By request I am posting a reprint of Jerry Finch,s letter "Dear Doctor"
Dear Dr. _______,
We've known each other for some time now. Even though I
have to pay just to talk with you, I sense that you have
some empathy for what I am going through. Some doctors seem
in too much of a hurry to get rid of me and go on to other
patients. You've listened to my complaints with a sparkle in
your eye and a pat on the shoulder. For that I am thankful,
for that one touch means a more than you could ever know.
There are some things I find it very difficult to talk
about when I'm in your examining room. With all the tongue
depressors and hypodermic needles and stuff that you need to
poke and probe the body, little things like thoughts and
doubts seem insignificant in comparison, at least while I'm
there. But you see, doc, I live inside of me, so it's hard
to make those insignificant things go away, particularly at
three in the morning, when I'm standing in the kitchen
looking out at the blackness beyond the window.
I'm alone, doc. Oh, yes, the spouse and kids are
around. Yes, I have friends that drop by, but when I say
"alone" I mean that I feel this disease, this illness, way
inside of me and I see all the other people that don't have
it, and I wonder why. I'm different in a physical way. If we
had a roomful of people and all the healthy people had to
stand on one side, I'd stand alone, me and a few others like
me. It's that kind of alone, doc.
And I'm afraid, doc. Oh, I know about how important
positive attitude is and I smile and act tough and all that,
but remember, I'm talking about three in the morning
feelings, in the kitchen, staring out into a black night. I
wish I knew what next year will bring, the next five years.
How bad will this disease get? What will life be like? I'm
afraid of little things, the symptoms of this disease.
Tomorrow is like the darkness outside, just beyond the
window.
And I feel helpless, doc. Like most people, I've spen
my life having power over things. The car, the grass on my
lawn, the words on the computer screen, I control all of
that. I have no control over this disease. None. Together we
can fight the results, but we can't do anything about the
cause. Incurable, that's the word you used. Helpless,
that's what I'm feeling. Something within me is out of
control and nothing I can do will stop it or make it go
away.
So understand, doc, when you get through looking in my
ears and thumping on my back, when you're done with the
prescription pad and you close the folder, understand how
much that twinkle in your eye and the pat on the shoulder
really means to me. I know you can't cure the physical
problems. I understand that you get frustrated, too. But the
loneliness, the fear, the helplessness? Just knowing that
you're beside me makes all the difference in the world.
So that's what I really mean when I say, "Thank you".
Thank you for the kindness, for the caring, for the smile,
for the touch. Thank you for helping me help myself. Thank
you for being there, for being my doctor.
Sincerely, (J.F.)
ED H
