“I know; he was amazing,” Vicki said, brightening.

“So, you remember what he went through? He fought to overcome institutionalized racism in his own government, and he was imprisoned for it. He was sent to prison for almost thirty years. Clearly, that’s an abuse in and of itself, and he survived even more abuse while in prison. But he emerged to summon love, forgiveness, and compassion to literally change the world, therein healing himself and many millions of other people. His legacy speaks to what we human beings can withstand. What they did to you was wrong, Vicki. What they did to Mandela was wrong. So many things that happen to us are not right, are not okay. And we can survive and heal and use that to be stronger and shape our lives and the lives of others in wonderful, powerful, healing ways, should we choose to do so. Honestly, that’s the reason to forgive. Just like with your mom: In your own time, you forgave her to free yourself. You forgave her to heal yourself. In your strength, in your courage, in your self-love, others are healed. That’s all. All in time.”

“I like that, Dr. Harper. I like that a lot. I really want to do that. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m going to school. My new squad is helping me. My new therapist is helping me, too.”

“Most important, you’re helping yourself. You are doing all of this.”

Hearing that, she glowed with pride. “Yes, I am.”

“Yes, you are. Go forth and be Mandela!” I joined my hands in front of my heart as if to say Namaste—a force of habit by that point.

She smiled. “Yes! That’s why I’m here!”

“That’s right, you’re doin’ it!” We laughed deep soul laughs together. For the first time, the room was buoyant. I forgot that I was late for sign-out. I forgot that I was in the psychiatric ER.

“Well, my dear, I’ve gotta go back to the medical side. My day here is done. All the best to you. One day, come back and tell me your stories of happiness and contentment. Congratulations already on your brand-new life.”

“Thank you. I promise I will. You know what? I haven’t ever talked to anyone like that. I’ve never told the whole story. I didn’t know that would happen today. Feels so good to get it out. To let it go!”

She emanated a softening, a radiance that made her appear ten years younger than when she first came in. “Wow,” I said. “You’re okay and safe and your energy is lighter, too. You even look brighter.”

“Thank you, Doctor. God bless you.”

“Thank you and God bless you and us all. We all need it.” I shared one last smile with her, then turned to open the curtain and walk away.

The night psychiatric nurse, Pat, approached. “What are you still doing over here? Didn’t your shift end an hour ago?”

“Yeah, I have to skedaddle.”

“What the heck happened just now? You miss your calling, Doc?”

“Huh?” I asked, but I knew he had heard. The unit was small, with no doors except those for the bathroom, the psychiatrist’s office, and the social work office, so there was no privacy. You could hear every word from the patient rooms, every word at the nurses’ desk.

“Your calling as a shrink!” he replied.

I laughed. “Have a great night, guys. I’ll see y’all again in a couple of days.”

I swiped my ID card at the exit to liberate myself from the unit.

Vicki and I had both crossed thresholds that day. We had both braced ourselves and covered our heads as the walls of our glass houses had shattered around us. We had trod mindfully over the shards and escaped with nonfatal wounds to a new freedom, a new clarity, a new resolve. As I passed the full tracking board and the poorly staffed ER, I recalled that I still had five or six notes to complete before signing out, which meant I’d be there for another twenty minutes. But that was all right: I felt lighter and brighter, too. Vicki’s strength was a true testament to human mettle, a beacon.

I thought back on the things that had been upsetting me just an hour before—whether or not to move, the dismal social scene in Philly, the administrative problems in the hospital that were consistently infuriating, and most of all, the bizarre hospital politics that had shot down my proposal to start a complementary medical center at the VA to treat the chronic effects of trauma such as pain, depression, and anxiety. The center would have been modeled after centers of excellence at other VA hospitals in the country. Despite my having presented data from those hospitals and from the U.S. military showing improved outcomes from complementary treatments, treatments that lacked the detrimental side effects of the drugs comprising the bulk of remedies offered at our site, the proposal was repeatedly rejected without any specific reason. At one point, the vague explanation given was that there was some guy at the Philadelphia VA who did pain management, so if anyone should start such a clinic, it should be him—the same guy who hadn’t started one in over a decade.

The members of CAM, the Complementary and Alternative Medicine Interest Group (comprising committed internal medicine physicians, social workers, and psychiatrists who met monthly to discuss ways to safely improve the lives of veterans), had tried to warn me. They had tried for years to get such a center off the ground, but there had always been a barrier. One month, the hospital administration told them there was no space for it; another month, there was no funding; then, the next year, it just wasn’t the right time. Unable to effect change, one by one, the members of the group had left the Philadelphia VA. As for my center, its creation wasn’t foreseeable in any near decade, and unlike the CAM group, I was given no reason for this, so I could not prepare a counter pitch. The better part of valor was to take all of it as a sign from the universe that I should try something else.

Reflecting on my conversation with Vicki, I realized that none of my concerns was truly debilitating. I would get home eventually, and this would have been a very good day, a very good day in a very blessed life.

Standing in my kitchen that evening, as the steam welled up from my caramel tea, I was suffused with the lessons I’d learned from Victoria Honor and the reminder that, whether on the mat or off, we always have the choice to start again, to bind again exquisitely.

EIGHT

    Joshua: Under Contract

It was early—well before 6 a.m. and still dark. To spend the entire day working and then leave the hospital in this same darkness was always disorienting, but I preferred arriving early to running in late to the doctors’ lounge, locs flying, ID swinging, after the unofficial ten-minute late mark. Anything up to ten minutes late was moderately irritating to people but not entirely unreasonable. That nine-plus-minute allowance was there in case we got caught behind a bus or were detoured by a freak accident. Today I didn’t need that buffer; instead, I walked slowly from the parking lot to the hospital and settled into the ER staff lounge to eat my breakfast of Greek yogurt with almonds and blueberries as I sipped myself awake with coffee.

The bonus in arriving early was that there was time to get caught up reading the latest medical journal issue. The hospital was still quiet—no footsteps; no rolling wheelchairs; no voices asking directions to a room; no police officer escorting a belligerent patient. The only sound was the night shift’s percolating coffeemaker, whose smoky aroma was wafting me alert. Sitting in the staff lounge, I looked up at the clock: 5:45 a.m.

Today will be a good day, I silently affirmed. Somewhere between shifts, I’d have to figure out the rest of my life. But not right now.