God's Hotel by Victoria Sweet

As a Courage to Teach facilitator, I am on a listserv with other facilitators, some of whom support the health professions. This book was recommended on the listserv and it sounded intriguing. It was!

It's the story, from a doctor's point of view, of a hospital for the poor, in San Francisco. The hospital is called Laguna Honda Hospital, and its story takes us through the political issues, the economic issues, and many others associated with health in our culture. It's a fascinating and often depressing read. Sweet tells the story of medicine through her patients, and since most of them are homeless, their stories are often bleak. The stories of how our system fails them is so sad. And yet, there are also great heroes in this book, and their commitment is inspiring.

This doctor also studies the medical practices of an earlier time, and learns to see great value in viewing the body as a garden to be tended. The special care, caring, and rest all contribute their healing powers. She ruminates on the benefits of viewing the body as a whole, and the entire book leaves one longing for that kind of medical practice. She also (somewhat peripherally) traces the development of medical technology and how, in many cases, it dehumanizes medical practice.

I think anyone in our society would appreciate this book, but most especially someone in medicine. I'm going to give it to a doctor friend of mine, who has two sons-in-law who are also training to become doctors. I think it would be good food for thought for all of them. Plus, I'd be curious as to their reaction. However, it's a pretty long and heavy read, and may be too much for over-worked med students!

The one thing I would hope everyone would glean, though, is the value of being very present to each patient. The way Sweet describes this and what she learns is fascinating. Another fascinating aspect is her description of her learning as she periodically takes a break from the hospital to continue a pilgrimage in Spain where her spiritual learning grows. There are parts of her descriptions that read like poetry. And you have to admire her dedication...

One of the most memorable parts of the book is a several page description of a day in her pilgrimage where she meets a group of other pilgrims. Her description of --I don't even know what to call it!--stopped me in my tracks! I've had similar thoughts...and more so lately as I contemplate leaving the formal world of work. What is my unique mark on the world -- or am I like everyone else, in many ways. Anyway, what follows intrigues me still, and begins on page 295 of the paperback version of this book:

During all of this--my return to the admitting ward, Proposition D, Chambers--Rosalind and I continued our pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

The third section of the pilgrimage goes over the Pyrenees and halfway across Spain.That walk was even more varied than the first two, and there were many more pilgrims. What I took back to the hospital that third year was the day we got ahead of "our group."

Not that we had a formal group. Rosalind and I traveled as the two of us; nevertheless, groups formed, just as they had for Chaucer at the inn of The Canterbury Tales. Because, starting out from the same place every day, most people walk about the same distance--a kilometer every fifteen minutes, or about two miles an hour. Some walk quickly, arrive at their destination early, and take a siesta or drink a beer. Others take their time, though they still arrive at the same destination by the end of the day. So groups naturally form: the two Americans, the French singers, the flirtatious divorcee, the talkative Spaniards, the friendly Dane, the two serious Germans.

But that particular day we somehow got ahead of "our" group--a whole day ahead, though we didn't know it. That evening we went out for dinner, sat down at a table, and ordered. As we waited for our meal, I noticed that right next to us, at the next table, were two other American women--pilgrims just about our age. They even looked kind of like us. Then I sat back in my chair and looked around. Sure enough. Over there were the two somber German pilgrims, engaged in their serious discussion, except they were not our serious German pilgrims. There was the French singing group--true, they were Belgian and they didn't sing but played recorders, but still. Way in the back was a dour Norwegian, taking the place of our friendly Dane. And the little group of Spaniards, talking loudly, just not our Spaniards.

It was uncanny. It was a whole group of pilgrims traveling together, just like our group of pilgrims, but not our group of pilgrims. All the time I'd thought we were unique, walking on the pilgrim path; I thought it was our pilgrim path, walked by us for the first time, opening its adventures, stumbles, and stones for the first time--to us. But no. Ahead of us, all the time, was a near-identical group, and, doubtless, behind us, too. For lo and behold, there "they"--that is, "we"--were, in the restaurant that night, a version of ourselves and our group. Unaware that just one day's walk behind them were their adequate replacements. And, two days ahead of them, and two days behind them, too.

