The Right Path...

Last week I sat in a parking lot after dark. I wanted to go into my favorite thrift shop. Find something fun and cheery, a distracting bargain. Sighing instead, I picked up the phone.

My body surged sudden. An electric flash.

Well hello, Anger. I whispered, heart on fire.

You see, I was leaving a message for someone in a medical clinic. A few weeks earlier, I had finally called to tell them that something bad had happened on their watch.

You must know...there was a tumor. There was a tumor, it wasn't okay like you said it would be. It wasn't okay at all.

So they had solemnly pledged to do a review. And that night, I sat with this final letter - their determination of their responsibility.

I breathed. In, out.

Let it go. Let it go. I thought you had let it go, Julie?

But my body answered:

No, not yet. The madness is there, some days at least.

So me and my temper took a trip down memory lane. Back to leg pain in the night, for hours at a time and unlike anything I had ever known. Then back to my first visit to this health clinic, more than two years ago now.

Taking no scan of my swollen leg, the doctor had hurriedly given me a diagnosis of Chronic Regional Pain Syndrome. In other words: "pain in my head", as she posited nerves were overcharged from a past tendon injury.

Go to physical therapy, Julie, they will teach you to quiet this leg trouble.

But once there, two clinicians felt something odd in my leg. And a rapid fire question then:

Did the doctor do any scans?

No, no scans were done.

Then as quickly as alarm had come, they pivoted to assure me (and it seemed themselves) that my leg was "just fine." Together we three became a happy little band of believers that all was well.

And I dutifully did my exercises. Leg up, leg down, count to 20 and 20 more.

Until discharge orders came suddenly, out of the blue...

...you are done with physical therapy, Julie. Insurance is done with you, us too. You will still have pain, yes, but there isn't anything physically wrong with you, no.

Except there was something. Very wrong.

A big tumor in my leg, discovered by a doctor at another clinic, several weeks later. This second doctor had walked out of the exam room, sad and sure, to turn around and say these words:

Good job getting a second opinion, Julie.

Last week in that parking lot, I looked at the letter from the first clinic, reporting the results of their review. Words jumped out, rolling around, over and under, under and over:

"While there is no specific point at which we can determine your care was medically inappropriate or lacking, there are certainly learnings from your experience."

And there in my dark car, I steeled to leave a voice message to the woman who had signed this letter. Perhaps she had signed many that day. Do not cry, Julie, do not cry.

I received your letter, thank you. And I understand it is a legal one, not a human one. That you cannot put in writing any acknowledgement of responsibility for what happened to me. But my care was inappropriate and it was lacking. This is the truth, it is my truth and should be yours too. So I hope you are addressing what went wrong in your clinic, and your corrective action is more noble than your words.

Click: Hang Up.

My heart pumped with anger. I looked down at my leg, missing from above the knee now.

And I wondered...would I have had a below the knee amputation if this tumor had been found a few months earlier...a far easier amputation?

What if's caught me, wouldn't let me go. For the whole experience had been so wrong.

So very wrong.

Tears came. And alone in that parking lot I wondered how ever to forgive such a big offense. To forgive three people who could have done better.

How do I reconcile the loss of my leg? How do they reconcile it?

Perhaps the doctor had just been tired that morning, perhaps she had argued with her children, perhaps her schedule was so jam packed she just didn't have time to really see me or my leg, to consider doing a smart and easy scan. Or perhaps she'd not had her coffee yet. These things happen. We are cut off in traffic, a minor offense. We are wronged in a relationship, perhaps a major offense. Or maybe a minor one, depending. Someone steals our wallet, or calls us a bad name, when they're having a bad day.

But what is a leg worth anyway? The question remains, with no answer.

And I turn to this photo - to the woman who was before. When I had two full legs. She was innocent, she was trusting, she didn't know what wrong would happen some day in a medical office. Her right leg was lovely, and I miss it. So much some days. Zooming in, I gaze at those pretty sandals, now donated to the thrift shop. Her smile shines, so it must have been a beautiful, sunny, easy breezy day. Like many of her days, I think now.

Looking at the letter, my eyes close then.

To see the path I long to be on. The one I will be on, the one I am on. The path of extravagant forgiveness. The one that demands we trust in time's healing powers. To believe so even on the impossible days, in dark cars. Clinging with a stubborn faith that all can be well once more, our bodies too. To release, to let go of trespasses, big and small. To choose grace, again and again. To not have to speak blame that might simply injure others, rather than bring balm to our anger or correction to our past.

Some days all we can do is breathe.

So breathe I do. In, out.

And I hear her whisper, she with the easy smile...

...we are on the right path.

Stay our course, dears, stay our course.