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I Listened, and Learned
by Janis Amatuzio, MD.
 My
mother, my great encourager and supporter, listened patiently as I read her the
last chapter of this book, and she did what every daughter prays for at such a
moment. She cried and then looked at me with an expression of such admiration
and pride. As my mother gave me this gift, she asked a question that would give
me one more. She said, "Janis, it's just beautiful, but tell me something — for
whom did you write this book and, more importantly, why?"
I felt a familiar tug in my heart, the one that lets me know there is more to
learn and more to understand. I had to dig deeply for the answers, some of which
surprised me. Let me explain.
Simply put, I am a physician. Specifically, a forensic pathologist: one who
speaks for the dead. As a county coroner and medical examiner, I have spent
years documenting and describing death scenes, examining bodies, and performing
autopsies. I have carefully counted stab wounds, photographed gunshot wounds,
and traced the pathways of injuries through the body.
The forensic pathologist must ask the question "What happened?" and clearly
and scientifically explain the answer to the courts, to law enforcement, to
physicians, and, most of all, to the family of the deceased person.
I grew up watching my physician father, an internist, take time to talk with
and kindly listen to his patients. Perhaps that's why I began talking with and
listening to the families of deceased persons who received my care. I made it a
practice to call family members and explain the autopsy results on non-criminal
cases, to send a letter, and, when needed, to meet in person.
These talks have not always been easy for me. After explaining the autopsy
results, toxicology results, and conclusions that forensic pathology can
provide, I inevitably come face to face with the family's raw grief, their tears
and torn hearts, and the question that I can never answer — "Why?"
But the same thing that brought me the greatest unease also brought me the
greatest gift. These families, the loved ones left behind, occasionally have
shared their perspectives and thoughts and, sometimes, dreams, visions, and
synchronicities that they experienced in and around the death of their loved
ones. These reflections have made me wonder.
When I was growing up and didn't understand a problem or an issue, I would
often talk with my father and be told to study harder. Applying this wisdom, I
began to study the issues of death, loss, and mortality from every angle I could
imagine.
It's been written that if you look at something closely enough, you begin to
see right through it. I have come to believe that the answers to life's most
difficult questions are woven into its design, much as in an optical illusion.
First, you have to look, and when you look closely enough, something happens
— a tiny shift in perspective occurs. Images once hidden become apparent, and
you can't help but wonder what changed and why you didn't recognize them before.
I've come to realize that there is a mysterious dimension of forensic
pathology that I almost missed entirely, and yet it also feels strangely
familiar. Although I still document the "body of evidence," I have become
fascinated with the essence of what has left. For a scientist and physician,
however, the problem is that this area of study isn't precise. It can't be
measured or photographed, and people's experiences around death can't be proven
beyond a reasonable degree of medical certainty. Studying death has required me
to take a leap — a huge leap professionally — from my mind to my heart. And in
doing so, I've remembered that what is most meaningful often cannot be measured,
and that everything that counts cannot be counted.
Individually, these experiences and shared stories were interesting, but
collectively they had the ring of a larger truth. Almost unexpectedly, as I
gathered and wrote down these stories, I realized that the answers I had been
searching for had been there all along. They were woven into the fabric of my
patients' lives and deaths and woven into my own. I just hadn't recognized it.
So, to answer my mother's first question, I realize now that I wrote this
book for myself. You see, I believe that we teach that which we most need to
learn. And I now know that we teach that which we most need to remember. That,
perhaps, is the greatest revelation for me. The answers were there all along. I
just had to remember them.
The answer to the second question — "Why?" — is still unfolding, but it is
beginning to be replaced with wonder and inklings of greater things to come. The
search has led me on an unexpected journey, and I have encountered some
treasures along the way. I have grown much more aware of the Divine Presence in
the universe than I ever imagined I would be. I remember more often to see magic
unfolding in my life. I have begun to trust that I am never alone. I have come
to believe that our loved ones are truly forever ours.
It has been said that what you do for another you ultimately do for yourself.
These gathered experiences and recounted stories have been a blessing in my
life. It is my fondest hope that their telling will be a blessing in yours.
