I went to see a new doctor today, an ENT specialist. A month ago, when I saw my dentist for my checkup, he saw a white lesion where my tonsils used to be and thought I should have it looked at. So, there I was, patiently sitting in the exam room with my mug of steaming hot coffee, absorbed in a good book (which I always remember to bring for times like this when I may need to wait).
The doctor quietly slipped in the door. I was so engrossed in my story I didn’t notice him for a minute. He cleared his throat, and I looked up. I lay my book on the chair next to me. “Good morning,” I said, as I reached out my hand to greet him.
He was a distinguished looking gentleman, perhaps in his sixties; he wore horn-rimmed glasses. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was streaming through the window, illuminating his face in a soft golden light.
“Good morning,” he responded, as he shook my hand. He looked at me for an uncommonly long minute, then cocked his head. His eyes were twinkling. He turned to stare out the window, then looked back.
“Are you a gardener?”
“Uh… yes I am,” I replied, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, looking at you just now, it came to me that it all went together somehow: coffee, a book, gardening. . .” His smile was warm.
“Yes, absolutely. They do go together!” We both chuckled and then proceeded to chat about vegetables. Eventually, he proceeded with his exam.
“I don’t see anything there now,” he said. “Must have been schmutz.”
“I’m good with that. Schmutz. That was exactly my diagnosis. I wasn’t worried.”
We grinned and shook hands. “Have a great, rest-of-your-day,” he said as I departed.
It was no more than a fifteen-minute visit, but in that brief interlude, we touched. He saw me. I am exactly who he thought he saw. And he knew that I knew that. And he felt seen, knowing that I knew that. It was a “moment.” A simple but exquisite moment. Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., says in Kitchen Table Wisdom: “The places where we are seen and heard are holy places. They remind us of our value as human beings.”
This is what a friend of mine calls “mini-pleasures,” those times during the day when we pause and show up for the little things, wherever we are. Some are deeply human moments, like this, where people come together momentarily—like birds on a telephone wire—touch in, and then go on their way, feeling fuller, plumped up with good juju. Other times, it may be the flight of a hawk, the dew on a leaf, a grocer’s kind words to an elderly woman fumbling in her wallet for change, or the miracle of a spider’s web that makes us pay attention and rejoice.
As a hospice nurse, I have been at the bedsides of dying people who have lamented: “My life is over and I missed it.” It’s a heartbreaker. Yet, how many times throughout the day are we unconscious, missing what is right before us, waiting for life to be more, holding out for something bigger?
So, thank you, Dr. R. I don’t have throat cancer, and you made my day.