sanc·tu·ar·y

“Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you’d better be running.” 

That quote hangs on my wall in my childhood bedroom.

I first started running with my mother as “punishment.” I don’t know if I thought, at the time, it was a form of punishment but looking back I think that is the most accurate classification. I truly only have one distinct memory of running with her although I know it happened multiple times (I guess like other heinous acts, I have blocked those other times out). I was attending one of the American Association for Cancer Research (AACR) conferences with my mother in which, like most research scientists and physicians, she used these annual 4-day conferences as a family vacation. We were in Orlando, FL and my mother and I left the hotel setting out to glide under the hot blue sky. If you’ve ever been to Florida, you know how long and incessant those black roads are lining the roadways in this never-ending fashion with the sun of the sunshine state glaring down. A few minutes into the run I was tired, frustrated and annoyed by the pace she had set troubling my short-legs and untrained lungs. I remember a school bus driving by and I thought, “They’re going to think I’m slow behind her.” As a result of my despair, she quickly became irritated with me as I was disturbing her peace. She always used to articulate how running was her escape from the perils of life—it was her sanctuary. I didn’t understand that then.

Not until one night when I walked out the doors of the Emory Athletic facility—The WoodPEC—onto the track. A cool spring Atlanta evening greeted me after a long day of medical training. Before I even stepped onto the track to begin warming up for my workout, I went into the bleachers and just sat there. My eyes circled around the red track, from curve to straight to curve to straight away. I can’t remember what I thought about but I know I was calmed. From that moment on I always viewed the track as a safe haven, a place where, even if everything was wrong in my world, the track was always right.

A few minutes from my present home, there’s a track here in Portland at the Under Armor Satellite Headquarters. I always drive by it on my way home from the hospital. It is not the most direct route, but it soothes me after a long intern day. The track represents so many memories—joy, sadness, humor, accomplishment, and defeat. Whether it was my mother pinning my racing bib on my 14 year old self at my first official race as my on-looking teammates teased me from afar, or watching the University of Michigan relay team run 16:04 with a 3:52 anchor leg for the 4xMile or running third leg on the 4x400m relay team that led us to a comeback conference win for our Emory’s Men team or being named captain of the Emory University team or being a part of the coaching staff for the first Ohio State Men’s Track and Field Big Ten Championship since 1993. The memories flow as I do when I am on the track.

One of the greatest races of my career came at a Junior AAU meet in Florida. The night before, I had run a 1500m time, slower than some of our 11-12-year-old girls, that resulted in me finishing second to last. I didn’t know how to “hurt yet,” or maybe I didn’t want to experience the pain and agony that is necessary to race the middle-distance events well. The next morning, I woke up ready to respond. As I began my warm-up today felt a little different. I spoke with Mikias Gelagle, one of my teammates at the time, who went on to be one of the best high school runners out of the state of Maryland in the 2004-2006 era. He gave me a game plan of which mostly I do not remember but I remember him distinctly telling me if I started out way in the back that’s where I was going to end up. He urged me to “go out near the front and to believe in the training I had under my belt.” This was a 3000-meter race I was lining up for, and most of my teammates were still back in their hotel rooms. As the gun sounded, I shot to the 5^thor 6^thposition and found my cadence. Lap after lap I was in it and as the race began to thin out I found myself running alongside a runner from another DC track club—The Pioneers. In his all-purple uniform, his crowd, situated opposite my contingency, would cheer him on as we ran past, giving him the motivation to pull a step ahead of me. As we rounded the track, I would do the same as my DC Redwings’ coaches implored me to “do what I knew I could.” Three laps later, this dance routine continued, but the only difference was that most of my teammates had now arrived from the hotel. Probably to their astonishment I was in the race, and to my delight they began cheering for me as we closed in with two laps left. Our cadences had become one at this point, synchronous like the Olympic swimmers, but I knew only one of us could cross the finish line first. As we approached 200 meters to go I started quickening my stride and using my arms to drive my tired legs forward. Down the straightaway we came, and I barely crossed the white line before him. I think I finished fifth in the race. The glory was all internal, but externally, the congratulations from my teammates and coaches, was the prize I needed. I finally felt like I belonged—one of the sacred feelings in life. It’s the emotions, the coaches’ turned fathers and the teammates turned brothers and sisters that make me proud to call myself a runner.

