Don’t
look for the big things; just do the small things with great love and great
faith.
-Blessed
Theresa of Calcutta
I’ve
known I am supposed to become a doctor since second grade; I’ve known God has
called me to become a doctor since I was eighteen. Despite my desire to come to
Williams in order to prepare for medical school, it wasn’t my main focus once I
got here. Within the first month I became so wrapped up in baseball that I
began to devote eighty percent of my mental energy and time to it. More than
anything I wanted to play professionally for a couple of years before
eventually applying to medical school. In January of my sophomore year my goal
of pitching professionally looked hopeful – I had two tryouts scheduled with
the Red Sox and Reds. The day of my tryout with the Reds I pitched well, but
with a 103* fever that ended with me in the hospital. Even though this should
have been cause for concern to take it easier on my body, my focus and
determination was only fueled. For the next month I added two a day workouts in
order to prepare for the upcoming season, further ignoring the classes that
should have been preparing me for medical school.
The
work paid off, as I saw immeasurable improvements. The first time on the mound
in February I was at my best. It also would
be the last time I pitched. As I stepped off the mound it felt like a knife was
stabbed through my elbow and forearm. The smallest movement caused searing pain
to course through my entire arm. I feared the worst, but I was still hopeful.
North Adams General Hospital diagnosed me with a stress fracture in my elbow.
The doctor said I would be back throwing in six weeks, but after twelve I still
was unable to pitch so he suggested that I take the spring off to prepare for
my summer in California, where I
had been planning a trip to stay in Palo Alto in order to play in a competitive
summer league. In my mind, it was the perfect opportunity to improve my chances
of pitching professionally, and the chance to
intern at a medical lab at Stanford gave me the peace of mind that the summer
wasn’t just for baseball. And so on May
26, 2013 I flew to California to stay with my good friend, Alex Marshall, and
her family. The summer held so much
promise, so much prospect.
When
I first walked into the Marshall’s home I looked to my left and saw a Cross. I
looked straight ahead and met eyes with a life sized wooden carving of St.
Augustine, the confirmation name I took not two years earlier when I became
Catholic. A sense of peaceful purpose overcame me, and I knew that in fact God
was confirming that His plans were for me to be in California. I didn’t know it
wasn’t to play baseball. I spent the first two weeks biding my time in the lab,
and rehabbing, but without pitching I was feeling incredibly unfulfilled and
useless. One evening Alex’s mother, Anna, and I were talking about the many
Catholic books that laden her
bookshelf when I asked if she knew of any
volunteering opportunities in the area. She said she would contact her father,
who was good friends with Mother Theresa before her passing, and that he would
probably be able to offer some suggestions.
The
next day Anna mentioned that her father had gotten back to her with a
recommendation to call the Gift of Love home in Pacifica, CA, a hospice home
for patients terminally ill with AIDS run by the Missionaries of Charity,
Mother Theresa’s Catholic Order. But for weeks I did nothing to follow up; I
wasted my free time sunbathing by a country club pool as the slip of paper with
Gift of Love’s phone number became lost under a pile of books on my bedside
table. I kept hoping that my arm would heal, but as the days turned to weeks,
despair set in. As I ignored the urge to call and continue to linger by the
pool, intense thoughts of dying and an
anxiety so strong that it could have dragged me into the pool crept into my
heart and began to fester. What would I
say to the God of the Universe when He asked how I had spent my brief time on
Earth? Would I tell Him that I really wanted to play professional baseball and
was happy I spent so much time preparing to do so? I realized I could no longer
live so apathetically, so selfishly. I woke up the next morning with an
overwhelming burden to call Gift of Love.
No
answer. I felt the Spirit telling me to try and call once more and if no one
answered once again, I was to drive the forty minutes and do it in person. No
answer. And so off I went, with my worship music playing, and rosary beads in
hand, but still full of intense feelings of anxiety and despair. Just as I summited the mountain drive before
descending into Pacifica I was struck with one of the most spectacular views of
my life: the Pacific Ocean with all of its tranquil grandeur and vast opulence
enveloped me. I was overcome by feelings of love, peace, hope – feelings of
consolation usurped my feelings of desolation as quickly and completely as the
cascading water impacted the shoreline. All at once, I knew the Spirit was
leading me.
I
calmly pulled into the driveway of the home and just as I entered the house, a
man with the most peaceful, serene blue eyes unexpectedly came through the door
to my right. He asked, “Can I help you.” I told him why I was in California and
asked if there was any need for another volunteer. Calmly, he replied, “Ah,
yes, we’ve been praying for you. Our last volunteer just returned to Canada.” I
left in disbelief, and the next day I got a call from Sister Faustine, the head
nurse of the house, and a woman of small stature, but great vitality and energy
and with as sharp a wit as anyone I’ve met. She told me to come after my game
was over, so I arrived with my jersey and baseball pants, not knowing how much
I was to change.
