All life has in it the dimension of the Unknown; it is a thing forever unfolding. It seems important to consider the possibility that science may hav… - Rachel Naomi Remen

REMEMBERING COMPASSION TAKES time, and sometimes the most profound learnings are not a part of a curriculum but are come upon by chance or even grace, the way that Glory found the pinecone. She brought it with her to the afternoon class; a large cone, split down the middle and attached to a Y-shaped branch. I stared at it in fascination, resting there in her lap, and hoped that she would say something about it. If you squinted your eyes, it was exactly the size and shape of a human heart. Glory is a young family practitioner who practices in a small rural town. Her patients range from the newborn to the very old, and her practice has afforded her a profound window on life. I met her at one of the physicians’ retreats I teach on detoxifying death. During the first evening’s discussion, she had said that she would find her own death a relief; in fact, life being as it is, she couldn’t imagine why anyone would struggle to live if there was a way to leave with honor. She had felt this way for as long as she could remember. It was an unusual thing for a physician to say, and the group who listened were surprised. She did not seem suicidal or even depressed, merely matter-of-fact. As she spoke, I found myself wondering what lay behind her words. I had some ideas, but, as it turned out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. When she began to talk about the pinecone, all this became clearer. In a voice that we could barely hear, she told us that she had found it on the path as she was coming in to lunch and had known instantly that it was hers. She looked at it lying there in her lap. “It’s my heart,” she told us. “It’s broken. Split in half.” She began to tell us about a vast sadness that she had experienced all her life, a personal sense of the suffering in the world that goes on and on. She had felt this suffering even as a child. It had broken her heart, made her unwilling to live any longer than she had to. Yet brokenhearted though she was,

Facts bring us to knowledge, but stories lead to wisdom.

Perhaps you should tell Dr. X,” I told him. He began to laugh. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. That night I could not sleep. At two in the morning I dressed and returned to the hospital to look in on Immy. She was no better. Her parents had not left the ICU waiting room, and several other family members had joined them there. We sat together talking for awhile, but I had no news and could offer little comfort. My heart ached for them and for Immy. Back in the house staff residence, once again I undressed for bed, but I still could not sleep. I kept thinking of the lost medal and what Immy’s parents had told me. At last, I took some paper and wrote to Dr. X, telling him what had happened and how important the medal was to Immy’s family. Folding the note in half, I dressed once more and went back to