When I was a practicing doctor, my working day started with an assistant handing me a list of the patients for the day. I would peruse the list to see who might be coming in to see me. Some patients’ names evoked pleasure and happy anticipation. Others, I may not have known or have had any emotional feelings about. But there were a few who would send a shudder down my spine and an immediate sense of gloom. Mr. Ferguson fell into this category. And there he was, on my schedule: George Ferguson, 10:30 a.m. “Follow-up.” I just shook my head and sighed.
I kept one eye on the clock ticking down toward 10:30 as I worked my way through my patient list, knowing that disaster was just around the corner.
What Actually Happened
Mr. Ferguson was a 93-year-old man with advanced Alzheimer’s who had no close family and lived alone in a nursing home nearby. He was afflicted with a squamous cell carcinoma of his left ear, which, because of chronic neglect, had by now become unresectable. And just as the clock was ticking down for me, it was ticking down for Mr. Ferguson as well. It was only a matter of time before the cancer would erode through his temporal bone into his brain tissue, ending his life.
At 10:25 I could hear them coming in. His nursing home assistant clumsily wheeled him through our front door, bumping and clanking their way into our waiting room. He was slumped over in his wheelchair, and his head bobbed as the wobbly chair moved along, spittle dribbling down from the side of his mouth onto his neck. He was moaning and jabbering in his demented state.
The well-dressed ladies and gentlemen in the waiting room shifted in their chairs and peeked over their magazines and Wall Street Journal copies to see what the commotion was about, and then quickly averted their gazes so as not to seem obvious. And then, like a grotesque aftershock, a wave of foul, putrid odor filled the room, along with a sense of dread among the other waiting patients. The front desk whispered, “Hurry up! Get him back, get him back.” And the assistant continued, pushing the wobbly wheelchair down our long corridor toward the examination rooms.
“Doctor Mashburn, he’s here.” They didn’t really need to call me. I knew he was there. I had heard him coming in and had already caught a drift of that terrible stench. I steeled my nerves, put on a mask and gloves, and somberly made my way into his exam room. I didn’t bother talking to him. I knew he didn’t know what was going on. He was slumped over in his wheelchair, his head wrapped, somewhat unprofessionally, with a gauze dressing. The dressing was crusted and stained with old and new blood and secretions, and disheveled, almost ready to fall off on its own.
Do you ever wish that you could go back in time and do some things differently? I do.
The nurse handed me some bandage shears. I took a deep breath, knowing what was coming my way, and with a couple of snips I released the nasty bandage and placed it into a red contamination bag to be discreetly disposed of. I could never quite get used to the sight that awaited me beneath the bandage. His “ear” (and I call it an ear only because that is the anatomic position in which it sat) had been reduced by the cancer to a puddle of mush with a foul odor that I can’t even describe. And the mush was moving. Why was it moving? Because underneath the secretions that had formed a thin brown skin were zillions of little maggots, writhing and wriggling, sipping in the bodily fluids. Oh, how I hate maggots.
“Hold still, Mr. Ferguson.” He reflexively drew away and moaned loudly in his discomfort, so the assistant had to hold his head steady as we worked. We went about the unpleasant task of debriding the dead tissue, old blood and secretions, and yes, maggots. Did I mention those maggots? I hate maggots.
After the grim task was done, I redressed the wound with a fresh Xeroform gauze, some fluffs, and a new Kerlix wrap. Gladly I sent Mr. Ferguson on his way, a sigh of relief probably escaping my lips as he passed by on the wobbly wheelchair. I didn’t know where he was going next, and I didn’t really care, as long as it was out of my office. Now things could get back to normal.
I think now, as I look back, about what Jesus would have done. How could I have been more like Jesus? I’m reminded of a story in the Bible.
A Story in the Bible
Multitudes were thronging Jesus. Why wouldn’t they when He had been working miracle after miracle, casting out demons, and preaching powerful sermons? Yet with all those people pressed about Him, a leper dares approach Jesus.
