Remembering

I don’t remember them because their case was sad, though it was. Nor do I remember them because their case was complex or unique. I remember them because they were a DJ even though they were well beyond middle age. Who knew you could be a DJ when you were that old? Well, I learned after meeting them that you could be.

I learned of their DJ career when I met them briefly after their first stroke. The stroke was thrombotic (caused by a clot that blocked a blood vessel in the brain). Their balance was severely affected, but they were doing well, despite the stroke. There was no way to predict if they’d get their coordination back, but there was hope that they would recover if they made it past the first couple of days after their first stroke without another stroke. There’s the highest risk of another stroke in the days following a stroke.

When I saw them days later, they were not well. Their stroke had converted from thrombotic to hemorrhagic (caused by bleeding in the brain) and they could no longer speak, had limited movement, and were unaware of the world. I was struck by their deterioration. Lost in my reflection on how much the patient had changed and who they were before their brain filled with blood, I included the fact that they were a DJ in my report to the physician supervising me. I think the physician was looking for a focused medical history, but I slipped in the patient’s profession anyway. The physician teaching me paused and then said, “It’s good to get to know something about your patients as people.” It was the physician’s way of giving me positive feedback, but I found myself thinking, that would seem to go without saying.

As I continue my training, I’ve come to understand why this physician pointed out the importance of knowing patients as people: It’s easy to only ask questions related to diagnosis when you’re crunched for time and are actively thinking about what next tests, exams, medications, and treatments you should do to help the patient with their medical concern. Which is to say, the more responsibilities I have as an aspiring physician, the harder it becomes to emphasize getting to know patients beyond their medical conditions.

And, yet, when I do and can learn a tidbit about people’s lives (pets, careers, grandchildren, or whatever they bring up about their life), I’m always grateful I did. Grateful because it helps me remember each patient’s story and because it reminds me why I do medicine in the first place – to help people.

Medicine is awesome because uncovering diseases and making treatment plans involves solving complex puzzles. But the coolness of solving medical challenges is not enough to get me through all the terrible aspects of working in healthcare. My patients do keep me coming back even after the worst days on the job. Even though our interactions are brief, my patients and I have the potential to learn and achieve so much together. And, without a doubt, every patient is a person with an amazing story that I’m excited to hear a tiny bit about.

The “seasoned” DJ will never be a DJ again. This makes me even more glad that my last memory of them included them as a DJ, not just an ICU (intensive care unit) patient with a likely life-ending stroke. I think they’d have preferred to be remembered as a DJ (something they were very proud of) rather than a sick person. I know, if I were dying in the hospital, I’d want the last people to see me to know something about who I had been before I got sick.

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Nothing to Do but Be Happy

The water is so clear it’s like looking through nothing to see the creatures and plants that are stuck in small salty pools contained in the rocks until the tide comes in again. I’m on the edge of the tide, so an especially high wave crashes on the rocks and skuttles across the other pools and seaweed to reach the pool absorbing my gaze. The longer I gaze into the pool, the more I see and the more the patterns swirl. The wind ripples the surface of the pool, such that I must be patient if I want to take a picture – timing my snapshot for when a high wave isn’t threating to dowse me, and the wind isn’t distorting my image.  

I love walking along the ocean’s edge and gazing into the tidal pools – each is a mini world populated by the randomness of being caught in a rock hole as the ocean slides toward center, letting its edges dry for a few hours. The creatures in the tidal pools are waiting for the ocean to return but, until then, they live their lives and try to avoid the birds and others searching the pools for their next meal.

I can’t help but identify with the little stripy fish in the tidal pools. My life, too, is in the tidal pool phase. The daily requirements of living and being a responsible adult remain, but I’m suspended in time – I’m caught between being a med student lost in her studies and residency. These days I’m finishing up my last medical school credits, by design some of the easiest courses I’ve taken. I continue to strive to remember the medicine I know and solidify and learn new things. But mostly I’m enjoying the salty air while I wait to find out where I’ll do residency.

