A Measure of My Days

Loxterkamp, a family doctor in Belfast, Maine, rose at 4:30 a.m.--whenever his busy schedule permitted--to keep a journal. The year, from July 1992 to July 1993, spans easy and difficult births (and a running conflict with the local obstetrician over who should be allowed to attend them), the descent of a hospice patient toward her death, and ongoing struggles with everyday patients who ought to quit smoking and lose weight. Loxterkamp is a devout Catholic, and spirituality is his constant preoccupation; his work leads him to reflect on his own mortality. His book is readable and provocative, but suffers from the self-indulgence and lack of rewriting common to many journals. His patients' stories are often moving, but his own stories, from his marriage, his family, his parish and his practice, take up more pages than his patients' although they contain fewer insights. Loxterkamp cares about writing, but his language teeters on the borderline between beautiful and pretentious: ""We have seen how indifference and competitiveness and arrogance within the profession can fan our misfortune into a furnace of self-reproach. We know the flashpoint of a house of cards."" (Apr.)