An Angel Caring for Body and Soul

Christmas reminds me of angels. Angels greeting shepherds in a field. Angels adorning Christmas trees. Angels singing on high.

Until this Christmas, though, I never pictured an angel answering e-mails. Wearing a white coat and stethoscope, no less. The “angel” I’m talking about is named Roy Young, a crusty, veteran doctor who is also my husband’s internist of two years. Their relationship used to be routine--quick visits, medical housekeeping. Then, as is sometimes the case with doctors and patients, tragedy brought Patrick and Roy together. Of course not all doctors are angels at such times, but not all doctors are Roy.

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Our story begins last Christmas, when Patrick and I visited Patrick’s son, Andy, daughter-in-law, Nina, and granddaughter, Leah Rose, in another state. We hung tinsel, ate Andy’s homemade cookies, applauded Leah’s acrobatics. Grandpa Patrick was also acrobatic, perhaps to excess.

Soon after returning home, his left hip hurt. Probably a pulled muscle, my husband thought. Then he started limping. That’s when Roy ordered the X-ray that said it all.

Simply put, the ball in Patrick’s hip socket was collapsing. The formal diagnosis, later confirmed by an MRI scan, was avascular necrosis of the femoral head. A poorly understood bone disease that often requires surgical replacement of the joint.

Patrick is a director and a photographer. In years past, he would fold like origami for a perfect shot. By spring, he needed pain pills and a cane. Consequently, he had no choice. On May 30, an orthopedic surgeon exchanged his worn-out part for a knob on a stem, whacking it into place 200 times.

After 12 days in the hospital and rehabilitation, Patrick traded a walker for crutches and came home to a trapeze sling, a shower bench, a toilet lift and a motorized lounger loaned by a friend.

Eight days later--on Father’s Day--Andy and Leah were killed in a highway accident. He was 39. She was 6.

The first night Patrick barely slept, absorbing the shock. Then reality set in. He needed to say goodbye. But how could he travel to Andy and Leah’s burial site--a distant knoll overlooking a lake and a farmhouse--in his precarious condition?

Enter Roy. Within hours of receiving my SOS e-mail, he called us, and later that day he and Patrick began to exchange e-mails. For six months now, this dialogue has stretched the usual bounds of the doctor-patient relationship, healing not just Patrick’s broken body, but his broken heart.

Here are some examples.

June 19. Patrick: “Thank you for your kind thoughts. As you know, I will soon travel to Illinois for memorial services. I expect to speak and I want to do it right. I need a calming medication to keep me from blubbering all over the podium without grogging me out--a fine line. Currently, every time I talk about [the] feelings that I will be sharing at these ceremonies, I lose it. I want to lift and inspire, not alarm and depress. Is there anything you can prescribe . . .?”

June 19. Roy: “Maybe 0.5 mg Ativan [a type of tranquilizer] to calm things. However, calming probably is not enough to do it. You have a right to ‘lose it!’ I think those to whom you talk will understand your sentiments that much more if they come with a dose of your own personal, enormous grief.”

A few days later, Patrick speaks at the graveside of his only son and grandchild. Six weeks after the funeral, Patrick’s thoughts grow darker, and he is haunted by images of Andy and Leah.

Aug. 2. Patrick: “I continued Ativan until it ran out four days ago. It knocks out the full-blown nighttime anxiety attacks but makes me dozy during the day. Even with the Ativan I still have trouble sleeping through the night. Frankly, I’m getting worn down by all this--ongoing leg issues, ongoing grieving and other assaults I won’t bore you with. I am in a black mood.”

Aug. 2. Roy: “You have been hit with too much over too short a period of time. It’s amazing how well you have functioned. It’s understandable that depression rears its ugly head. Yes, antidepressant time. I think it’s better for you to come in and let’s talk about the whole thing in person.”

Through autumn, Patrick soldiers on. A physically demanding video shoot brings more leg pain, a visit with Nina opens floodgates of emotion. More e-mails from Roy. Whether they deal with X-rays, blood tests or drugs, they are always an anchor of hope.

Today will be Patrick’s first Christmas without Andy and Leah. Despite the loss, he still counts his blessings. Among them is Roy. After all, Roy had many reasons--reticence, protocol, a harried schedule--to shield himself from Patrick’s pain. But he didn’t.

Nov. 24. Roy: “I hope you and Patrick had a close and loving Thanksgiving. You both deserve a respite from the events of this past year.”

You too, Roy. Holiday wishes from the heart.