This man who had raised himself on the streets made my heart larger and my life richer.
Editor’s Note: The author chooses to use the lowercase i as a way to practice staying humble.
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The call was from a physician, so i took it. Mostly because i like this particular doc but also as a physical therapist you jump when they call (it’s the way the game is played).
“Wolfgang, you don’t do house calls, do you?” [full disclosure: this particular MD treats the 150 wealthiest families in my city.]
i chuckled, “Jim, you know even for the extraordinarily rich, my house call would be exorbitantly expensive.”
He laughed, “I’ll have him call you.”
My policy: anyone that wants to see me comes in my front door like every other anyone.
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“DOGS? Dogs? I’m fine with dogs. I got one on the ranch.” That last bit of his answer was his proof and dismissal in one.
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The billionaire called, and unhappily made his appointment. i love that my job is about helping people. Status, money, social stratus (theirs or mine) has boo to do with our interaction – i get to be me, you get to be you. Mr. Big (the family name “graces” buildings) came in for his appointment displeased; thanks only to his undoubtedly strong force of will could he refrain from checking his watch every 5 minutes. His message of having far more important things to do was coming through loud and clear. We had covered the basics of his physical complaint, when i realized that i had neglected to mention that one of my dogs might join in on the consultation. My hounds are my shadows, they come to work everyday – one super friendly, the other more aloof and wary.
“Sorry, i forgot to ask, are you OK with dogs?”
It would have been worth asking just for the expression it elicited: astonishment and the disgusted confirmation that this visit was an utterly unforgivable waste of his precious time; why the hell would i be asking if he was ok with dogs?
“DOGS? Dogs? I’m fine with dogs. I got one on the ranch.” That last bit of his answer was his proof and dismissal in one.
On cue, Guapo – the ‘Hi, who are you? I love you!’ lab came in wagging not just his tail but his whole rear end. My patient, seated on the side of the exam table, arms tightly folded, coldly stared at Guaps. Guapo continued his welcome dance, wagging like mad, and slightly dipping/nodding his head in expectation of a pat or two. Nada. No warmth, no smile, nothing. i beamed to Guaps that i would treat the gentleman because he was a human being, but NOT because of which human being he was. In my books, there weren’t enough decimal places to make his “being human account” balance.
Hector was referred by another physician. i assumed (wrongly) that Hector was Mexican. Short and barrel chested. Handsome features – strong, high cheekbones. Hector ran marathons; slowly, with thick, bowed legs nearly half the length of mine, but his passion was huge. Currently on injured reserve he couldn’t run, but worse he couldn’t work for the catering firm that employed him – it was 8-10 hrs of standing every day. Worker’s Comp. had kicked in, but didn’t cover all the bills for him and his young son, and so he had been forced to sell his truck. Concerned, but not overly worried, he was sure he could buy another once he was working again.
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i asked what else he enjoyed doing besides running. He got a big, warm grin on his face and said, “talking with my son.”.
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Always curious, i asked him about his journey to the US. Like many immigrants, it had been neither direct, nor easy. He had been born in rural Guatemala, “when I was young, I moved to Guatemala City.” i listen. My job requires that I listen – carefully. To the words, and to what is behind the words. A patient’s history often can tell a practitioner far more than the physical eval. From Hector’s words i intuited that he had moved to Guatemala City by himself – i asked if this was correct. It was. He had moved to that very big, very gritty, tough (i’ve been there) city when he was eight years old – by himself, because his father was beating him so severely at home. If Hector asked any question, he was struck, hard. He ran. i reckon i had just learned to wipe myself when i was eight, no friggin’ way i could have hauled my immature ass to NYC and started working and living on my own! Hector made his money as a shoeshine boy. After a year’s time, he found a relative that did alterations for a living and Hector moved in off the streets. That is, until his uncle began beating him. At twelve, he made his way to a refugee camp in Mexico – 4 to 5 years later he gained asylum in Canada. Finally, he made it to the USA.
Hector and i chatted about marathons – i’ve run a few. We talked training, recovery strategies, stretching, and what would be his slow path back to running. i asked what else he enjoyed doing besides running. He got a big, warm grin on his face and said, “talking with my son.”
He looked around the small treatment room, checking out my photos. i explained that i took a month or so off each year to fly to to SE Asia where I worked with landmine survivors. These were the portraits of my favorite characters. Hector looked at the men, women and children missing limbs because they had walked down the wrong path, because they had picked up the wrong hunk of metal. As we wrapped up the visit, Hector got his jacket off the chair. He pulled out his checkbook, i started to explain that he didn’t need to pay in front, that we would bill…. “No, no, I know. This is for them – I want to make a donation.” Unasked, he wrote a check on spot, i was speechless with gratitude. This man who had raised himself on the streets, who had sold his truck to make ends meet, who loved in a way he’d never experienced himself gave because he cared. This man made my heart larger and my life richer.
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