Circle of Five

I sat semi-dejected at my desk late last week, trying to clear my head after a difficult day at work. In addition to typical patient issues--chronic pain, terrible social problems or unsolvable health issues--I was also dealing with a more personal matter: having to tell my patients that we are leaving Worland this summer.

This is harder than it may seem. I feel a strong loyalty towards my patients, which they largely reciprocate. (Of course, some of them don't care a bit, and I'm sure a few are glad we're leaving.) But I give my patients my best everyday--empathizing, listening, suffering, educating and hopefully healing. Doctor-patient relationships, by nature, are complicated things: formal and professional, yet deeply private and sensitive. A day at clinic can sometimes seem like a day at war, usually fighting disease alongside my patients in a Band of Brothers way, yet sometimes fighting against them, or at least against their habits, their preconceptions, their stubbornness.

But I've assumed an important role in my patients' lives, and so announcing my imminent departure has triggered strong feelings. Most of my patients have expressed unqualified support, happy for me and my family and the opportunities that await us. But some, usually the sickest and neediest, have been upset, even distraught. Tears have been shed, harsh words spoken. I am someone who prizes loyalty in relationships, and so knowing that I have given cause for such strong feelings of betrayal in those who have trusted in me creates some internal tension.

Thus, there have been some tough days as of late, and last week I sat at my desk late in the afternoon with a headache, a stack of unfinished paperwork, and an unsettling feeling that leaving Worland was possibly the wrong thing to do. This resonated deeply within me, my mind wrestling with the question of whether my life was my own to live, or whether I owed my time and energy to others.

Sighing, I glanced towards the far side of my desk, where my three beautiful children's faces beamed at me from their photo frames: Grant Guy, with his boyish exuberance; Joy Bear, with her serene intelligence; and Justin (a.k.a. Soggy Muff) with his blithe cuteness.

I felt an unexpected two-directional rush of familial love, first from me towards them as fatherly affection. But then I felt their love flow back towards me as a fountain of strength. These kids love their imperfect Daddy, and no matter what happened at work today or what mistakes I had made, in a few minutes I would walk through our front door and they would dash to greet me.

There was strength in their goodness, in their innocence, in their trust . . . even in their sheer numbers. They trust Elizabeth and me to make the right decisions for our family, whether that's about what's for dinner or about where and how they will be raised. It's a blind trust that is all the more remarkable considering the strong, independent, and consequential people they are bound to become. As I gazed at their photos, I felt strength, perspective, and resolve flowing into me. This is it, I thought, this small, intimate circle of five human beings that forms our family. The biggest questions suddenly seemed easy: my perspective and purpose must shaped and focused here, with my wife and these children. As all parents do, I know what it's like to need to be strong for my children, but I don't know that I had ever felt such strength reflected back to me.

Paradoxically, this was a twist of that same feeling of my life not being entirely my own. But this was different, as the lives of my wife and children are so inextricably intertwined with mine that there is little discernible separation.

I left the unfinished work on my desk, threw my jacket on, and raced home. I entered the front door in my typically triumphant and silly way. Grant sprinted across the room and leaped into my arms; Joy looked up from her book on the couch and beamed demurely; Justin shrieked in excitement from his playpen. Elizabeth greeted me cheerily from the kitchen; something smelled delicious.

It was all very vivid, very soft and warm, maybe too perfect for some, but utterly real for me. I picked up Justin, who squealed with delight. Elizabeth gave me a hug and asked, "How was work?"

"Tough day," I said. "But it's good." I glanced around the room, which seemed to be glowing with love. I gave her a kiss and said, "I'm just glad to be home."

Planet Erf

"It's just an inch from me to you, depending on which map you use."--Jewel

Maps, like telephones, have always fascinated me. I've been known to stare at a road atlas for hours with no particular objective, just for entertainment. Museum exhibits with maps are invariably my favorites. My wife gave me an atlas for my birthday a few years ago because she couldn't figure out what else I would like and knew a map would be a surefire winner.

It's something I can't explain, but maps allow me to place myself somewhere in the here and now, to feel like my future destinations are something known to someone. Maybe I'm somewhat of an agoraphobe, but maps serve as a comforting anchor point in the otherwise frightening vastness of the universe. "It's okay," my inner child says, "Somebody's already mapped this out . . ."

So it's no wonder I love Google Earth. (Or as my son says, "Google Erf.") If you've never spent an hour surfing through this virtual world at supersonic speed, touring actual satellite images of every important structure you've ever been in or every mountain you've ever climbed, then you're missing out an exhilarating experience, and your life is the lesser for it.

The effect of Google Earth is dizzying. The opening screen starts with a panned out image of the whole planet. Type in any destination, and then watch the earth automatically rotate towards you and seamlessly zoom, zoom, zoom through the atmosphere until an image from a satellite reveals the round, blue baby pool in your backyard and your silver truck parked out front.

Go to the Grand Teton and tilt the image so that you are looking at the same looming facade that Ansel Adams captured a hundred years ago, and then rotate wildly around it to catch its every contour from every angle. Zoom in and the pan around to track the exact route you will be climbing this summer.

Go to the new home your hoping to buy and check if the neighborhood has got sidewalks, how big the trees are, if the backyard is landscaped, whether it's got a covered porch or room for a garden.

The images aren't real-time, but they are vividly detailed, and the real magic is in the program's seamlessness. There is no choppiness, only a smooth ride around the globe on your very own Google magic carpet. Go to Brazil, Russia, Africa, China, Iraq--but be aware that the army has blurred the images over militarily sensitive areas due to their extreme accuracy.

So if you haven't already, go download Google Earth. It's free. Check it out for an hour and see if, by the time you're done you don't think the world is just a little bit smaller, a little more personal, and little more precious. Maybe you'll even want to give your tree a hug, your neighbor a cookie, and your distant friends a phone call.

It's a small world, after all. Happy Earth Day!