Travel

As I pulled the morning's last chart from its wooden cradle, I delighted in the prospect of seeing my patient Carl Swensen again. I was selfish: While hearing about Carl's health, I always learned something about life.

Our eyes met, and Carl nodded eagerly. Tangled, charcoal eyebrows brushed his thick, oil-smudged lenses. Bony shoulders angled forward, and slender fingers, pulled to the side by years of rheumatoid arthritis, curled around the corners of the examination table. Long legs hung from the wide silver buckle, engraved with the word Colorado, that indented his thin waist. Soft leather shoes sympathetically covered his feet.

“This ancient temple is crumbling, Doc,” he said, pushing each word out of the smile sculpted on his face.

I sensed the reason for his visit.

“Planning a trip, Carl?”

“Yes, and I want more injections”.

“Where are you going this time?”

“On a mystery tour. The travel club just said to bring warm clothes. Our last cold weather trip was to Kiev, just before Chernobyl blew”. He grunted—his way of laughing—and added, “So I have to be ready for anything”.

“I guess you're not buying nuclear stocks anymore,” I ventured.

I thought about the fortune I had forfeited over the years by not taking Carl's advice on the stock market.

“Only doctors would buy stock in Russian power plants,” he replied, almost winking.

I shifted; my stool squeaked.

“When did you catch this travel bug?” I asked.

“The bug bit me in November, 1918. I was 9 years old. The war was won, and Dad was coming home soon. We felt like celebrating. So Mom and I took the Cumbres and Toltec narrow-gauge railroad from Antonito to Durango to visit my grandparents.

“I remember pressing my nose against the cold train window like a puppy. The engine steam was mixing with dark clouds over the mountain. I kept tapping my feet, which irritated Mom, but I just couldn't wait to see Grandpa. He grew melons, cherries, peaches, and all kinds of apples on a farm he homesteaded. Kept Grandma canning, day in and day out.

“Grandpa built crates to ship his fruit to Utah. To get his attention, I stole his hatchet one summer and buried it in a cave. That cave had the most delicious spring water. I still dream about it. When Grandpa couldn't find his hatchet, I swore I didn't know where it was. It's probably still buried there”.

I had finished painting his knees with antiseptic, and, before injecting a local anesthetic, I warned, “You'll feel a little sting, Carl”. While the anesthetic settled, I begged, “Tell me more about the train trip”.

He stretched his knee and replied, “Top of Cumbres Pass, we got caught in a blizzard. Everything turned a grayish-white blur, especially my mother's face when the engineer told us we were stuck in 15 feet of snow, rocks, broken trees, and dead animals.

“I was shivering and hungry. In those days there were piles of coal next to the tracks to refuel the engine. The men kept the stove burning and the women melted snow in tin coffee cups. The boxcar was filled with apples, which were our only food! We ate apples for dinner and snowballs for dessert.

“At first our spirits were high, but it wasn't like being marooned on a Caribbean island. After 4 days of nothing but snow and apples, I was afraid they'd be taking us down the mountain on slabs of wood, in April.

“Late in the afternoon, the sun broke through, then slipped away. The sky was lavender. And there was this thin silver light over the dark ridge. Pine branches were sagging under the wet snow. My eyes were young then.

“After dinner—apples, of course—Mom and I stepped outside. Every star in the universe was out that night—like the gods were throwing handfuls of sugar at each other. I was freezing. Mom hugged me with a tenderness I'll never forget.

“In the morning, the conductor spotted smoke in the canyon. A few hours later a big steel rotary dug us out of the drift. We all held hands and sang ”America the Beautiful,“ the song that lady wrote on the top of Pikes Peak. I ran outside and pitched a few apples at the tree trunks.”

I had injected three of Carl's joints. I sat on my stool, but my mind was still coming down the mountain on that train.

Carl stood, letting his pant legs work their way to his shoes. Beneath his pale wrinkles, I could see the hopeful face of a 9-year-old boy.

“Doc, when are you taking a vacation?” he asked.

“I'm lucky. I feel as if I travel every day—in the best possible company,” I replied.

He grunted, and we shook hands.

I hustled to the coffee shop next door. For dessert I ordered apple pie. Each bite was delicious.

• Copyright ©2004 by the American College of Physicians