The Dinner.
Ambaro, Madagascar
•
Although this family treasured life and found joy in the simple things…
(Papa with little Mialy)
…it is no lie that each day was still a struggle.
•
What the Stethoscope Hears.
What do I hear when I bring you to my ears?
What story does your body unveil?
I hear your heart,
the clap of each valve,
sloshes of vigor from lumen
to chamber to reveal
resilience and strength.
I hear your lungs,
the whisper of bronchi,
each crackle, each wheeze
unearthed with your breaths
to expose a hundred secrets.
I hear your bowels,
the timbre of that song,
divulging their activity
to massage a burden
through labyrinthine depths.
I hear your thyroid,
the swoosh of velocity,
fluid chased through vessels
to evoke visions of an
overzealous organ.
I hear your liver,
a resounding echo
against my fingers,
betraying your history
by disclosure of its girth.
So what do I hear when I bring you to my ears?
I hear the story that is your life.
•
The Patient.
I met you my intern year. I remember the first thing you said to me.
“I don’t care to be here.”
With a countenance creased from decades of hardship, a gait staggered from illness, eyes steeled by sufferings, your restrained presence betrayed a sheath impervious. I believed you previously had poor experiences in similar settings, because you told me so. I knew you didn’t trust me, because you told me so.
Our first few visits were stippled with formality. I posed questions; you answered. But they weren’t your answers, but perhaps words you knew I wanted to hear. I half expected you to stop coming. But you never did. Instead, you continued to sit there, guarded, a portrait of cordiality and cautiousness.
And then one day it happened.
Your hard gaze glimmering with moisture, I saw your shell break. I then got to know you. Little by little, visit by visit. I learned of the pain you endure. I learned of your frustrations, your desperation…your despair. I learned of your deep heart. I learned many things. But most importantly, I learned who you were.
Months went by. Gradually a smile seeped through. Your eyes now shined as you shared with me the latest on your life. A life that I was lucky enough to now be a part of. But suddenly three years pass, and as my time with the clinic comes to an end, we now must part. On your last visit, I sense your frustration and anguish again, and I think I understand why. As you cry I reassure you that everything will be okay. But as I comfort you I am struck by a sudden surge of emotion, and I also struggle to keep my composure.
You see, through this experience, I have started to recognize what it is you were talking about. An understanding. A connection. Some may even say a friendship. Because even though you may not know this, I am now happier because you are happier. Because you are now healthier, more satisfied. Full of life.
Now as we part I feel the tearing of a piece of my soul. As we hug one last time the goodbye is silent and understood. But then you pull back, look me in the eyes, and say simply, “Thank you for helping me live.”
As I hold back my own tears, I realize I am thinking the same thing.
Thank you for helping me live.
•
The Introduction.
Faux Cap, Southern Madagascar
•
When Puppydoc first arrived at her new home,
the villagers were a tad bashful…
…but this issue resolved itself rather quickly.
😀
When We Simply Stop Caring.
I see it all around me.
Burnout. To be burnt.
When we simply stop caring.
Most of the time we don’t even need
to say anything. But you know.
You hear it in our voice.
You see it in our eyes.
And you feel it too.
You know what
is going through our
mind with each wayward glance.
Is this what I signed up for?
Is this all this profession has to offer?
Because I have seen the articles.
To prevent physician burnout.
The A-B-C’s.
Changes we must make.
Limiting expectations.
Self-empowerment.
Decreased hours.
Putting us first.
I too used to be desperate.
What is happening to me?
What is happening to my colleagues?
What is happening to medicine?
But then one day, I saw you.
You.
Not you the patient.
You the person.
You’re just
a person.
You are me.
And you are hurting.
And maybe I am too, although
you may never know.
So I thank you for being here.
Not only do I want you to know that
I honor the privilege of being able to
help you, but you should know that
you have in your own way
taken care of me.
And I do care for you.
•
◊ A Physician’s Plea ◊
Work and Play.
Libanona Beach
Fort Dauphin, Madagascar
•
While studying in the southern region,
these nine boys never failed to keep
Puppydoc company as she walked to work.
🙂
The Washing.
Cochabamba, Bolivia
Every week, over fifty street children would line up at the city plaza
for the ‘Kid Washing’…where we would bathe, clothe, and
feed them. The girls would then get pretty braids.
🙂
