Maybe it is that, like the character in Robert A. Heinlein's novel "A Stranger in a Strange Land", I can speak their language but they cannot speak mine. Are there doctors who feel the same? I am talking about having a meaningful conversation with an emotionally young person. I have been weary of staring into a face whose eyes blink uncomprehendingly as if the Men in Black just flashed them with that thingy. At times I have dumbed down my speech so much that I spoke in 2- or 3-syllable words. I say things like "Winja git it?", whose translation is "When was the first time you recall having that 4-pound goiter sticking out from the side of your neck?"
So… Several years ago, Marty and Dale sat in front of me for nutritional consultations. Marty was a 58-year-old woman with a beautiful personality. She was 5'6" and weighed 235 pounds. She was a mother of 3, grandmother of 5, and had a heart of gold. She had great results with Chiropractic care and has referred many of her family members. Her husband Dale was 62 and recovering from an exploded cerebral aneurysm. He too has had great improvements with Chiropractic. He wears a thick flannel over-shirt, and a John Deere cap (the real kind, with grease stains and a limp front placard.) He wears it so high on his head it looks like someone won a contest by tossing it there. He is missing several teeth. Dale is a great being. He is quick to laugh, although sometimes I'm not sure why. Dale has a speech problem. Since his cerebral blood vessel tore apart, he can no longer put words together to make logical sentences. I'd ask him, "What [symptom] bothers you the most?"
And a typical answer might go like this: "Well, it's like this. It doesn't...it doesn't... When I get to where I was going I can't really tell. And like I told the other doctor, I could go back and have 'em pull that stuff back out, but know whutta mean?"
Now it is I who stares blankly. I look to Marty for translation. She shakes her head. I say, "Does it hurt when you cough or sneeze?" He says, "I don't know." Dale takes 8 or 10 different medications several times a day. One is Lexapro, a nasty psychotropic anti-depressant.
"Dale? Were you depressed before you took the Lexapro?"
"I don't know. They said I was..." And the consultation goes on. I decided that this was going nowhere. I turn to Marty: "Okay, Marty, what's going on with you?
Marty says this:
"All my life I have put my children, 2 daughters-in-law, and 5 grandchildren first. I have watched my grandchildren from birth until they started school, helped take care of my mother-in-law, (who has Alzheimer's) for 3 years; traveled back and forth every day, 20 miles a day. I worked at the Country Store for 20 years all around this. I kept our household going, mowed the grass, and did farm work. I volunteered at my church, took neighbors to the doctor's, and did housecleaning and painting. And now I have my husband to nurse back to health, so I've pushed hard just to keep going."
I looked at Marty. I chose my words carefully. "It's your time now." Marty started crying all over the place. Tears gushed from her as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her husband, Dale stared at her like he had never seen his wife break down or cry. He had a curious look on his face. A look that told me there was no registration of what he was seeing. I was praying that his reaction was a result of the aneurysm and not that he didn't know what to do.
Several minutes (and tissues) later, Marty pulled herself together I was able to complete their nutritional consultations and exams. After they left I was struck with an odd sensation. People co-exist with me on this planet who are so degraded that they cannot comprehend even the remote concept of improving. Help is what you do, not what you receive. Where is the line between self-love and selfishness? I think it's here: If you are caring for yourself to add to your survival capacity and the survival capacity of others, then that is good. If you are spending all your time stuck taking care of yourself and not doing anything for anybody else, that is the negative side of selfishness. Here was Marty, a classic martyr. (Funny how her name is one letter away...)
We help people. The toughest part of my job isn’t that worrying I cannot help someone. I have been in clinical practice for over 30 years and have seen all sorts of crazy shit get well under Chiropractic care and good nutrition. I know they can get well
.
The toughest part of my job was figuring out which patients sincerely wanted to get well.
Most say they do. Fewer commit to doing so. Even some of those sabotage their care by missing appointments, not following any of my recommendations, continually getting into wrecks, or having injuries and prolonging their healing.
We cannot force healing onto someone. It must be a willingness to receive. Some people are steadfast in their refusal to get well, plain and simple. Those who decide to get well hardly need me anyway. I'm like an excuse for them to get well. Like a validation of their creation of this thing called "health" in their bodies. Now that's pretty cool to witness. This is much better than handing out tissues or answering endless questions from people who don't care to hear the answer. And how does one tell the difference between those who will get well from those who won’t?
We can’t and we shouldn’t. That’s not our job. Our task as practitioners is to present what we have to offer in such a way that they want to change. And when they don’t, it's not our responsibility. It’s theirs. We are agents of change. How much should we push? How much should we pull? These are the nuances each practitioner needs to elicit each day.
Stay present.
Love, Dr. Danny