A World No Less Sublime

December is a good month to attend on the wards. Patients arrive with their respiratory ailments, and students discover unfamiliar lung sounds. In 13 years of teaching at the University of Oklahoma, I never complained about a December assignment, but this December was testing my resolve.

Winter was raging throughout the Great Plains, and Oklahoma was reeling from the icy assault. Roads were empty, trees were broken, and neighborhoods, severed from power, were dark. At OU Medical Center, however, lights were aglow, bringing the sick to refuge from the seemingly Siberian cold. The city hibernated, but life in our medical fortress prevailed.

The weather had little effect on my mood, because the month was going well: My students were sharp, the residents were hard-working, and the nurses were accommodating. When time allowed, we reveled in “ice stories,” of which I contributed generously. But even the most provocative story would soon be eclipsed by a more intimate tale.

It began one morning during a break in the storm. I was scrubbing my head in the shower when I noticed my right arm faltering. I felt no pain or weakness and finished bathing without incident. That day at the hospital, I felt fine, and later I swam and lifted weights without difficulty. But the next morning, I found myself inexplicably using both hands to shave and brush my teeth.

I arranged to see my doctor but quickly postponed the appointment when the storm resurged. Several large trees had collapsed in my yard, and I spent the weekend cutting, lifting, and removing debris. My arm held up well.

The following week, however, …