At Least They're Committed

After a bitchy comment was made toward us on social media, I emailed it to someone of authority and pointed out that I hate people; that despite my cheerful demeanor, I really am a misanthrope. Strange, I haven’t heard back. Heh.

But when I grabbed up my phone to call Ellen for our weekly chat, that all changed. (This happens quite a bit, in truth.) I had a text from her with a photo of her 11-year-old granddaughter, who was recently diagnosed with severe scoliosis, giving a thumbs up with the specialist in Boston. Because of the extent of her condition A’i couldn’t go to a brace, they had been told. She’d need surgery and stat. The surgeries were horrible and often didn’t work, so despite having no money they looked across the country for an alternative. This doctor was her greatest hope. They pooled all their resources together.

This doctor not only worked with A’i’s personal condition to create a brace specific to her needs, he paid for three extra nights of their hotel room and board when they realized they had to stay longer. “The doc is an angel without wings,” Ellen said. Yes, when I left her a voice message I said quite often some of the most wonderful angels do not have wings. (I think it depends on their mood.)

It reminded me, Dez, of a point in time with your Uncle Demon Spawn. When he was about your age now, he’d had a series of seizures and was diagnosed with epilepsy. We were devastated — the drugs either would make him hyper or lethargic and we loved him just the was he was. The doctor — who was OK, but not the special one I am leading up to — said to wait until the baby had one more seizure and then we’d decide a treatment path. Your Uncle Demon Spawn never had another seizure.

Skip ahead to about second grade when DS’s teachers had noticed that his motor skills and his speech were slow. We’d noticed, too, and that one of his eyes occasionally flutters. Back to the doctors we went. The folks at Children’s were wonderful and fortunately found he did not seem to be having any more seizures. They could not tell if the earlier seizures were behind this delay, so we were sent to a neurological doc. DS was sitting up on a table, nearly eye level to the specialist. The 50ish man was tall and slender and looked at your uncle with much kindness. He asked him some questions about what it was like for him at school. And with his trademark intensity, full lips and furrowed brow, your uncle boldly and methodically told him of his struggles to speak, to write, to keep up. I stood to the side with my hand over my mouth.

Once your uncle was done, the lanky man, his eyes slightly welling, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. It was such a sweet, spontaneous, caring gesture. Your grandfather and I were so moved. The specialist assured us your uncle would be fine, he was very intelligent and that although writing might always be a chore he’d probably excel at typing when he was older because the brain takes a different route for that motor skill. (I don’t know about typing, but the man can text like the wind.)

And so while it’s true that I think that some people and for that matter some populations (a nearby city comes to mind) should be wiped off the face of the Earth, I am not in fact a misanthrope. And for today I am thanking God and celebrating good doctors, past and present, and a Boston doc whose name I’ll never know who has restored my faith in humanity once again.