Friday, May 1, 2020

The Emergency Room Doc who changed my mind

    In 2004, early winter I was coughing up so much junk that I started to gag, almost choke. After putting up with that for a few days, I went to my local hospital's emergency room.
    Seated on an exam bed, anxious about seeing the Doc, I waited for a good while. Sterile exam room. Polka dot gown. I read anything on the wall, whatever it said. No magazines. Just equipment. A chair. A bed. I stared at the walls, considered the ceiling. Wondered if I had pneumonia, wondered if that meant antibiotics. Time passed.
    When the doctor came in, said hello, he asked what was going on. I said lots of junk coming up from my lungs. 
    Do you smoke?
    Yes.
    I could tell you were a smoker just by looking at you. Your face shows it.
    I cringed inside,but held a say-nothing-face on the outside.
    He took his stethoscope, went around to my backside and set the scope to my back. Placed it high--breath. Listened for some time. Moved it all about, repeating the same command.
    Do you hear that?
    Hear what?
    Your lungs. If you do not stop smoking you are going to end up with emphysema. He said this firmly--no anger--he just said it so that I'd hear what he was saying.
     I'm surprised you don't use an inhaler. 
     He said that I had some kind of pneumonia and that he would write a prescription, recommended that I get an inhaler.
     Back then I was pretty good about ignoring the reality of my smoking, but this doctor's approach made me pay attention.
     I went home and thought about his long term diagnosis--I suppose that is what it was. It stayed with me. Even though it took me nine and a half years to quit, I never forgot. From then on, I controlled my smoking by counting what I smoked each day, writing it down. I smoked a third less right away. Of course quitting then would have been best. Still, in 2013, when I was finally was willing to stop, his clear and uncut treatment was a part of my quit. Everyone knows that emphysema bargains with no one. That stab of truth hung out in my mind, sometimes in front, sometimes in back reminding me that I don't have the control I think I do when I smoke.
     I don't know who he was, but I remember what he said. Now, six years, seven months smober, I still remember. 
     Thanks, Doc. Live long and kick butt.