As I witness COVID reeking its havoc — especially among the elderly and people of color — I feel it is important to recognize the grief experienced by the primary care physicians who have provided ongoing care for these individuals, often for decades, by sharing this brief poem.
Elegy for Two Dead Men
by Dean Schillinger MD
One: a refugee from Cuba.
Always in white, skin black and smooth,
Fitting the mold from bottom to top:
White leather shoes, white pants, white linen shirt,
Crowned with a Havana, of course.
The other: tall, lanky, happy and old.
A former ball player in the West Coast Negro League.
Pitched for the Sea Lions
‘Til he threw his shoulder out of its socket,
And could throw no more.
The first: always smiling, laughing even.
Gold sparkling from a tooth.
Bejeweled with bling like epaulettes
From his favorite pastime: Reno with Maria
The second: never sure of his age,
Either 93 or 88,
His Louisiana birth certificate,
Unable to read it.
But he knows it bears false witness.
Keeps his daughter’s phone number safe:
Pearline – etched on the inside brim
Of his omnipresent baseball cap.
The former: still alive
‘Cause he quit tobacco 25 years ago
After being filleted open to plumb his heart.
Proud of his medical survival skills,
And grateful for his doctor.
While smacking his big round belly,
Pregnant with hope and worry.
The latter: still alive
‘Cause he quit smoking 25 years ago
After being told his lungs are vanishing.
“Owe my life to my doctor,”
So he says and so he believes.
Now chained to an oxygen tank,
Not sure if it’s worth it anymore.
Two brothers: Resilient,
Living in parallel,
Struggling in parallel,
Full lives behind them.
Now both suddenly dead
Within days of each other.
Leaving behind their doctor.
How can it be that these two men,
Bedeviled by society,
Could become the favorites
Of their doctor?
What can fill the absences,
When I am robbed of my favorites
And their love is lost?