FORGIVE ME, BOB

March, 2008

Bob died today, at home, in his sleep with no warning. The medical examiner called me—that’s how I found out about it. The last time I saw him was 4 months ago—he wanted to quit smoking. I don’t know if he ever did. He was a real character—in his 50’s, but he could have passed for 75, bushy white moustache, a pockmarked face from acne as a teenager, an impish grin. He had been married and divorced several times, had a bunch of kids, but never had much contact with his family. He once said to me with a laugh: “My mission in life is to piss people off.” He did--and he lived very much alone.

He grew up Roman Catholic and went to Catholic schools as a kid, but told me years ago with a smirk: “I’m a heathen!” I once asked him is he thought there was a God. He seemed to acknowledge that reality, but he never let it effect him much.

Bob died today. I have to go to the funeral home and examine the body—go through the ritual of being sure he’s dead, filling out the death certificate. I sit in my office and flip through his chart, reminiscing about our visits over the last 8 years. I wonder how the kids will take it? One of them’s still in Russia, I think. I wonder how his mother is taking it. I’ve never met her. I wonder if she’s one of those Catholic mothers that never stop praying for their kids.

I flip through his chart. Almost a year ago, when Bob was last here for a physical, he filled out the little questionnaire we give everyone. It asks about physical health—he checked off a bunch of things. His health was poor. We talked about his issues—cramps in his legs, dizziness, trouble with his left arm. The questionnaire asks about mental health—he checked off “angry” feelings and “depression.” I didn’t have the time or maybe i just didn’t take the time to talk about those issues that day. The questionnaire asks about spiritual health. “Does life seem empty?” He filled in the little box: “Y.” “Do you feel at peace?” He marked: “N.” Finally, “Is your life joyful?”—“N.” I didn’t take the time to respond. Perhaps it was one of those days when I become numb to all the forms, all the little “boxes”, all the complaints. Sometimes I stop listening.

Sometimes cries for help are hard to hear, just a “Y” or an “N” on a piece of paper, one of many pieces of paper. Did I drop the ball, Lord? Did I miss a chance to tell him about You? How many of those chances have I missed? Forgive me, Bob.

I pray that in the end, Bob, you have found peace. I pray that perhaps during the night before you died, you awoke. Perhaps you were having bad chest pain. I pray you asked God to help you, as the thief on the cross. I pray that you reached out to Him. I know He listens--and He is merciful.

Forgive me, Bob.

(Submitted by John Howland, M.D.)

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