ACHILLES' BRAIN

Greek mythology is full of lore that remains metaphorically as relavent today as when it was current; so much so that its cultural referencing is probably second only to the Bible, and maybe Harry Potter depending on who you ask. Many of the great heroes and fools are used so often that they have their own adjectives: hurculean, sisyphean and so forth. Every pretty face we see could launch a thousand ship, and one pretty face in particular, Pandora, brings out the problem with this lazy language. She was made by Zeus as a punishment to man, invested with horribly lovely gifts from every god so that her wonder took hold of gods and men alike when they saw her. And while it is true that she was filled with the curiosty that unleased innumerable sorrows upon the earth, she is also the giver of hope, the most forgotten gift of her nature. Without the whole story, she, the gods and the rest of mankind are little more than shadows.

Another, better example is Achilles and his tender heel. He is oft remembered for the single point of vulnerability on his body, and as frequently forgotten for being the most tragic of heroes of the Trojan War. Achilles was a conflicted chieftain who wrought vengence on his sworn enemy only to relent to the slain man's father and halt the fighting so he could be mourned. He travelled between rage and remorse not from indecision, but from compassion even in the face of his own fated mortality. There was a place in Achilles' heart, not his heel, that was softer still and more vulnerable to the things he couldn't fight because he could not imagine them in the first place.

In all of us is something, simply called gumption, that keeps our forward momentum through soft grass and briars alike. But deeper is a soft part that we let no one see because we do not see it ourselves. This dark place is held behind a lock whose key we do not have and do not know. It is only undone by another and when opened, like Pandora's box, unleashes sorrow we cannot conquer because we did not know it was possible.

Caring for the sick and injured can be like this. Choosing to heal often means choosing to hurt some of the time as you share another's pain and grief for a short time. This is part of the job and part of the bargain. What none of us sign up for are the atrocities that derail rational thought and threaten in a flash to push us from competent to fetal, or worse. We never know what we will encounter that will open that lid, because it is different for everyone. For some, it is simple and grotesque as a mangled body. For others, it is more visceral, like the bite marks left on a small body by the one trusted to care for her. Whatever the trigger, what separates the good from the great is the knowledge that no matter what you just saw, you have to push forward regardless of the mark that it will leave on you.

A favorite quote of mine is "Everything worth knowing leaves bruises". In the dark places, the bruises are deeper and last longer, and they leave an enduring soreness of spirit which is not easily forgotten. But they also toughen the skin they wound, helping us to heal and to keep healing those who cannot do what we do because they do not see as we see.

HANDS OF FATE

"Cradled by the hands of fate the faith that sometimes wraps around too tight - so tight" Train "Free"

A Google search of "hands quotes" returns about 20 million results, most of which refer to things we hold in our hands. We can hold our future, love, another's heart, fear, a weapon...the list is endless. But what of the hands themselves? In the lines and creases and veins live the words of each of our stories; words that cannot lie or embelish or hide the deeds that bore them. These are the words, more than the ones we speak, that speak what we are.

Like many, my hands are vital to what I do to live and for a living. Without their strenght and sensitivity, I could no more be a paramedic than I could fly without mechanical wings. But my livelihood is only the smallest fragment of what my, or your, hands know.

More of what I've learned can be attributed to putting my hands where they didn't belong rather than where they did, and that's OK because, right or wrong, they have been in some pretty amazing places, and some equally dark ones. But I am defined by these places and the marks they have left on my hands. There are scars from a childhood accident I don't remember and more recent ones I remember all too well. My fingers know of unzipping a dress and helping it to the floor; they know of zipping countless body bags and lifting them away. My hands have reached into my son's crib to lift him from his nap; and a dozen other cribs to carry away those who will not wake. My cold hands have found warmth in many places, just and unjust; and have spread their own warmth of better days to those in need. My hand has cut the cord, cut ties, shook hands over a promise and acted to break one. My fingertips hold memories my brain has pushed away, only revelaing these reminded places when they find them again, reminding me that the words are on my skin, in my veins and on every other hand that I touch.

A good friend of mine always talks about the details in everything we do. She believes, as I do, that the most important intricacies are found in the places most people don't care to look. Often these places are the hands, ours and others. Many would say that scarred and calloused hands are imperect and need to be fixed. For them, I am sorry for it these hands that fix things, and it is in these places, this character, these words, that human perfection lies.

Do good things, learn something, and be safe.