The
first two weeks of volunteering were incredibly tough on my heart and soul. The
home housed about nine residents throughout my time there – most of who were
going to die there within a short period of time. When, in the middle of the
night, James would wander the halls unsure of where he was, I would sigh as I
tried to get him back to his room; and Gary constantly crying out in need of
new bandages for his swollen legs led me to take extended breaks in the
kitchen, passively avoiding the care he so desperately needed. I was exhausted,
and felt there was nothing I could do to make any difference. No matter what I did, they were going to die. As I traveled between the residents’
suffering and poverty and the opulence and wealth of Palo Alto, I began to
despair. I felt as if there was nothing I could do to reconcile these two
lifestyles. How could I go back to the luxury of Palo Alto every day knowing
that these people were suffering so much?
As
I was folding sheets one day, Sister Faustine stopped me and said, “Dylan, I
have been praying for your ‘conversion.’” I looked at her very puzzlingly as I
had in my mind made it very clear that I converted to Catholicism a little over
two years ago. When I didn’t respond,
she pointed to a picture of Blessed Mother Theresa and under it read, “every
act of love is an act of peace, joy and unity.” She said, “You see, Dylan, when
you are in despair and you feel as though there is little you can do to help
the residents of this house, you are not loving. When we perform acts out of
love we feel at peace, we feel joy; we find unity with that person. We all must
pray for conversion every day.” Sister Faustine gave me homework that night.
She wanted me to watch a film, a long one she said. Three and a half hours
long. When she handed me the case and I read the title, “St. Giuseppe Moscati: Doctor to the Poor” I felt urgent in needing
to watch it.
Back
at the Marshall’s, I sat down in my room, closed my door, and turned on my
computer. As Dr. Moscati looked out over the infirmary, eyes melancholy, as he identified the immense
suffering that surrounded him, I finally felt something. Watching how this
doctor, amidst so much suffering and poverty, cared so deeply for his patients,
and with such humility led me to start thinking about the residents of Gift of
Love and my own interactions with them. Seeing how his knowledge of medicine
and how quickly he was able to diagnose and treat the desperately sick, I
thought about how careless I had been with my studies over the past two years –
how completely unconcerned I was with the people I would eventually be
treating. And as he knelt by the Mediterranean Sea gazing towards the empty sky
with tears in his eyes and a small boy in his dying moments wrapped in his
arms, I lost it and couldn’t stop the tears. I professed faith, but I knew very
little what it meant to love my brother, my neighbor. In that moment God began
to create within me a deep, burning love and passion to care for the least of
these brothers of mine. The way Dr. Moscati went to the chapel and gave
everything to God in his anger, his sadness, his grief – his tears became my
tears. I knew that God was calling me to live in this same manner and in that
moment I made a promise to God that I wouldn’t waste a day in striving to
become the best doctor I could for His children, my brothers.
Over
the remaining weeks of the summer, as my heart continued to undergo deep change, I thought more about what conversion actually meant
in relation to it’s Latin root, ‘converto,
convertere’ which means, “to turn
round,” or, “turn back.” I realized that each time I turn towards something I
renounce something else: that conversion is not so much as a moment of
profession, but a lifelong process of turning away from the world, and turning
towards Christ. A conversion of heart required a reorienting of my heart
towards the will of God for my life. God’s will for my life became very clear
that summer: to love. To love Him, to love the residents of the house, to love
my family, to love my friends, and most especially to love those who can offer
me nothing in return. My mind was turned to The
Gospel of Matthew as it reads,
“’For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a
stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for
me, in prison and you visited me; ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one
of these least brothers of mine, you did for me’” (Matthew 25:35-36,40). It was not just the
residents I was caring for; it was the reflection of the face of God in them.
God’s work started in watching Saint Giuseppe Moscati, but it through the
summer in bathing James with a loving and gentle hand, changing and cleaning
Gary’s wounds as I sang to him, or carrying Tim to his bed at three in the
morning to administer his medication. It was no longer just James, Gary, or Tim
gazing into my eyes as I cared for them, but it was Jesus gazing back at me,
healing my soul, molding my heart.
As
I was getting ready to leave California, I got news that my original injury
that had kept my from pitching the last six months was misdiagnosed, would
require surgery, and would keep me from pitching for the next twelve months.
What would have been devastating news five months earlier gave me hope, for I
knew that God wanted to use this time to give me continued perspective and show
me how much more there was to my life than baseball. I knew God wanted me to
cherish and treat my time at Williams differently. What I do now will affect
how I treat my first Gary, a man with late stage terminal pancreatic cancer, or
my first James, a young boy suffering from a rare form of leukemia, his hands
and heart cold from never knowing the hand of a mother – both of these brothers
too close to death, and too far from feeling loved, and me with the opportunity
to allow God to pour forth healing, both physically and spiritually. With this
healed perspective, only two things mattered: giving myself to God to pour into
me each morning, and giving myself to others in the full-heart pursuit of my
studies, becoming a complete physician in mind, body, and soul. When it came
time to leave the Gift of Love I couldn’t hold back the tears. The jersey and
baseball pants I arrived in juxtaposed with the white coat and scrubs I left
in, I can honestly say that this injury has been a gift, a gift of both
spiritual and emotional healing, a gift showing me that my treasure lay not in
my prospect of playing professional baseball, but in giving myself fully to
God’s mission of healing. My treasure lies in a simple, yet profound gift – a
gift of healing, a gift of love.