“Once a runner, always a runner.” For me, that motto transcends time. Whether you’re an Olympian or a has-been/never-was, if you’ve spent time lying on the ground in exhaustion, eyes closed, swallowing your saliva because there was no water in sight, then you’re a runner.

“Every Scar On My Face Is Worth It”

In London, an unexpected head injury led me into the hands of a plastic surgeon.  When I was rushed to the hospital via ambulance to receive the services of the National Healthcare System—the very institution that I had come to England to study—I felt nervous and frightened.  Countless questions swirled through my head as I attempted to assess the trauma I endured.  All of my questions were ultimately answered by the confident and charismatic plastic surgeon who ultimately mended my lacerated head.  The way in which he explained each step before executing it gave me much needed comfort that night.  His passion for his job and his expertise were evident, but even more so was his ability to treat me as an individual. I have no recollection of this doctor’s name nor could I spot him in a crowd; however, my perception of this man epitomizes a good doctor—someone who is passionate, a healer, and gives positive reactions to unfortunate actions.  I will not only be forever grateful to this physician, but I will forever remember what he did for me in hopes that I can do the same for someone else.

“Code99.” I heard on the overhead speakers in the hospital. Politely and quickly, I excused myself from the patient I was interviewing. Rushing to the front of the Emergency Department, I met my attending physician who had just grabbed the orange airway bag. Together we began rushing to the elevator as a set of nurses followed briskly behind with the stretcher and backboard. He clicked the basement button, and moments later the elevator doors opened. As I stepped out I saw a man on his knees, a puddle of blood adjacent to his limp body.

“Jason, Jason, are you ok?” I flashbacked to that night in London where I had received my very own head injury, when it was my shock, my limp body on the floor with blood adjacent to me.

“Does anyone have a pair of gloves,” I yelled down the hall as more people began gathering around to see what all the commotion was about. “Yes, Doctor… here,” a gentleman handed me a box of latex gloves. I put the gloves on and removed my stethoscope as I asked one of the nurses to hold it for me. Coming up behind the gentleman, I introduced myself and told him I was there to help him. I pulled him up and onto me as I laid us both onto the stretcher. Once he was safely on, I slid myself out moving to the head of the stretcher where I supported his neck as we rushed up to the ED triage area. After we stabilized him, we sent him to the CT scanner to ensure there was no internal bleeding in his head. As he came back from the CT scanner, he was now more lucid but still unsure of what had occurred. I explained to him that we observed the video footage in the hospital and it was highly possible he had suffered a seizure. I moved the loose gauze that was covering his head wound and ½ of his left eye. A 5 cm wound 2 inches above his left eyebrow looked back at me.

“Hey, I’m one of the plastic surgeons here. I hear you had a little accident. Don’t worry, I’m going to fix you right up.” One of my classmates held my hand while my mother was on the speaker phone with another one. The plastic surgeon began numbing the skin to circumvent the wound he was about to suture on my left eyebrow.

“Hello sir, I am Jason again—one of the new resident physicians here. You’ve got a decent size gash above your left eye, but don’t worry. I am going to fix you right up,” I told him as the nurse began cleaning the wound. I extracted the bupivacaine with one needle, then switched the needle on the syringe to one I could use to inject the numbing medication emulating the plastic surgeon from nine years ago. Then I grabbed the nylon suture, the needle driver and began. One suture at a time, I worked diligently and judiciously as my attending peered over my shoulder with a look of approval on his face. Five sutures later I was proud of my work. Well, I was truly proud of the many attendings, residents, and senior medical students who took time out of their hectic schedules to teach me, show me, and create for me the ability to succeed that day.

When I was done, the patient stretched out a smile on his face—he told me I had done a good job today and thanked me. His wife thanked me. And I thanked him for his service to our country and for allowing me to take care of him.

I peered back over my personal statement from medical school when I got home. I read, “I will not only be forever grateful to this physician, but I will forever remember what he did for me in hopes that I can do the same for someone else.” Today was that day. I did what he did for me.. for someone else.