Curtain Call

Center offspring: Mom, sing “Easy Street”

Me (mouth full of salad): No

Center offspring: C’mon Mom

Me: Still no

Pause (to finish salad)

Me: Sings “Maybe”…including both verses. I think he was sorry he asked.

It was then that the irony hit me. My son is preparing for the role of Rooster, in an upcoming performance of Annie. That is the very musical that I used to envision myself starring in on Broadway. Yet it would ultimately be a moment, surrounded by other musicians and thespians, in which I would realize a larger dream.

Poised between the awkward middle school years and exciting, challenging, formative years of college, was this four year timespan that stood between me and “the rest of my life.” High School. It was to be the stepping stone, both necessary and sufficient to get me out of Kansas City. Why you ask? I wasn’t exactly being forced to milk cows or tend to the farm. So why the desire to leave? Well, much of my family was in California, where I had spent a portion of each summer since I was six and first began flying alone to stay with my grandparents. I loved it. It was warm, sunny, big, exciting, diverse. The weather was perfect. I loved the beach. Too young to be cognizant of the cost of living or the drudgery of commuting, I was sold, and there was no going back. I did not realize in high school how long it would actually take me to ultimately move to SoCal, nor how many moves lay in my future. All I knew was that I was Cali bound, one way or another.

Despite being a means to an end (which is how surely many viewed those four years), high school was a lot of fun. I sang in several choirs, played cello, did drama, debate and forensics, went to football games, homecomings, four proms, and hung out with friends as much as possible. Music was a huge part of my life. Perhaps it was fitting that it would be in the large orchestra/band room, in which I spent countless hours of high school, where I would ultimately make my single largest career decision. The irony lay in the fact that this decision would take me very far from music.

My junior year I was having a fair amount of pain in my right hip where I had had my initial cancer surgeries years earlier. To be fair I had never really been completely pain free, which was attributed to post-surgical neuropathy (changes in the nerves in the area of resection). It was not terrible, and it did not limit my activity, at least not any more than my own intrinsic laziness did. But the area near the scar was very sensitive to touch. In fact it was probably fifteen years before I was able to comfortably sleep on my right side, even briefly. I had also developed a keloid (thick, overgrown scar), which added to the discomfort. And from a cosmetic standpoint, it appeared as if I might have had a little run in with a machete. Thank God for the mid-nineties baggy jeans!

Due to my pre-existing condition, we had gone a time without health insurance but thankfully had recently obtained insurance again. My mother took me to a new surgeon at Children’s Mercy hospital, in downtown Kansas City. He said that although he hoped the pain was due to the keloid and neuroma formation (basically due to overgrowth of nerves after prior surgeries), he could not be sure that the pain was not due to recurrence of the sarcoma. So he recommended resection of the affected tissue with revision of the overlying scar. 

We left that appointment, and my mom drove me back (as we Kansas Citians say) “north of the river” to school, as I had orchestra practice. I felt numb on the ride back and made an immediate b line for the orchestra room. As soon as I walked in, wearing my standard issue baggy jeans and navy high school logo jacket, I saw a couple of friends near the door. Having zero ability to conjure up any semblance of a poker face, my distress was transparent. I struggled to get the words out that I might have cancer again and would be having surgery soon. Tears filled my eyes, which I fought against to the best of my abilities. I paused while talking to my friends long enough to have a brief internal dialogue. I do not recall uttering the words aloud, but in that moment I promised myself and God that if I made it through this, I would become a doctor. Suddenly, and for the first time, my pain had meaning and purpose. 

When I was younger and my mom would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was, at least for several years, consistently the same. I wanted to sing on Broadway. I used to stand in our kitchen, chin up, confidently belting out “the sun’ll come out tomorrow” as if I could feel the warm, unforgiving spotlights shining upon me.  It seemed reasonable enough at the time. However, I can say with 100% certainty that, even before I developed vocal cord nodules in high school, and just a few years ago developed paresis (partial paralysis) of one of my vocal cords, this was an unreasonable life plan. But between the ages of say three and ten, this was the plan. 

My mom was also consistent in her response to me. “You can do whatever you like, after medical school.” Was she serious? Absolutely not. We have no doctors in the family. She was not pushing a family business upon me. I do not think we even knew any doctors outside of our own, at least not in a social capacity. Did she actually intend for me to go to medical school to fulfill some parental desire to have a child become a doctor? Nope. But this was her way of informing me that I needed to go to college and get a decent paying job.  Raising me without financial support and no college education, she always reminded me that I needed to be able to provide for myself, without the help of anyone, if at all possible. I honestly think she chose “medical school” as her specific response, because back then the stereotype that doctors make a lot of money was still at least somewhat grounded in reality. That being said, I do not think she ever really thought that I would choose medicine. Rather she just hoped I would choose something that would keep me from living on the streets or on her couch for the rest of my life.

A few weeks after I solidified my overall career trajectory, I underwent my third surgery on my hip. The subsequent week spent awaiting final pathology results, felt like one of the longest weeks of my life. Ultimately the news was good, and the tissue was benign. I was so relieved that I got a small dove tattoo on the opposite hip, as to me the dove signified freedom and peace from cancer. I had thought that would be my last surgery, and that I was now magically granted immunity from cancer. That notion is laughable now, but I cannot blame my sixteen-year-old self for being optimistic. 

Now with that behind me, it was time to uphold my end of the bargain. This was really my first introduction to the concepts of duty, calling, and vocation, and I was fortunate they happened relatively early in my life. Without that gift, and I do truly believe this was a gift, I would have lacked the drive to forge through what was to come in the following years.

Happy National Physicians Day to everyone of you who continues to show up, with the early morning call time, under the unrelenting, hot flood lights (and PPE), front and center stage for your patients!

Photo Credit: https://www.zacharyleeportrait.com/