An Early Christmas Card . . .

. . . a week ago Sunday.

I've debated for a while whether or not to post this. But I'm done with fear, and I'm done with silence. And actually, it's a nice story that should be shared.

Late on the Sunday night before last . . . before I popped my once-weekly Ambien (the shuteye of the gods) at 9 pm . . . in order to get to sleep and be able to get up at 5 am . . . and drive the three hours to my current locums assignment, my Mom called.

Mom is a Deacon at Asheboro's First Baptist Church. If the Baptist church had saints, she would be on the list (or maybe not, given the predilections of some Southern Baptist leaders). Anyway, she wanted to catch me before I went to bed.

Mother had just gotten back from a church meeting that evening – a deacon’s meeting or something similar – a small gathering of the faithful – and people were sharing their testimony. One of the other Deacons at FBC happens to be the Mother of the child who was so desperately ill the night I made the choice that radically changed the course of my life.

This woman has endured many medical trials and tribulations. Her story is amazing . . . one of deep faith and incredible courage and prayers answered . . . and I am not going to post the details on the Internet. But let us just say that her daughter is the stuff of miracles. For the first time (as far as I know), this Mother publicly told her side of the story of what happened the night I was called into the Randolph Hospital nursery by a bunch of terrified nurses. She told the group she did not know the doctor that the nurses called . . . and the doctor did not know her . . . but the doctor came in anyway . . . immediately recognized what was wrong with her newborn infant . . . and did what needed to be done.

She told the group that she felt very strongly that this doctor was the reason her baby survived.

She ended the story by nodding towards Mom and telling the group that, “The doctor was Mary Johnson. Irene’s daughter”. Mama’s voice was gentle and bursting with pride – not sure of how I would process what she was telling me.

I have always known the child’s parents were grateful. They’ve said so in private, and I’ve certainly seen it in their eyes . . . on the infrequent occasions since that night when I've been brave enough to show my face at First Baptist (for the snarks out there, I'd wager that getting your name splattered all over the front page of your hometown newspaper as a "liar" wouldn't do much for your church-going). Like many other people, these parents expressed great dismay at what was done to me afterwards. They supported my subsequent complaint against their baby's doctor to the North Carolina Medical Board (back when I believed that organizations like the Medical Board and N.C. State Bar were really interested in "ethics", and policing their respective professions), and I’m quite sure they would’ve gladly been deposed in the resultant litigation if I’d asked.

I didn’t ask. They had been put through enough.

They also sent me a lovely card when my Father died. What it said was exactly what I needed to hear . . . something about me being my Daddy's legacy.

Anyone who knew Pops . . . and knows me . . . gets a hearty chuckle from the truth in that statement.

For eight years, the fury about what happened that night has stayed with me . . . it quiets for long periods to a low simmer in the background of my day-to-day life . . . only to periodically rage into a full-blown spitting & crackling fire (in case no one's noticed, I've been raging lately). I despise what is happening to my profession - and who is taking it over. And I've simply been unable to “reconcile” (there's that word again) the intolerable situation we were all thrown into that night . . . not to mention what I have endured since . . . crafted by people who put ego and greed above all else.

None of us deserved what the bigwigs at Randolph Hospital dished out.

I’ve likewise never been able to "reconcile" the hypocrisy of supposedly God-fearing people who attend some of the more prominent churches in Asheboro . . . "important" people who sit on the Boards and medical committees and commissions/councils . . . people who write the news stories & editorials . . . people who are elected to serve and defend . . . people who could've done something to stop what was going on . . . people who could do something NOW about the things I’ve discovered and reported.

I just don't get how "the suits" who pulled all of the unethical & illegal stunts can just skate merrily along through life unscathed - and how they can get raises for doing it!?!.

Farther long, I suppose, I will understand why.

I’ve gone a number of rounds with FBC’s Pastor about the difference between putting one’s faith in God and putting it in God’s men . . . about cheap grace and the nature of forgiveness. My hometown taught me loads of lessons I would have just have soon not learned. I cannot sing a hymn in church . . . or gaze upon the beautiful stained-glass windows . . . without waves of sadness overtaking me and tears coming to my eyes.

This is why, although I BELIEVE way deep down in my toes, I am not a regular church-goer.

Every year, the parents of this child send me a Christmas card . . . with nothing on it but their daughter’s photograph.

I look for that card every year. On several occasions – Christmases far from home – it has been balm for a deeply wounded soul. More than once over the last eight years, I have considered leaving the practice of medicine. In fact, I am considering leaving it now. More than once, the dancing eyes and curls and smile on a Christmas card have kept me from shutting that door forever and walking away from the work that I love.

I guess I got the card early this year. But I'm not sure it will make a difference this time.

I was crying at the end of Mama’s story. I don’t like for people to see me cry – or know that I am doing it, so Mom (wise woman that she is) let the crack in my voice pass as she continued talking . . . I'm not sure of all that she said, as the memories were flooding back in huge waves, but I do remember Mama telling me that she spoke to the woman after church. She told my Mother that she just wanted me/us to know how grateful she and her husband were that I decided to come in that night. She wanted to say, “Thank You.”

I wish Daddy had heard this story.

And no, dear lady. Thank you. It was an honor and a privilege. I would do it again. She is a beauty isn't she?

Angels show up just when you need them.