A Long Walk
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

category. But it sure as heck felt like "for worse." Why is it that the people you love the most are also the most annoying?

My angry thoughts cooled down in the night air and my memories drifted back to a long walk I took many years ago. I was staying with my parents in New York during the Christmas break between semesters of my sophomore year in college. I awoke in the middle of the night, restless and troubled. For a long while I sat by my parents' Christmas tree trying to sort out my thoughts. Then I drove to Jones Beach on Long Island's South Shore, and began my long walk.

A young woman I hardly knew was critically ill. She was an artist, a student at the University of Michigan, whom I had met just two months earlier on a visit to my brother. I was attending college in Connecticut, but she and I had stayed in touch over the phone. I had called her a day ago at her parents' home in Valdosta, Georgia. I was shocked to discover she was in the intensive care unit at Emory University. Her brain had started to bleed from a birth defect she never knew she had. There was a significant chance she would die.

I walked for miles on that empty winter beach. The waves crashed unseen in darkness, the wind blew cold. The night sky glittered with stars. Life can appear futile sometimes. Why do we suffer? Why do we die? As a student of science, I had learned that life on earth emerged from the ocean billions of years ago. Our sun is but one star in an ocean of stars that number like grains of sand on a beach. What do one person's concerns matter when compared to the infinity of the universe? I thought about my friend and felt helpless. The scientist in me had always viewed faith in God as a crutch for people who were too afraid to die. I felt truly alone.

The pain of my loneliness overwhelmed me. So on that cold December night, I opened my heart to God for the first time and I prayed in earnest.

God answered me. It wasn't in a deep booming voice from the sky, but instead in an understanding that reverberated through my soul . . . Life is My gift to each of you, every moment priceless. Treasure this gift, no matter the pain, trust in Me, let go of your worries, let go of your pain.

I was comforted as I never had been before. I still did not know whether my friend would survive. But I knew for certain that I was not alone, nor was she, and that none of us ever are. She might die. I would mourn her death then, but I would do so with faith that this was God's will. Tomorrow is not promised to any of us. Celebrate God's gift of Life today.

The memory of that long walk and the lessons learned helped me realize that an argument with my wife was probably not the best way to celebrate this gift of life. So I apologized to Ann when I got home. It wasn't the first time we had gotten into a stupid argument, and wouldn't be the last. Fortunately, I had been gone long enough on my walk so Ann had cooled down too, and even started worrying about me.

We sat together as a family by the Christmas tree just before the children's bedtime. I think Ann and I were still a little annoyed with each other. But we laughed as we were making up. I admitted that I didn't think it was a privilege for her to clean up after me. She confessed that she knew my glasses weren't scratched. And after a while as I sat with my family, I understood this was the happiest moment of my life.

Although the art student's neurosurgeon thought she made a complete recovery from her bleed those many years ago, she and I still laugh and wonder aloud if she did show signs of brain damage in one instance at least — when she agreed to marry me.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (Atlantalitrels@CS.com)

Ann once asked me what was wrong with the hinges on the kitchen cabinets. After a few moments of manly inspection, I reassured her they were fine. Then why, she asked in an innocent voice, do they never close after you use the cabinets?

So the other day when she asked me if the lenses on my glasses were scratched, I feigned deafness and hid behind my newspaper. The fire was crackling, the Christmas tree lights were twinkling, and the couch was soft. It was the perfect way to recover from a long night's work at the hospital. I just wasn't in the mood for a discussion about my personal flaws, no matter how fascinating the conversation sounded. Surprisingly, the subject came up anyway. Apparently, I do not put my dirty clothing inside the laundry basket. Ann was curious if I believed my clothing magically made its way from the floor into the laundry basket. Or did I grasp that another human being was somehow involved in the process?

I defended myself with a rhetorical question. Am I jeopardizing someone's life by leaving my dirty clothing on the floor? This is a neat doctor trick I learned way back in medical school. Pay close attention to the subtleties. I am reminding my wife that in my profession, life and death decisions are sometimes made. This makes what I do seem important. Simultaneously — and this is the fun part — I am also belittling what Ann does.

The tacit point was that it should be an honor to pick up my dirty laundry, so shut up and leave me alone.

But Ann was exhausted too. The children had been fighting all afternoon. She had barely made a dent in her day's work. And her husband, instead of lending a hand when he came home, had crashed on the couch. Now, that same husband — a supposed expert in Women's Health and well cognizant of the difficulties of womanhood, was belittling her efforts as both a mother and a wife? Well, this time my neat doctor trick didn't work so well. In fact, it was more like throwing gasoline on a fire.

An argument ensued.

Awake almost all night, I had looked forward to coming home to rest in the bosom of my family. But yelling kids in the background and a nagging wife in the foreground was not exactly what I had in mind. After a while I couldn't decide if I wanted to scream or cry or just break an expensive glass object.

I went for a long walk instead.

An oath I took fourteen years ago contained language that involved the concept "for better or for worse." Blessed with beautiful children, a beautiful wife, and good health, I understood intellectually, as upset as I was, that this still fell under the "for better"