The medical community is masters of the heart. An exquisitely engineered organ. The predictability of its beat can confirm life or death. Its electrical conduction seen in a beautifully organized pattern that can be qualified, quantified and assessed. We study these hearts, find ways to keep them beating longer, and rely on them as a compass for the rest of the body. And for as much as I can hold in awe the knowledge of these scientists…the explorers…I moreover marvel at the heart they possess within them.
“Hi’ya doc. Funny that you can charge when I’m late or don’t show up. I should be sending you my bill,” she hears after she rushes back from emergency surgery. “Are you sure you can start my IV first try?” He hears after his hands were compressing a chest of a dead patient minutes prior. And they give and they give. And they stay up all night with highlighters in their hand or the decision they made that day weighing on their minds. And they give more. And administration adds more rules and they study more. And they give.
And then they hear “Go to Haiti. On your own vacation time…yes, of course your own money. The roads will be bumpy, and you can’t speak Creole. No matters. Come pour your heart into a people who could never repay you.”
And these heart masters are intrigued. And can’t think of a thing more pure and right. And the roads aren’t that bad from what they remember, and it turns out they are all speaking the same language. And the repayment is worth so much more than anything monetarily tangible that it baffles the mind.
They have no idea how far their good work will spread this mission week. They just cast it out. With love and enthusiasm and concern and care and the hope that tomorrow will be better than today. And they listen to the heart and watch its rhythm on their screen. Masters.