That is what I brought back to the hospital that year.

I'd already begun to realize something like that. On the admitting ward, I'd noticed there was a way in which my patients were almost, if not quite, interchangeable. I always had a kind of a "group," it seemed: two Bad Boys, one Bad Girl, one querulous old woman, one stroked-out Chinese, one aging hobo, one new and miscellaneous. But after that third year of the pilgrimage, I began to see that it was also true about the nurses and the doctors and everyone else at the hospital. My group, individual as each of its members was--Dr. Jeffers, Dr. Fintner, Dr. Romero, Dr. Kay, Larissa, Christina, Mr. Conley, even Dr. S.--was not unique. After us, as before us, would assemble some other group, with our approximate equivalents. It might be in a different building, in a new Laguna Honda, even in a a different century, but such a group would arise; the nature of the hospital required it.

My patients and I and the doctors and nurses and administrators were just as accidental a group as a group of pilgrims on their way.

I found that it be a a very relaxing thought. It meant I was off the hook. If I weren't the perfect Dr. S this time--well, eventually someone would come along who would be.

It also meant that the parts we were playing were, in some sense, parts; as if this time, I'll be doctor and you'll be patient; next time, we'll switch. And so, after that third section of the pilgrimage, I began to look much more closely into the faces and eyes of my patients and the janitors and the nurses and the bus drivers. Which parts were they playing? I wondered. And I found they were looking back at me in the same searching, intimate way.

What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty

We were in Laramie in July, headed to California. My friend Leslie offered me this book as a worthy road trip companion. She thought I would enjoy it, and I did.

The premise is interesting. The main character, Alice, has an accident, and her memory of the past several years is wiped out. She goes back to her earlier, happier marriage "self." The story unfolds as she begins to understand, from people's reactions to her, how she had changed into a rather unhappy, selfish, and demanding person on the brink of divorce.

The reason I found the premise interesting is that it coincides with my belief that we, to a large extent, control the way others treat us. I know that sounds counter-intuitive, but I'm 62. I've lived long enough to experiment with this idea, and it's true. See C. Terry Warner for details! (My all-time favorite philosopher and author of Bonds that Make Us Free.) So, when Alice comes "to" as a loving wife instead of a demanding witch, it's not surprising her husband and family react differently. I wish it could have expanded on this idea more...and developed this idea more. It fell short in that, and didn't really go there.

Still, a fun summer read...and a good trip for the road.

The Rent Collector by Camron Wright

This unusual book was one of our book club's summer reading choices. We never had the meeting to discuss it, because the book turned out to be expensive and unavailable in a cheaper version. My friend Christy offered to lend me her copy. She thought I would enjoy it, and I trust her taste! She had also recommended The Glass Castle, and said that it was similar in some ways.

Although the setting is abject poverty, it didn't ring as "true" as the Glass Castle. And how could it? The author is American and the setting is a Cambodian dump. Still, there's much to be appreciated here. It's a story of struggle and of finding joy in learning. I certainly relate to the opening chapter when the main character, Sang Ly, quotes a Chinese proverb: The most difficult battles in life are those we fight within. Although the author is a male, his rendering of his female main character is sensitive. I like how he made her thinking visible, so we could sense her struggle. I liked how her growing education was revealed in her thinking and actions. It was also enjoyable to "witness" the learning to read process.

Is it a great classic? A real page-turner? No. A worthy effort and an uplifting one? Yes. It definitely showed how overcoming obstacles and never giving up is admirable. It was hard, though, to "live" through the setting of the dump. Life seemed so hard. It should have made me extra grateful for my comfortable life...and I suppose it did. Sang Ly's indomitable spirit helped me return to the story, even when the setting put me off. A good summer read, but probably wouldn't choose to read it again.