Breathe Mark, breathe! It used to hurt my feelings when I heard it, and I heard it at least a thousand times before I was twelve years old. My dad was the one who first crafted the phrase, but my mom and my older brother used it on me as well. If I ever got distracted, or forgot to do something I would hear,
“Breathe Mark, breathe.” Nowadays, I would probably have been labeled ADD, but I came along about forty years before ADD became a diagnosis. I wasn’t really hyperactive (most of the time), but simply had a problem of “paying attention.” And it wasn’t the kind of thing that resulted in bad grades. I just “forgot” things easily.
Mom might say, “Mark go brush your teeth and hop into bed; it’s bed time.” I would dutifully head toward the bathroom with every obedient intention, but would almost always get distracted by something like– the old antique trunk in the hallway. In a split second, that old trunk would become a pirate’s treasure chest containing gold coins and jewels beyond my wildest dreams. It would steal away all of my attention. Then the next thing I knew Mom would be pinching the fire out of me, demanding why I didn’t obey her. I was stunned that she would think I wanted to disobey! My answer? “Mom, I just forgot.”
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Dr. Mike Sims glanced at his watch as he pushed open the heavy glass door and exited the family practice clinic. Depending on traffic he could be home in less than fifteen minutes. He walked briskly toward the white Honda Pilot waiting in his reserved space in the parking lot. A quick press of the button on the key fob unlocked it just a half-second before he pulled open the door and slid into the drivers seat. The warm Georgia sun had heated the cab nicely– a welcome relief in the midst of the January cold snap. It was Thursday, and he was normally off on Thursday afternoons. Dr. Sims’ final patient of the morning had required more time than he had anticipated, causing his delay in leaving the clinic. Some people simply love to recount details– every detail of every pain that they have experienced over the last 48 hours. But over thirty=five years of experience had taught him to listen carefully, because somewhere sandwiched in the midst of insignificant details was the tell-tale key to a diagnosis. Dr. Sims was a good listener. A warm, caring demeanor had always been his style, boosting his practice and retaining the respect and loyalty of most of his patients.
