I’ll Fly Away
2017; Elsevier BV; Volume: 70; Issue: 5 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1016/j.annemergmed.2017.05.017
ISSN1097-6760
Autores ResumoI am used to seeing illness. Every third patient I see in the emergency department is on home oxygen, and I would say that I can practically sense COPD. I listen to their lungs and make a study of their breathing pattern. I picture them in light blue tie-in-the-back gowns, wheezing. My threshold for discharge is rather low after an encouraging ambulatory pulse ox and several nebulizer treatments. But what happens after they see me? My personal and professional life intersected while I was at a coffee shop jam session when the singer sauntered in—one hand held tightly to a guitar case, the other hand holding an oxygen tank on wheels. He was round and short, in his late 60s presumably. He wore a maroon newsboy cap atop his white hair; a thick white beard and mustache rounded out his face. The rest of his outfit was forgettable but my eyes were drawn to the “Grateful Dead” and “Peace” stickers on his oxygen tank. He sat down with the other musicians who were similar in age and style. He ordered tea. He laughed. He didn’t cough. He opened his guitar case, revealing a seemingly warm golden bass that shone in the dim light. His name was called to play. He stood slowly, hand secured onto the rolling oxygen tank, and with intention, he walked onto the stage without aid or labored breathing. His guitar now hanging from a strap across his chest. He sat. The oxygen tank at his right. He strummed and I knew the song. “I’ll Fly Away,” an old bluegrass spiritual. His voice was robust and imperfect, his fingers quickly moving along the neck of the guitar. I was moved that this was all happening under a nasal cannula. The song ended and the 25 people in the audience applauded with tenderness and excitement. Their friend. He was a regular here and he was doing what he always did. He walked back to his seat; drank the rest of his tea; clapped for the kids who were just learning guitar; chuckled at the political commentary between singers. The set ended and he slowly walked into the night. His gait balanced by the tank and the guitar. The tubing from the nasal cannula slightly swaying. I am centered once again that my patients are people; that my COPD patients sing.
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