A Chance at Life for a Dying Soul

I realized I was burned out somewhere at the start of the UFC fights on ESPN. My kids already had the TV on outside as I pulled into my driveway just having finished my shift at the ER trauma center. Still in my scrubs, I poured a drink, lit a cigar, pulled up a chair, and began to place my first bet on DraftKings.

My oldest tilted his head back to greet me. “How was work?”?

“Fine, nothing much, same ol’ shit.” I drew a puff from my Camacho.

“Anything interesting?” my middle kid asked.

“Nah, just some guy brain dead from hanging himself, some woman comatose from a car crash.”

It got abruptly quiet.

The casualness in which these words left my mouth suddenly hit me, and perhaps my sons caught wind of it, because they didn’t prod any further . . . Just some brain dead guy . . . hung himself . . . comatose woman from a car crash . . .

What the f**k is happening to me?

It was at the start of the second fight—a flyweight bout I believe—that I became aware that somehow my soul had died. Perhaps it was a “coming down” from the pandemic, bearing witness to the seemingly collapse of the social norms of decency that once guided us through the years, or just a surrendered helplessness. A kind of realization that perhaps Dr. Wendy Dean was right when she described the moral injury of the American Physician. But it was clear that my passion for this once great profession was on life support. So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I went to Alaska.

I spent about ten minutes planning (I’m not a planner). Went online, clicked on probably the second website in my search for “Alaska fishing vacations,” came across this nice, smiling photo of Jason-and-Jennifer, a couple who owned a Bed & Breakfast/Lodge in some town I never heard of (Soldotna). This is them . . .

Sent them a note to the effect: “I’m a burned-out ER doc . . . I want to go fishing . . . give me and my wife seven solid days of doing and seeing cool stuff in Alaska.”?

So they made an itinerary, loaned me a car, and even baked me a cake on my birthday, and sent us on our way with a daily itinerary so we could do this . . .

And this . . .

And this . . .?

And this . . .

Listen, I don’t know if it helped or not, but what I do know is the majesty of our 49th state is transformative—it makes you realize how infinitely small we are and how there is a whole unspoiled vastness of America far away from IV lines, and ear aches, body bags, and bowel blockages.?

A place where air smells like . . . well . . . air. Where rain and glaciers, and bears and whales, and moose and eagles, and salmon and cod, and winding rivers and towering mountains of fir and birch trees lull you into forgetting that just a few years prior our ERs and ICUs were stacked with bodies and those on their way to being a body. A time when the air tasted like sanitized stool, and people thought you were a killer just for going without a mask through the produce aisle.?

You can feel the toll the pandemic had taken on us all. You can feel the aftermath of the vitriol and verbal vomit that spewed from the mouth of the media, TikTokers, and those who screamed that they had done their research and our children should stay home. Where are they now? Do they have any idea of the damage they caused, the intellectual capital they destroyed, the addicts they created, the abuse they caused for those whose only respite was a classroom?

I hear it when I talk to your kids, when I travel America speaking on college campuses. Even that is taking its toll. Seeing the pain in their faces, the stories they tell me when they pull me aside after the talk.

I’m just trying to pull some of our kids off the ledge—all of us are—it’s literally a daily occurrence in our ERs. There is a deep sadness and a sense of loss in our high school and college-age kids. A sense that they have been robbed of something . . . and they are right. We have not been good stewards of their future.

We as parents, as health care providers, hell . . . just citizens of this great nation need to be diligent and understand that our kids are suffering and we are contributing to it. Perhaps we all just need to be a bit quiet for a while . . . put away our flags, shelve our platitudes, and take a deep breath of life. Take it all in.?

Maybe an “Alaska” is what they need. Maybe it’s what we all need. I mean this metaphorically of course, a kind of reboot of our soul. A place, even just in our own thoughts, where we can escape and recapture a bit of ourselves and realize the world is so much bigger than us and that there is a purpose to life that extends far beyond likes and shares.

Listen, I’m fifty-nine—I’m in the waning years of a career where most of my colleagues leave much earlier, often in their forties. In the long run, did Alaska make much of a difference? I don’t know, but for the time being it did. I returned energized and with a realization that I still like what I do, it’s still a noble profession, and I still think I have something to offer my community.?

So when asked for the thousandth time by my younger colleagues, “How long do you think you’ll do this, how many years of this do you have left in you?”

I’ll probably just shrug and respond . . .

“Depends on my Alaska.”

Dr. Louis M. Profeta is an emergency physician practicing in Indianapolis and a member of the Indianapolis Forensic Services Board. He is a national award-winning writer, public speaker and one of?LinkedIn's Top Voices?and the author of the critically acclaimed book,?The Patient in Room Nine Says He's God. Feedback at [email protected] is welcomed. For other publications and for speaking dates, go to?louisprofeta.com.?For college speaking inquiries, contact [email protected].