Drawing the short stick, I slowly rose from the computer and put on my best happy face. As an ER doc, I’m not sure which complaint is loathed the most, but I know weak and dizzy in the elderly has got to top the charts. And there I was holding that complaint and chart in my hand.
Seriously, I would have prayed for constipation or a rectal foreign body over this elderly female in rural Georgia that called 911 because she had the vapors. It could be anything, from basically nothing to some simmering disorder that just might kill her if you were not astute enough as her doctor to discover the zebra.
My eyes began to roll unconsciously as her nurse approached and added fuel to the fire that was already burning inside me. She just wanted to let me know that a social work consult might be in order for this patient. The nurse had gotten the impression that this sweet eighty-year-old African-American grandma might be being mistreated by the son that was living in her home.
“Freakin’ great, another old lady abuse. Do what you think is best,” I motioned towards the goddess of the neglected, abused, and endangered. Our social workers worked miracles in the emergency department. There was nothing that disgusted me more in health care than a CEO that did not see the magnificence and complete and utter need for the social work service. After all, in the ER, most times that is all the patient ever really needs.
As I entered the room, she flashed me an immediate smile and I felt the urge to just sit close to her and stroke her left arm. She was precious, petite, and weathered from so many years. But she was glorious and kind and I swore if her son had so much as looked at her sideways, I would make sure she was protected.
We made brief introductions but I was amazed as to how quickly she confessed without my needing to probe.
“It’s my son,” she whispered. “I just don’t know what to do. I’m just sick over the whole thing.”
“Has he hurt you?” I could feel my hands immediately balling into fists as if he might walk through the door and she needed defending.
“Oh yes, he has dear. I just can’t do it. I don’t know what to do anymore. He wants me to call him a she,” she cried.
Not sure what my face was conveying, I needed clarification.
“I’m sorry, are you saying that your son is transgender?” I asked, now patting her arm.
“Lord, I don’t know what you call it,” she exclaimed with her southern drawl. “He was born a boy but he feels like a girl. He lost his job down in Florida and I let him and his boyfriend move in with me until he could get on his feet but I just can’t do it. He is a boy to me. That is how he was born. I can not call him a girl even when he dresses like one.”
I just let her keep talking because I sure as hell didn’t know what I was going to do with this one. There were no tests that needed running. She didn’t need an EKG or a CT scan to determine her source of dizziness. She just needed someone to listen. And that day, I decided to give her my ear.
She went on to tell me about how much she loved Jesus. Her face brightened every time she said his name. I truly believed she loved Jesus with all her heart. She had prayed and talked to him as well as to her pastor. But she still just couldn’t find peace. It went against everything that she knew and understood to be right.
And oh how my heart softened for her and everyone else out there that didn’t or couldn’t understand. That’s when I saw it. That’s when I saw that none of us really have to get “it”, do we, in order to be kind?
How about if we just decided to love, no questions asked. Just like this woman that loved Jesus without a doubt, even if he had long hair and dressed in a white “dress” like a woman. It was Jesus after all. He could do no wrong. What if we could see everyone like that? And not just the folks that made it easy for us by subscribing to our view of the world?
Just like this woman, who truly loved her son when we really got down to the bare bones of the issue. She just didn’t understand him. And that was okay. And this really helped me.
You see I had been really frustrated at all the Target restroom hoopla. I had a few close transgender friends and it crushed my soul to think of all the pain, shame, and hurt they had endured in their lifetime. And especially now with all the hate that had been thrown at them on social media by so many Christian groups in the name of Jesus. I wanted to protect them, just as I had wanted to protect that elderly lady when I thought she was being abused.
But then all I had to do was go back to my childhood and Sunday school lessons. The Jesus that I had learned and known was all about love, not hate or fear. And so that is what we talked about.
We didn’t debate over toilets, or whether she should consider calling her son Samantha. We talked about love and that very special kind that comes with being a mother and an imperfect human being. We talked about how wonderful it would be if we could just stop trying to figure it all out and really look at everyone around us with the love that Jesus taught.
I then grabbed her a meal tray and a juice. When she was done, she thanked me for my time and then told me I should be a therapist because I really helped her. Thanking her with a great big hug, I reminded myself how much healing these patients had done for me. The varied perspectives left me wide open to just feel love for the human race in all of our glory and limitations.
Image: Unsplash.com
