A glimpse.

I'm only afforded a glimpse. A brief snippet of a broad timeline. A moment in a lifetime.

4.89 weeks into my first clinical, and I'm still a pretty poor aspiring physical therapist. I've been placed in an acute setting, with a patient caseload comprised mostly of neurologically compromised patients. Stroke, Guillain-Barré Syndrome, traumatic brain injury, brain cancer, multiple sclerosis – you name it. I find my way into patients' rooms, seeing them for 23 and 11 and 41 minutes at a time, fumbling through treatments and evaluations and assessments.

Nearly all of the patients I see on a given day are 70+ years old. They've seen more and done more in their lives than I can even fathom. And it's my job to waltz in, push and pull on them, make them walk lines and zigzag through cones, and waltz out again to write a brief assessment and plan of care that could alter their lifestyles dramatically.

I met a woman who came in with complaints of a weak right arm. I stood to the side as she was told she had tumors in her lungs, kidneys, and brain, and I swallowed hard as she turned back to me and asked what was next.



I'm only afforded a glimpse. A brief snippet of a broad timeline. A moment in a lifetime.

In the grand scheme of a life, what I do is considerably insignificant. It's so easy to see a patient as a diagnosis, a length of stay, or a "to-do" of a workday. I must constantly remind myself that the patients I see have families, and careers, and lives beyond the hospital.

I met a man confined to the hospital bed by a body that slowly stopped responding to his will to move, and met his family as they hand-fed him breakfast bit by bit.

There are so many stories that I've simply peeked into – stories that have beginnings and middles, twists and turns, pauses and abrupt halts. When night comes, behind closed doors, the faces in these stories flash through my mind. It's when night comes, and solitude with it, that I find the great Storyteller reminding me He's in charge. And it's when night comes that I ask Him to compose a happy ending for each face.

I met a 91-year-old woman who still lives alone on her horse farm, who was unfortunately set back by a run-in with one of her four-legged equines and a subsequent spleen injury. I asked for her secret to long life and happiness: "Laughter," she giggled, her eyes crinkling with mirth.

I'm only afforded a glimpse. A brief snippet of a broad timeline. A moment in a lifetime.
And each glimpse is precious.