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."