A Very Present Presence

When he walked into the room where I was waiting, he shook my hand, sat down, and turned to me. Laying his laptop aside, he looked me directly in the eyes.

“I understand that your father died earlier this month. I’m very sorry. How has it been for you?”

I don’t remember exactly what I said. But I remember that I told him about my father’s dementia and how difficult his last months were, especially since my mother had died just five months earlier.

But I do remember exactly how he made me feel. He was my doctor for more than 20 years. I respected him highly. I also considered him a friend. He always treated our family with generosity and sensitivity. His posture that day, his kindness, and his quiet presence were quite unclinical. He made me feel cared for, supported, and loved, actually. He listened for at least more than 15 minutes, without once mentioning the reason I was there - for my annual physical. Everything about his demeanor exuded empathy and compassion. That he took the time to listen so intently, so unhurriedly, so respectfully, encouraging me to share whatever I needed to, is a moment that I hope I’ll never forget. 

I am reminded of the beautiful quote by the great poet and memoirist Maya Angelou, perhaps her most well-known -  

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

He certainly made me feel enveloped in an emotional embrace of reassurance, comfort, and understanding about what my loss might be like.

I knew his story. I felt his empathy for me drew from his own father’s passing more than twenty years earlier, a passing that I knew was a painful loss for him. It was a very human moment between - a shared passing of the first man we each first knew. I felt a connection as we shared our feelings together.

At the end of my last annual physical with him, before he retired two years ago, he hugged me goodbye and gave me his personal email address, to keep in touch and to reach out to him anytime I needed to, inviting me for a visit if I was ever in the area in another state where he was moving to. His final gift of grace to me was recommending another doctor in the practice whom he thought would be a doctor who would be a perfect match for me. And what a perfect choice he was - and is. I like my new doctor very much.

My initial visit with the new doctor was not so much a physical, but more of a ‘let’s get to know one another’ time together. Yes, he listened to my heart and lungs and noted that my blood pressure was a bit elevated - as it always is when I am there - a result of some probable hereditary factors and my definite “white coat syndrome”. I have always hated getting my blood pressure and blood taken. I appreciated so much the ‘get to know one another’ time together. He wanted to know about my family, my profession, my interests. I asked him about his family, his background, and his interests. He said I looked much younger than my age. He had me at “hello”!

He made me feel comfortable and safe in what he understood can sometimes be a somewhat anxious clinical environment for me. 

About a month ago, when I had a six-month check-in with this new doctor, my fourth check-up visit with him so far, he came in and sat down and like my former doctor, also put his laptop aside and faced me and asked:

“How was the play you were in right after I saw you this spring? He remembered! I was amazed. He sees so many patients each day and hears so many stories. So, how did he remember and care about that play - I’m Proud of You, in which I portrayed American children's TV icon Fred Rogers - six months later?

My blood pressure was a bit elevated that day in the spring, six months ago. He asked me then if there was some undue stress in my life, some pressure that I was feeling. I told about the play - opening night was just two days later. Yes, I was feeling the pressure of remembering my lines, performing on a professional stage for the first time in more than 20 years, portraying a beloved real-life human being. I was nervous, anxious, fretting that I might not live up to the role, that casting me might be seen as a huge mistake. Could I do it? Would I be any good? Could I come anywhere close to embodying the spirit of Mister Rogers? Of course, my blood pressure was high!

The doctor was empathetic about the pressure I was under. He told about his love of theater and how his two young children loved the theater too. He asked when all the performances were, and indicated that if possible he and his family would try to attend.

He wanted to see me back last month, just to keep getting to know me better and to check on how that blood pressure was doing. As soon as he walked in the examination room - the first thing - he apologized that it didn't work out for his family to attend. But he wanted to hear all about my experience and what I might hope to do going forward because of it. 

Wow! He made me feel as if he really cared about my experience. He gave me the time to tell him all about it. My blood pressure wasn’t bad. He listened to my heart and lungs, saying he could tell I was a runner; my heart rate was low and good. He said I don’t need to see you for another year, indicating, “You’re in really great shape”.

Both doctors were incredibly present with me - listening intently, being interested in me as a person, not simply as a case, a patient, a diagnosis. They were sensitive to my white coat syndrome”, my father’s loss, my love of acting. I feel with each one that they care not only about my physical well-being, but my emotional, relational, and spiritual well-being too. 

They’ve gone above and beyond what I hear many physicians do. They have listened so well. They have taken the time to know me more deeply, more personally. They have made me feel much more comfortable in having my blood pressure and blood taken, which are gifts I truly appreciate. I’m not totally comfortable yet. It’s a process. But I’m getting closer. 

Both have seen me as a human being with feelings, anxieties, loves, losses, triumphs, challenges, and dreams. Their very present presence has been a gift to me, one I treasure and celebrate very much.