The Clutter of a Life Well-lived

My mom and I started the process of cleaning out my dad's office today. We ran into one of my dad's partners, Dr. Hunter, as we went in. When we told him why we were there, he gave me such a sad look. Not entirely a look of pity (I am just about sick of those, by now), but a look of such genuine sadness. He and my dad worked side-by-side for thirty years. I haven't even been alive for that long. I could tell it hurt him to see the cardboard boxes almost as much as it hurt us to be carrying them.

It was pretty difficult to bear at first. Nothing had been disturbed for several weeks; every post-it note and medical journal and letter were exactly where he had placed them. It was as if he had only just walked out of the room and would return shortly. That messy office was just packed full of things that shouted out my dad's personality...everything pointed to the man he was.

There were pictures of family on every available space. I'd wondered where those pictures of us at all those Father-Daughter dances had ended up. He had a badly painted rock on his desk (I'm thinking it was an art project of Jason's). He had a desk drawer full of pamphlets given to him by drug reps. He once told me that he felt bad if he didn't at least listen to their pitch, since they brought free food. Another desk drawer was stuffed full of tracts--he had often handed them out to his patients, telling them about God and encouraging them to seek Him out. I found a copied page from an old book that exhorted physicians to direct their patients toward the Lord, stating that doctors have a unique opportunity in people's lives during a time when they are most open to hearing about God. He had golf mugs, golf picture frames, and golf comic strips taped to his filing cabinet. He had a giant bookshelf full of books about infectious diseases. There was a certificate given to him from the UC College of Medicine, thanking him for serving as a mentor to some med students. The little write-up at the bottom of the page lauded my dad's "Sherlock Holmes-ian" approach to diagnosing infectious diseases. Taped up all over the walls were cryptic notes, letters from other doctors, printed-out emails, phone numbers, and reminders. He had a beautiful wooden clock carved to resemble a Gothic church, given to him by a grateful patient. I found a piece of paper hanging up with a child's footprints on it, and when I smilingly pointed it out to my mom, she turned it over. It said, "Love, JessicA 1993."

If you didn't know my dad, you could understand a lot about who he was by looking through that office. He loved God. He loved his family. He was an enthusiastic golfer. He was a very intelligent man, and a diligent doctor. He was loved by his patients. He had a good sense of humor about life and about his job.

And most of all, he was certainly not done living yet.