THE FIRST HOUSE CALL
I grew up watching my father care for people, attempt to heal them, and
comfort them. I grew up watching my mother lovingly care for Dad and for us.
My father is a doctor and my mother was a nurse. They met for the first time
over the bed of a sick child on station 42, the pediatrics ward, at the
University of Minnesota Hospitals in Minneapolis. Dad tells me that he knew in
an instant that this pretty little Irishwoman would one day be his wife. Three
years later, in the midst of his internal medicine internship and World War II,
they married and he went off to war. They wrote to each other every day. My
mother has kept those love letters close to her heart all these years, carefully
wrapped and stored with other treasures in her cedar chest.
When my father returned from his tour of duty at a navy hospital in the
Pacific, my mother stopped working as a private-duty nurse, and they began
raising their family. I am the oldest of three children. I knew very early in my
life that I would be a doctor (or a cowboy — my mother first convinced me that I
was a girl and then that, if I became a doctor, I might be able to afford being
a cowgirl!).
Dad practiced medicine in the days before managed health care, when house
calls were not uncommon. He never seemed to mind them.
When I was a little girl, my father would take me and my siblings along on
house calls. I loved to go, but Dad would have my brother and me wait in the car
while he went in to care for the sick. I often wondered just exactly what Dad
did when he visited his patients, many of whom were our neighbors.
Mother tells me that while we were waiting in the car one windy day, Dad came
out of a house to find that I had taken a whole box of tissues and let them go,
one by one, out the car window. All the lawns down the block were strewn with
flowered white tissues. Dad spent the next half hour picking them up. After
that, I never played with the tissues again, and I began to make house calls,
too.
These visits fascinated me; even then I was aware that Dad seemed to be able
to fix things. I would see looks of concern and worry melt into smiles and
thank-yous. These people seemed to just love my dad.
It was amazing. I knew even then that part of the magic that surrounded my
father was his great compassion and his ability to gently reassure his patients.
And I know now that Dad reassured us all.
My father's doctor bag was made of smooth tan-brown leather. It had many
compartments and smelled of antiseptics and leather polish. His stethoscope and
blood pressure cuff were nestled among papers and syringes and vials. I would
often carry his bag as far as the patient's front door.
One day, I went with my father to visit Mr. Phillips, an elderly neighbor who
lived with his wife across the street from us. Their white house was filled with
dark furniture, embroidered chairs, and heavy drapery. The house smelled of old
things and perfume. Mrs. Phillips must have been watching for us because the
front door opened before we had climbed to the top step. She thanked Dad for
coming to their home and held on to his hand as she told him about her husband,
who had been sick for a long time. Dad put down his doctor's bag, took off his
coat, and placed it on a hallway chair. "Don't worry now, Irene. Let me go and
see him. Janis, you wait here for me," he said as he gestured to one of the
living room chairs.
Mrs. Phillips took Dad and his bag down the short, dark hallway just off the
living room and opened a partly closed bedroom door. She came out a few minutes
later. She looked calmer now. "Would you like some milk or lemonade?" she asked
me. "Yes," I nodded as we walked into the kitchen and I sat down at the table.
How different their kitchen looked from my mother's. There was so much stuff on
the counters — little bags of this and that, cookies and crackers, jams and
nuts, and books everywhere. Mr. Phillips was a teacher. She placed a glass of
cold milk and a plate of cookies in front of me. "How is Mr. Phillips?" I asked.
"He is very sick," she answered. "I'm so glad that your father is here to
help him." She picked up an armload of towels from the floor. "Will you be all
right here for a few minutes? I have to run downstairs for a moment to change a
load of wash." I nodded, and Mrs. Phillips disappeared down a narrow set of
stairs to the basement.
I looked around, then quietly got off the chair and stole through the living
room and down the hall to Mr. Phillips's bedroom. I peeked through a crack in
the door. Mr. Phillips was sitting up in bed, his shirt was off, and Dad was
thoughtfully listening to his chest, telling him to take a deep breath. Then Dad
sat down beside the bed as Mr. Phillips put his shirt back on. I saw Dad nod his
head as Mr. Phillips began to speak.
