Ice Water

My noble childhood dream to become a doctor, one who would help ease the suffering of others, would elude my grasp for decades. One of my earliest memories, I had a serious bout of pneumonia, necessitating placement into an “oxygen tent”. I still remember the misty air billowing all around me inside the tiny plastic enclosure, infusing life back into me. A few years later, at age eleven, I developed strept throat, a rash and a striking fever of 106, heralding the onset of scarlet fever; my condition ultimately deteriorated, leading to rheumatic fever. Though I eventually recovered, I remember being delirious, speaking nonsensical words out loud as my grandfather sat by my bedside, holding vigil over me. My mother gently wiped my brow with a cool cloth, and when that failed, placed me into a tub of ice cold water, making me shiver, taking my breath away. Mama only made $3000 a year. We were not financially healthy enough to waste money on frivolous non-essentials such as basic health care. But when the fever refused to break, she finally broke down and took me to the doctor. My joints swelled and ached so much, I had to crawl out to our wreck of a car. I remember the medical evaluation. Afterward, Mama brought me back home, carefully dispensed the precious antibiotics she’d finally obtained after spending all she had between the medicine and the doctor visit. We never went unless we were really, really sick. Though young, even then, I remember being grateful for the medicine and the care I’d received. It probably saved my life and prevented rheumatic heart disease.

After having children of my own, I returned to school to become a nurse and graduated with honors from Emory. Much later, on a missions trip to Haiti, I felt a tug to return once again, to become the doctor I had dreamed of long before, a lifetime before. It was exhilarating to receive the letter of acceptance to Morehouse School of Medicine, not far from where I’d attended nursing school a decade before. The exhilaration soon dissipated as the hard work, the true work of “making a doctor” set it. The medical education process has often been aptly described as drinking from a fire hydrant. I was properly motivated as I was there on scholarship, courtesy of the US Navy. Even if I didn’t pass, my commitment and obligation remained. I could stick it out, do the hard work and serve my country as a physician, or, if I attrited out, serve my country peeling potatoes at the bottom of the SS Neverhome. It was difficult. It was challenging. It was absolutely terrifying.

I have had many heroes in my life: my mother who always encouraged me (though my upbringing was no picnic, and also quite terrifying at times, being raised literally by a child, only sixteen when she had us). But she never wavered in her support or her encouragement. My other heroes, my sisters, also led insufferable lives right alongside me; they were my confidants and lifeblood. And, my children, who were my sole source of delight and laughter, brought me immense joy all throughout the long plight. After thirty-six hour long, arduous shifts, I often stumbled into bed. They would sometimes slip hand drawn pictures and love notes under the bedroom door. I couldn’t help myself. I simply had to drag my weary body up, read the precious messages, then rise and kiss them for their sweet thoughtfulness. Finally, my precious husband, Nasser, rescued me from despair after a devastating series of personal disasters. I’d been through a horrible assault. I’d witnessed a terrible tragedy (seeing the life slip from my elderly neighbor as I assessed him and held him in my arms after he’d shot himself in the head). And, I’d faced the unrelenting pain of a miserable divorce. Nasser nursed my soul back to health. I also met many brave heroes while serving two tours to Iraq with the Marines. They were absolutely the true epitome of heroism.

But one unsung hero that I owe the most heart felt, the greatest debt of gratitude, is to Dr Curtis Parker, one of my anatomy professors at Morehouse. His lessons were pertinent, tangible and interesting. His passion made the dullest of lessons spring to life! We hung on his every word. I will forever remember his easy going spirit, his genuineness, his humility. He always had a strong word of encouragement. When explaining a complex anatomic system, he would break it down like dissecting a symphony and exclaim, “Ice water! Ice water! Ain’t nothin’ easier to make than ice water!” This aphorism, taken from the moments he’d made the easy catches during his many years playing softball, was his heart felt motto, and became my battle cry. I once approached him after class, to solicit his wisdom. I had two young children at home and was driving two hours a day just to commute. I rose early, stayed up late, packed every single moment. And there just weren’t enough moments. I had the opportunity to spread the first two years of school out into three, creating a five year program instead of four. But if I chose that route, I would feel like a failure. I’d been to nine years of college already. I was the oldest in the class, and I would be even older when I graduated, barely making the cutoff for the Navy. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to graduate with my initial class, the original group that I’d embarked on this journey with. That would be both disappointing and humiliating. I wanted to know what his thoughts were. I respected his opinion so much. And he gave me such wonderful advice that changed the course of my life. “Better to be a doctor in five years than out on the street in two”. I charged straight to the dean’s office and changed over to the five year plan. He wasn’t wrong. We actually had a classmate that quit after just two years. I wonder if she would have quit if she’d opted for the same program I’d taken; would it have made a difference? It made all the difference to me. Still felt like drinking from a fire hydrant, only with a little relief valve. Sadly, he never made it to see us graduate. We were all heartbroken. He was so young. Twenty years later, he is one of the few I remember. Well, I do remember some unforgettables, like Dr E who taught us anatomy so well, often pointing out structures to us using his soiled probe or scalpel, occasionally poking our pristine white lab coats with it. (I remember backing away from that sticky thing). Few stand out to me, though, as much as the devoted, wise and caring Dr. Curtis Parker, to whom all of my patients unknowingly owe a debt they will never know to a warm and kindhearted man they will never meet.