careful

It is a dangerous time right now. The gorilla died at the Birmingham zoo. Michael Jackson died. And perhaps most importantly to me, Aaron died. I can't tell you his last name. But, I can tell you that he was my patient at Bradford Health Services in Warrior, AL. He was incredibly annoying when he was in treatment. He was impulsive to put it mildly and he tried (unsuccessfully) to flirt with me every day. He invited me to several movies and offered to sit next to me on several occasions. Eventually, Aaron left treatment and went to a halfway house. He got kicked out of there because of a relapse and he eventually found the needle. From there, it was over for Aaron. He overdosed and died. At age 20. Did you hear me? Age 20. I hate this fucking disease more than I can put into words. I hate it with every ounce of my being. I hate its cunning nature and its ability to turn family and friends into enemies. Its ability to turn truth into lies and lies into truth. Its ability to slowly and/or quickly kill the mind, spirit, soul, and body. I hate this disease.

When I first heard that Aaron died, I tried to take responsibility. Surely his death was my fault. Final proof that I am not good at my job and that I am not helping. After spending some time wrestling with this thought, I had to let this go. His death was not my fault nor my doing. I had no more power over Aaron than I have over the rising of the sun each morning. Just as I do not get to take the glory for my patient's successes, nor do I get to take the blame for their failures. It is up to each individual and their Higher Power. My God is in control.

I learned about Aaron's death last Saturday. The following Sunday morning, I sat in a beautiful church in the heart of Chicago and listened to the organ and looked at the sun streaming through the stained glass windows. And it broke my heart to know that Aaron would never hear that music or see that light again. I hope he's walking with Jesus right now. I hope he is no longer suffering. I hope his parents are finding relief in the fact that they no longer have to wonder where he is at night. I hope they picture him with Jesus. I hope. In times like these, I always whisper, "Come Lord Jesus. Amen." It comes from Revelation. It's the only thing I know to say when life doesn't make sense. "Come Lord Jesus. Amen." I usually throw in a couple of "please's" and "please hurry!" and an extra "amen" just for good measure.

I'm just thankful that I can appreciate the light and music now. I don't know that I would have noticed such beauty before my disease. I have seen such sadness and experienced such struggle that I can now experience far greater beauty and joy than I had ever known before.