What I Would Give”
And special thanks to Ritchie Shoemaker, MD, for sharing his haiku and humanity.
Go here for more episodes of our Soul Chronicles series.
Shaler McClure Wright is fascinated with the mysteries of creative process, the healing power of creativity, and the creative synthesis of method acting, intuitive learning and depth psychology. A graduate of Wesleyan University and The Actors Studio, Shaler has worked as an actor, writer and educator for more than 40 years, and lives in southeastern Connecticut with her husband and son.
Website: www.shalermcclurewright.com
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