“Ouch, this really hurts!” I limped my way into Urgent Care, my ankle swollen and sore from a particularly ferocious game of racquetball the previous evening. I had prayed that it would feel better by morning. “Prayers do get answered,” I reassured myself. And when I awoke, I found that my prayers had been answered. Unfortunately, the answer was a resounding “No!”
The doctor’s eyes were kind. His voice, comforting. His demeanor, calm and gentle. It was as if Morgan Freeman had been transported from the movie screen to the examination room.
He carefully inspected my tender ankle. “Racquetball, huh? Fun game,” he mused. As he perused the Twilight Zone-esque images of my X-rays, he concluded, “Well, looks like it’s just some irritation or a minor sprain from your racquetball addiction. Nothing serious.”
“Okay that’s fine, but what do I do about it” I pleaded. His response was slow and steady: “We’ll wrap it, you should ice it and elevate it at home, and just give it some time.”
“Time?” I howled in my own head. “Who has time for that?!” Didn’t he understand that I needed this damn thing fixed, and pronto? Hell, I had some serious racquetball to play! So, of course, I peppered him with questions: “Can it be shrunk? Should I see a chiropractor? Is there some type of quick outpatient surgery?”
He smiled at me, with almost a wink. “The two best healers in this room right now are Mother Nature and Father Time.”
I semi-nodded, “I think I know what you’re talking about. But, seriously, what are you talking about?”
“Patience,” he calmly replied. “There’s not a whole lot you can do to make this better. But there are lots of things you can do that could make it worse. So, just don’t do them.”
As he carefully wrapped up the wounded ankle with a support bandage, I suddenly flashed back to my youth: playing outside with my friends / falling and scraping my knee / fighting back tears / making a bee-line for home / seeking the assistance and comfort of Mom / her drying my tears, cleaning the wound, covering it with a Band-Aid, cautioning me not to pick at it, and gently ordering me to go back outside and play. It was remarkable how — in that brief encounter — my mother was able to provide me with a permanent template for empathy, problem-solving, guidance, and a mandate to live life. Dammit! Mom was right! And sitting in the exam room with the doctor all those years later, it all felt so strangely familiar.
As I hobbled out to my car, my ankle was still throbbing. But somehow the pain was eased with the wisdom of Morgan Freeman, MD — and that of Mom. For wounds in life — physical or emotional — get some care if you need it. However, if you just have the good sense to stay out of the way, they will usually heal on their own. And for God’s sake, don’t make things worse; for if you keep picking at a scab, it will surely bleed. And maybe most important, don’t stop living while you’re waiting for things to heal.
It was time for me to “get back out and play with my friends.” (And now, racquetball would just have to wait patiently for my return…)