Doctor Rigsbee

What does it mean to be a good person?

The day of the picnic dawned clear and cool; it was one of those autumn days in the Carolinas where the sky was somewhere between indigo and powder blue. My manager had the grill going and it was almost time to put on the burgers.

I was riding high. I had just received a glowing appraisal and a promotion to Advisory engineer. It meant a substantial raise and put many things on our wish list within reach. As my coworkers gabbed or flipped a frisbee, I sat in the picnic shelter, looking forward to our free afternoon. Everything was perfect.

Then my phone buzzed and everything changed.

Sue and I had a nightly ritual of watching TV in bed after the kids had been tucked in. Can’t remember for sure, but I think it was The X-files. Our evening snack was a bag of micro-waved popcorn. 

As Scully and Mulder chased cigarette-smoking man, I noticed Sue had developed a cough. It had started intermittently, now and then. But it had worsened and now was so pronounced that I had to hit the pause button until her paroxysms subsided. I became alarmed.

Trips to the family doc finally resulted in X-rays. The doctor called to say she had gotten the results and she’d like to see us both. Uh-oh.

“See this dark spot?” she asked, pointing to one of Sue’s lungs. We nodded. “I’m not sure what that is. It’s not normal. I’d like to get a CT scan.” She looked at us with a look that made Sue’s hand grasp mine more tightly.

At the picnic, I pulled my flip phone out and looked at the display. Sue.

“Hi,” I said. “Is everything— “

“It’s a mass,” she said, sobbing. “The CT scan showed a mass. They want to do a biopsy.”

Everything faded and I felt light headed.

“A mass?”

“Yes,” she cried. “Can you please come home?”

I made my excuses and left. I don’t remember much of that trip except tears and multiple pleas and promises to God. 

Doctor Rigsbee was in his early 50s, dark hair flecked with gray, a kind countenance. He radiated competence and maturity. In his office, I looked at his diplomas and awards with a sense of relief. I also noticed several religious-themed pictures; a tiny one of Jesus looking into the clouds caught my eye.

“So,” he started gently. “We’re going to be doing a bronchoscopy. That’s where I feed a tube into Sue’s lung to get a sample.” He pointed at the CT scan.

Sue looked at me and I squeezed her hand. 

“But there’s one thing,” he said. “Because of where the mass is, I’ll need to use a child’s bronchoscope. I need to go down and then back up and the airways are very narrow there.” We looked him dumbly. He continued.

“And there’s no guarantee that even then, I’ll make it,” he said. His face grew serious. “If I can’t reach it, I’ll have to crack her… cut her rib cage…and go in through the outside.”

Sue looked at me, her face ashen. I felt sick.

Dr. Rigsbee saw our expressions and came from behind his desk. He knelt on the floor next to Sue and took her hand.

“Hey, hey,” he said gently. “Let’s take it one step at a time. OK?”

Surgery day arrived. I sat in the waiting room with seven-year-old Kristen and one-year-old Kelsey in her stroller as Sue was taken back and prepped.

Worst-case scenarios flooded my mind. Me at Sue’s memorial. Framed pictures of us and the kids. The minister reciting the 23rd Psalm as well-wishers blew their noses and looked at me with pity. Me, clueless, raising two kids.

Dr. Rigsbee came through the double swinging doors. “Mr B?” he asked. “We’re almost ready.” He held the door.

Behind the sheet with Sue, it was semi-private. Machines beeped and nurses spoke outside but otherwise, it was just the three of us.

“I like to give my patients a moment before we go in,” he said. His voice was kind, caring. “Is there anything you’d like to ask?” 

Things blurred. “Doc,” I said. “I trust you. I just hope it goes well.” 

He nodded with a kind look. “Would you like to pray?” he asked.

I’d never encountered this with a doctor before, but I looked at Sue and she nodded. 

We joined hands as he began. I don’t recall exactly what he said, but it was reassuring and a sense of peace enveloped me.

Sue went into surgery about 8:00 am. By 9:00 am, no word. I’d said many prayers, the general, nondescript kind: please let everything go well. Please let it be OK.

Around 10:00, I had a sudden thought: pray specifics.  

I had to stop and think about that. I’d heard that rather than praying for generalities, it was better to pinpoint what we needed and to ask for those things. I recalled our meeting in Dr. Rigsbee’s office. My mind went on autopilot.

I asked God to be with Dr. Rigsbee. To be inside him, to be his eyes and hands. To help him in whatever he needed, to take control of the operation.

Exhausted, weary, I looked at my young kids: Kristen playing with her Barbies, Kelsey asleep in the stroller.

I’d done all I could do. It was out of my hands.

At 11:00 am, the double doors swung open and Dr. Rigsbee appeared. He removed his mask as he walked into the waiting room. He was smiling as he sat down next to me.

“Well, he said. “It was tough going. I tried and tried with that bronchcoscope to get it it down and back up. I was just about ready to give up and crack her open when the weirdest thing happened.” He looked at me and hesitated.

“It was as though something else took control,” he finally said. “My hands…they somehow weren’t my own. It was like I was watching. The bronchoscope went down and then…I can’t explain it…it suddenly looped back up and I was staring at the mass.”

He took off his surgical cap. “I don’t know what happened in there… but it wasn’t me.” 

I looked at him. “Do you remember about what time that was?”

He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, he said. “I looked at the clock as I was about to pack it in and crack her. 10:00 am.”

The exact time of my prayer.

He stood and shook my hand. “It didn’t look malignant,” he said. “We’ll have to wait for the biopsy to tell for sure. But I’m optimistic.”

He gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Pray without ceasing,” he said with a smile as he headed back into the OR. 

A week later, the phone rang. It was Doctor Rigsbee. “Hey, “ he said. “Got a second?” I held the phone so Sue could hear.

It turned out that she had inhaled a husk of popcorn during the X-files. It had lodged in her lung and her body, thinking it was a foreign invader, had covered it with layer after layer of protective tissue. Eventually, it solidified and had shown up on the CT scan. The amount they removed for the biopsy allowed it to slough away into nothing and her cough went away.

I found Dr. Rigsbee’s picture of Jesus looking into the clouds on the Internet somewhere. I framed it and it sat on my desk for the rest of my career, a constant reminder of faith and trust. 

Now in retirement, it sits on my workbench, an inspiration from a master carpenter to one still learning.

It’s a reminder to pray for specifics, to let go of that which is beyond my control. To trust that everything works to the good of those that love God.

And to be thankful for people like Dr. Rigsbee who walk among us, angels in disguise.

Images by author and Meta AI

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