The Art of Patience in War

"This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no foolin' around! No time for dancin', or lovey-dovin', I ain't got time for that now...- Life During Wartime, Talking Heads

He can't sit up by himself yet, that's going to take a long, long time. He was unconscious for weeks, with his wife and daughter by his bedside. They are here now, as I begin to move this giant of a man in ways he cannot yet move himself. Little by little, I raise the head of the hospital bed, for a minute, then two, then lower it. Managing orthostatic hypotension is dancing with a diva, you must watch it closely and cater to its every quixotic need. I watch his pupillary reaction, and take his blood pressure at regular intervals. I talk him through diaphragmatic breathing, explaining the effect on the aorta and blood pressure. "Open your eyes. Squeeze my fingers. There we go, there's that Brown-Eyed Handsome Man." I wink at his wife over the bed. "Stay with me. Talk to me. Breathe." Little by little, with every treatment, I acclimate him to vertical, and feel his muscles initiate more of the movements we are making together. "This is where it starts," I tell him, and the two beautiful women who have been so worried about him for so long. "This is where we begin."

"She's the one," his wife says. "She's the one gonna get you back up on your feet and walking again." I feel the warmth of their faith in me, and return it. The weight of expectation, rather than pulling us down, creates a buoyancy under us all, like water. Knowing it is going to take a long time allows us to relax into the commitment. It creates a space for patience, a contentment, and joy in the work of learning to walk again. It is flow, and we are in it.

After I see my last patient, I have my first fencing lesson in over a month. Lifting my fencing arm in the first en guarde, I feel the nagging ping of an ongoing overuse injury in my elbow. Still, it feels good, restful under my mask. I haven't lost ground through rest, but gained it, as my understanding mellows and deepens. John and I talk about war, about staring your opponent down, waiting them out. The art of fencing is the art of patience, and the art of patience is the art of war. We work on foot work tempo; I match him, he matches me, and we manipulate each other from a distance. I feel how relaxing it is to simply wait for my opening, and ultimately how vulnerable aggressive tactics leave you.

I could do this all day, I think. I can wait, play with it, make my opponent come to me. I can remise, reprise, play with distance, tactics, timing. I don't have to make anything happen. I just have to relax, be patient and wait for my opportunity. I'm not going anywhere. It's just you, and me, and the strip, and the conversation of the blades. "It's your move," I think now, as I watch my opponent advance. "I've got all day." And that's how I win.