Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

The Fall of Reverend James Hicks

2004; Wiley; Volume: 52; Issue: 5 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1111/j.1532-5415.2004.52229.x

1532-5415

Catherine J Jacob,

Empathy and Medical Education

Despite their age, my parents are rarely content to be guests in our home. Instead they prefer to be “handy-people” in residence. My father, a retired clergyman affectionately known as Jothie, putters like a kind of geriatric “Mr. Fix-it.” It is this innate need to be useful that motivated him to shuffle to our compost bin, arms full of wet kitchen waste, on a frigid January morning. Our bin is strategically located underneath a broken rain gutter, and Jothie, ambling about with his usual “devil may care” abandon didn't notice a sheet of black ice on the driveway. His feet suddenly flew out from under him, hurling him with a rapid and violent crunch on his back, snapping his neck back, and knocking his head on the pavement. When my mother and I found him a few minutes later, he had somehow struggled to the kitchen and was slouched over the table, chalk white and teetering on the edge of consciousness. Now Jothie can find the edge of consciousness quite easily and teeters there whenever he hurts himself, but as I assessed the scene—my father moaning softly and my mother wringing her hands convinced he was taking the last exit on the highway of life—I decided to take him to the hospital. This was as much for my brother Larry's benefit as for his. Their eldest son is a geriatrician (a “doctor” as my mother says with great reverence) working in California (a mere four time zones west), and I knew, at the first opportunity, my mother would call him for a medical consultation. That would leave Larry trying to determine whether Jothie had a subdural hematoma by the level of panic in my mother's voice. Even if my parents wouldn't trust a physician who could actually see and touch Jothie, I knew Larry would appreciate a first opinion. About halfway there, faced with the prospect of being handed over to the medical profession, my father announced that he was suddenly feeling better. I looked over at him and indeed the color was returning to his face. By the time we arrived, he was downright perky. “Yup, I feel pretty good!” he exclaimed as he sprang from the front seat of the car. “That's nice,” I said. “Let's go in.” In triage, a friendly nurse gave him the once over. She checked his vitals. Everything was normal—ideal, actually, because other than a purple bruise on the top of his otherwise shiny bald head, what we had in front of us was a 76-year-old-man in mint condition and a sure ticket to the bottom of the waiting list. So, off we trudged to the waiting room. “Oh good,” I said to him, noticing the large television in front of a bank of chairs. “TV. At least we won't be bored.” It was 11:00 a.m., but I didn't recognize the opening segment of the show that was just beginning. Jothie and I watched the screen expectantly. Suddenly, I felt the anxiety rise in me as I realized it was “Jerry Springer.” “What's Jerry Springer?” Jothie asked with polite interest. It is important to note here, that Jothie and Jerry Springer do not, in any way, share the same universe. My father, the Reverend James, belongs to the Polly Anna school of life and sees the world through a pair of rose-colored glasses that are permanently welded to his face. I looked desperately about the waiting area. Did I dare get up and turn the channel? Perhaps not. It seemed that we had a fairly large contingent of Jerry Springer disciples sitting behind us, their eyes glued to the screen in anticipation, and we were not to be disappointed. That morning's insightful, social commentary was entitled “My Wife is My Pimp!” Jothie looked confused. Jerry's featured guest was a small mousy man and his spouse/business manager, a 280-pound Latino dominatrix. Jerry played a video of this fellow dropping his pants on command before the fine ladies of his trailer park, who appeared unimpressed as they offered the dominatrix between $20 and $50 for services rendered. I looked over at Jothie nervously. He had progressed from confused, to fascinated, to appalled. Jerry brought out a regular client of the male prostitute. The “Jean,” a buxom 200-pound white woman, implored him to leave this “witch” and run away with her. But wait, he wasn't finished yet! Next on stage was trailer-park “Jean's” gay lover, who flew into a rage when she learned that her lover had been seeing a male hooker. I glanced at Jothie, who had now closed his eyes and, to my nonprofessional eye, was either slipping into a coma or trying to lose himself in prayer. I was just beginning to contemplate calling for help when the nurse called my father's name. He leapt to his feet and bolted for the treatment area. An hour later, the medical examination was complete. He'd be a little sore for a while, but other than that, he was just fine. The doctor offered my father some Advil,® which he refused, and sent Jothie on his way—a fallen man of God—sore, tired, and newly wise in the ways of trailer park “madams.”