Then, to my surprise, I saw Mr. Phillips put his big, gnarled hand up to his
eyes and begin to cry. They were great big sobs — his shoulders shook and his
head was bowed. Dad gently reached over and put his hand on Mr. Phillips's arm,
then took his hand and held it in both of his. Neither talked for a while. Mr.
Phillips looked very old and bony just then, his skin thin and wrinkled. He
seemed to all but disappear beneath the bed sheets. He and Dad sat there for a
long time, it seemed, and then Mr. Phillips slowly stopped crying, reached over
to Dad, and hugged him. As Dad stood up, I saw that he had tears in his eyes,
too!
That was the first time I saw my father cry. Then I heard a noise and quickly
ran back to the kitchen, gulped down the glass of milk, and hid a cookie in my
pocket — just in time, as Mrs. Phillips was carrying a basket of clothes up from
the basement.
Dad spoke to her as we put on our coats to leave. She hugged him, too. They
spoke in hushed tones as she wiped her eyes with her apron.
We left, and, as we walked down the sidewalk, I took Dad's hand and asked,
"What is wrong with Mr. Phillips? He seems very sick, and Mrs. Phillips is very
worried about him. Will he get better?"
Dad paused. "I don't think so, Jombasba. This is a disease called
Parkinson's, and he has had it for a very long time." (Jombasba was Dad's
special name for me, derived from our Italian ancestry and from his imagination,
I think.)
"But, Dad, will he die?"
Dad stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, looked a little sad,
and said, "Yes, Mr. Phillips will eventually die. We all die someday, Janis."
My nine-year-old eyes filled with tears. "But, Daddy, that's not right! Mrs.
Phillips loves him so! Oh, this is just terrible!" I felt overwhelmed and sat
right down on the sidewalk and began to cry. My father seemed flustered by my
reaction, or perhaps he was a bit worried about what my mother would say. I felt
as though I had just discovered a terrible secret.
Dad put his arms around me and asked, "Janis, what do you think happens when
we die?"
"I don't know," I sniveled, looking up at him, feeling miserable, and hoping
once again that he could make things better.
"Jombasba, we go to heaven — we go to be with God."
"Where is heaven, Daddy?"
My father took a deep breath, paused, and said, "Well, you have to close your
eyes and imagine the happiest, grandest, best place that you can, where all the
special people and animals in your life are gathered, where the sky is velvet
blue, the grass glistens, the flowers smile, and you feel like you are finally
home... and that, Janis, will be heaven."
"How do I get there, Daddy?"
"Don't worry, God knows the way, and so do you."
"Will Mr. Phillips get there?"
"I'm sure he'll get there too," Dad replied.
"Are you sure, Dad?"
"Yes, Janis, I'm sure."
We were almost home now. It was getting dark outside, and we could see the
kitchen lights on and Mother busy fixing dinner. I ran into the house and
quickly forgot about our talk and our house call and Mr. Phillips. My life was
filled with all the things of childhood — school and friends, studying, and
growing up.
But as the days passed, I grew determined to study medicine and become a
physician, just like my dad. I attended medical school and then did an internal
medicine internship, a pathology residency, and a forensic pathology fellowship.
I began to realize the profound effect my father's compassion had had on me. I
too began to listen to my patients and their loved ones and to attempt to
reassure them as my father had. As I listened, I learned more than I had ever
imagined I could.
 This
article was excerpted from Forever Ours, ©2002, by Janis Amatuzio, MD.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, New World Library.
www.newworldlibrary.com
Info/Order this book.
About the Author
Janis
Amatuzio, M.D., is the founder of Midwest Forensic Pathology, P.A., serving as
coroner and a regional resource for counties in Minnesota and Wisconsin. Dr.
Amatuzio is a dynamic speaker, a frequent guest in the media and author of
numerous journal articles. She will be featured as an expert in a documentary
series about women serial killers produced by the Discovery Channel in 2005. Dr.
Amatuzio's website is: www.foreverours.com. She lives
in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
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