attack of the killer sunbeams

The following article was submitted for the Journal of Collegium Aesculapium, the magazine for the LDS physicians association.

Nothing in my 4 years ofmedical school at Georgetown prepared me for what I was to encounter six weeks into my residency in Provo. I expected being swamped with patients in my mission to stomp out disease. I even expected to stay up all night more often than daytime people should ever do. And I was quite enthralled with living in such a clean little city with such friendly people. I soon found that my seven fellow residents were impressively dedicated to their church. In fact, all seven had served missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and we quickly became good friends, which helped me dismiss the stories I had grown up hearing about this strange religion. . My new mission companions, the residents, would frequently take me aside to clue me in about the LDS Church and culture. But every time I thought I was getting a handle on the dominant culture in and around Provo, someone threw me a curveball -- like the humbling experience that happened to me on a busy afternoon in the Family Practice Center.
I had been up all night, was tired, and still had a long list of patients to see. My honed diagnostic skills were dulled from sleep deprivation and my milk of human kindness had begun to curdle. "Will it ever end?" I thought to myself as I ran through the next chart. Hmm. The chart belonged to a 34-year-old mother named Betsy. Her presenting complaint was depression. Through my fatigue, I heard myself saying, "Not another one!" Thoughts raced through my head of an earlier patient who took almost an hour to tell me her life story - a big stretch for her scheduled ten-minute office visit. I quickly gathered my thoughts and entered the room. I greeted Betsy and she shook my hand. She did not smile. I could tell right away she was depressed and reached in my pocket for my prescription pad, ready to bless our encounter with a prescription for Prozac. "What's wrong Betsy?" I asked in a quiet, reassuring tone. "Oh Dr. Tubbs, I can't take this anymore." Tears began to flow down her cheeks almost immediately. "I feel like everybody is out to get me." "What makes you say that?" I inquired. "I'm sure I'm making more of it than there is. I try to be a servant of God and do what is asked of me," she sobbed, "but I just can't take it anymore." "I can see you have a lot of stress in your life Betsy. Why don't you tell me about it." "My husband doesn't like me anymore. He yells at me for not keeping the house clean. The dog messes on the floor, and the sunbeams are driving me crazy!" I stopped her in mid-sentence. "What?" To my amazement she said it again: "The sunbeams are driving me crazy!" She was even more emphatic about it this time. Trying not to laugh and to maintain a therapeutic empathy, I inquired, "Just what do the sunbeams do?" "They get into everything! I just can't control them!" "You try to control them?" I asked. "It's impossible. They move so fast you know!" "Oh, I know," I
said, trying to humor her. "They get into everything," she cried. "They come in and out the door and in and out the door, and they won't stop talking." "Won't stop talking?" I repeated, trying not to gasp. "I just can't seem to keep them quiet. I have tried everything. Even ear plugs! I love them, but sometimes I think they are possessed by the devil himself." What a nutcase, I thought in my semi-comatose state. Barely able to keep a straight face, I asked, "So have you told anyone about the sunbeams?" "Oh Dr. Tubbs, that is the worst part. I tried to talk to my bishop about them, but he just thinks I'm crazy." An accurate diagnosis. I couldn't agree more, I thought silently. "He just told me to deal with them! He said I'm an adult and need to learn how to handle sunbeams. He doesn't understand me at all." I was fascinated. I couldn't believe no one had diagnosed her before. This was classic paranoid schizophrenia. My first case. Do we have a straightjacket? I've always wanted to put someone in one. Does she need to be locked up? Wanting her to go on, I asked, "Well, Betsy, have you tried suntan oil?" She stared at me coldly like I was patronizing her. The room was silent. Trying to backtrack, I asked, "Well, do you have a rash anywhere?" She looked puzzled. I had confused the confused. I anxiously awaited her reply. She tilted her head to one side and asked, "You're not LDS are you?" "No, I'm not." I said. At first she chuckled, but seconds later she burst right out laughing. "You probably think I'm crazy!" Where I come from sunbeams had more to do
with solar flares than healthy young children. My Mormon companions failed to equip me with this vital ecclesiastical information. I did, however, manage to lift her spirit to new heights and she left the office in a much better mood. This lesson in language reinforced my feeling that, in spite of my Georgetown education, I sure didn't know it all. John Stuart Mill once noted: "Language is the light of the mind." I'll bet old John never got enlightened by the sunbeams.