Perhaps his leprosy was not so advanced as to force him out of the city limits. Perhaps everyone could smell him coming as his putrefying flesh emitted its nauseating odor. I imagine the crowd parting behind Jesus as he makes his way closer. People gagging and holding their noses, maybe even jeering at him. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Why was he approaching Him? Jesus would likely turn and run as quickly as He could from this place once He caught a waft of him.
But Jesus doesn’t turn and run. He sees that it is an unclean leper approaching Him; maybe He even smells his approach and permits it. “If You are willing, You can make me clean” are the words out of the leper’s mouth. It is both a statement and a request. All eyes are on Jesus.
Then Jesus does the unimaginable! He reaches out His hand and touches the unclean leper. He touches the untouchable. “I am willing,” Jesus responds. “Be cleansed.”
In an instant his skin assumes a healthy pink glow. And that stench, that awful stench I imagine, is gone, and in its place a sweet aroma. Maybe it smelled like jasmine.
Jesus spent His life touching and healing, didn’t He? The New Testament is filled with examples of souls sick with physical, mental, and spiritual illness that Jesus touched and healed. Did you know that we are also able to heal through touch?
My home church takes seriously Jesus’ admonition to “go.” Go out and touch people. Go out and heal people.
When we pass out a bunch of bananas at our produce giveaway, we’re not just handing out bananas, we are handing out hope. We are handing out love. We’re handing out healing.
When we go to a nursing home and put a hand on the shoulder of a resident and rub their neck as we talk with them, we are healing.
When we accompany a single mother to help her with some errands or give her encouragement, we are being like Jesus.
When we fill someone’s tank with gasoline, we are filling their life with a vision of something greater than we are.
This is not rocket science, so to speak. Any one of us is capable of touching lives as did Jesus.
A Do-over
Do you ever wish that you could go back in time and do some things differently? I do.
In my mind I often go back to my patient Mr. Ferguson and think about how I could have been more like Jesus with him.
The assistant hands me my schedule for the morning, and as I peruse the list, I see his name: George Ferguson, 10:30 a.m. “Follow-up.” I take a moment to reflect on Mr. Ferguson’s life.
Mr. Ferguson had been a teacher at the local high school for many years. He had touched many lives—several generations. He was known and loved by many students over the years. He is 93 years old now. His wife had died some years before, and he lived alone at a local nursing home. He had advanced Alzheimer’s disease and wasn’t aware of who or where he was or anyone else around him. His disease had robbed him of his thoughts, but not of his feelings or emotions.
His squamous cell cancer on the skin of his left ear had started small, but because no one had paid attention to it, had slowly spread to the deeper layers of skin and soft tissues and by now was tracking down the ear canal and on its way toward his inevitable demise. It wouldn’t be long now.
I keep one eye on the clock as it ticks down toward 10:30.
At 10:25 I go to the front door to meet Mr. Ferguson and hold the door open for his assistant. “Good morning, Mr. Ferguson. Good to see you.” I know he isn’t aware, but my other patients are, and they look over their magazines and Wall Street Journal copies and nod knowing smiles. I take over the wheelchair as the assistant checks him in, and I push Mr. Ferguson back to the exam room waiting for him. Everything is laid out neat and ready.
My assistant smiles and greets him, and we begin our task of changing his dressing. When we are finished, I apply a fresh, new Kerlix wrap around his head as neatly as I can. Then I pause, and, looking at the dressing, I notice that it is so clean and white, just like fresh fallen snow. I turn to my assistant and request, “Could you please take a warm cloth and wipe Mr. Ferguson’s face?” She gently wipes his face and neck, and then cleans the crusts around his eyes. His skin has a healthy pink glow now.
Some ointment is applied to his cracked lips, and a comb is run through his thin gray hair. My assistant rubs his neck for a moment with some lotion. His moaning has stopped now, and he sits peacefully in his chair. I lay my hand on his shoulder. “See you next time, Mr. Ferguson.” And as his assistant wheels him from the room, I glance at his face and spy a slight smile crack at the corner of his mouth as he goes by.
The room is tidied up for the next patient, and before she leaves, the nurse spritzes some air freshener into the room. Pausing for a moment, I notice the odor. That stench, that awful stench, is gone, and in its place, a sweet aroma. Maybe it smells like jasmine.
