More Than This

I used to be so much more than this. I listen to his words as I peer down at my computer screen. It is a routine follow-up for his heart failure. His well-worn clothes hang from his undersized body. I stare at the fraying edges of his sleeves as his head wavers, and concentrates wide-eyed on the floor. He is in poor condition.

His heart pumps at a fraction of the strength that it once had. His legs are chronically swollen and his breath often is lost with even the most minimal of activity. He leases a small apartment in a low-income housing rental unit down the street from the office. The elevator is out-of-order more times than not, and he is lucky to have secured a unit on the first floor.

He would have never made it up those stairs.

A Business

I used to own more than this.

Although you wouldn’t be able to tell from his most humble appearance, he used to be a successful businessman. He owned a bunch of dry cleaners around the city. He watched year after year as his revenue skyrocketed. His bank account moved into the seven figures in the early eighties when that was really saying something.

But even then, his lust for success couldn’t be quenched. He tried to parlay his success into a number of small businesses that failed. His attempts at running a fast food restaurant not only bombed miserably, but also forced the sale of his successful dry cleaning business.

He escaped with little more than the clothes on his back.

A Family

I used to love more than this.

Shortly after his business collapsed, his wife and daughter left. His mood turned

foul after losing everything. He came home late at night drunk after a day of carousing, instead of hitting the pavement in search of work. His misery played out in his personal life destroying his family, costing him his friends, and cutting the social bonds that bind.

He felt unworthy. Less than. Not deserving the love and support that he once had.

His Health

Alcohol is not good for the body. It creates havoc with the liver and changes the brain. It forms a physiologic dependence as well as an emotional one. His once strong muscles became putty under the duress of disuse and the abuse of alcohol toxicity.

But it was his heart. His heart that eventually brought him to me. After years he developed an alcoholic cardiomyopathy. The cardiac muscle weakened by years of drunkenness. As his breath became short and his legs became swollen, he had no choice but to seek help.

He was dying. A slow death. Emotionally and physically.

He had memories of being more than this. Of having wealth. Of being a father. A husband who could be depended on, and having a body that could support itself through everyday stress.

His Doctor

As I stare across the exam room at this disheveled figure, I can’t help but feel compassion.

Compassion for him and his losses. I can not restore his fortune nor his family. I can prescribe the measly medications which will keep his disease at bay. For a time. Till the water fills his lungs and his heart gives out.

Some things are unfixable.

And I also feel a little compassion for myself. Because i have a business, a family, and my health. Yet I also question everyday whether there is more than this.

Whether I am reaching my true potential. Whether my patient and I have more in common than I would like to believe.

Maybe he should have been happy with what he had when he had it.

Maybe I should be too.