As my husband pointed out recently, “There’s nothing to do but be happy.” It’s hard as a planner to not think of the future. But, when you’re in limbo there is no future only now, the moment. Once I know where I’m destined to train as a resident there will be hundreds of things to sort out – but none of these things can be tackled until I know where I’m headed. I have about a month of not knowing and shortly after that I wrap up my last rotations of med school.

The stripy fish darts around the tidal pool, at first worried I’m going to eat it. It becomes bolder and still as I wait; its attention span is shorter than mine. I peer into the pool. We stare at each other. The sound of the waves is my soundtrack. The sun is sparkling in the sky. By some happenchance of luck and delivery on the part of my planning nature, 7 of my last 12 weeks of medical school rotations are in Puerto Rico, which is even more awesome when you realize these weeks fall exactly in the worst of New England’s winter. I’m studying while I’m in Puerto Rico, but I have plenty of time to explore the island.

Nothing to do but be happy and be present. And it’s not a hard task with the sun shining down on me, the waves and wind fluffing my hair with salt spray, and a party of palms and plants wearing their best green, red, and yellow dancing at the edge of the beach which abuts a turquoise sea. Nothing to do but be happy, what a wonderful situation. Eventually the tide will come in and I’ll be tossed into the wake of wrapping up school and starting residency, but that’s the tide chart of a different day.   

Happy Birthday Soul Sister

Mbaé’chepa means How are you? ” I said. They repeated after me.

Ipora is the response, it means good,” I said. They practiced. I smiled at their pronunciation; it was great by my ears, but they probably had my accent in Guaraní which would make every Paraguayan laugh.

A few of the dengue field researchers I was working with in Puerto Rico had asked me to teach them some Guaraní words when I told them I learned Spanish in Paraguay. Spanish speakers always want to know where I learned my Spanish because it surprises them. Whenever I say I learned Spanish in Paraguay I also explain that it’s a bilingual country because it’s important. I was happy because even though I was from New England and the gringa of all gringas (the whitest Anglo) and currently in Puerto Rico, I was teaching Guaraní while speaking Spanish. (The above conversation was in Spanish.) It was fitting, and the timing couldn’t have been better.

Recently one of my Paraguayan mothers, best friends, and soul sisters turned 70. I ached because I couldn’t be there. We would have danced until the wee hours of the morning, so late I’d have spent the night at her house because leaving would have seemed silly. She’d have danced with a one-liter glass bottle on her head, perfectly balanced, as I cheered her on. We would have feasted. There would have been a cake. Luckily, she sent me pictures which proved that she had all those things and more without me. It was the quinceañera she never had, she told me. She deserved it. She looked radiant in her yellow shirt. Her hair was short for the first time ever; it was always well past her butt when I lived in Paraguay. She sent me a video of herself dancing on a chair. 70 looked good on her.

My soul sister was on my mind before her birthday. I’m in a sunny place with palm trees – it’s the kind of situation that always reminds me of Paraguay and makes me long to go there again. As I drink my mate alone in the morning and tereré alone in the afternoon I know that if I were in Paraguay, I’d be drinking them with her.

When I lived in Paraguay and I told her I was single (Paraguayans always asked my relationship status, sometimes before my name), she was among the few to say “good for you” even though she had had one or two kids by the age I was at that time. She’d raised one daughter so independent that her daughter adopted a couple of children which is unusual in my Paraguayan community; her daughter went to college; and her daughter left the men she didn’t like, something my soul sister’s generation didn’t always do.

My soul sister only finished the sixth grade, but she spoke perfect Spanish because she’d worked in Paraguay’s capital city, Asunción. Usually, folks from her generation and the countryside (as she was) spoke mostly Guaraní. When she was young, she took a bus to Brazil without her mother’s permission. She came back eventually. On one hot afternoon she told me about her trip while we drank tereré and she cooked.

My soul sister is the only person in Paraguay who came looking for me when I needed finding. Culture shock is real, especially when you’re trying to build a life in a new country. The Peace Corps is the wildest emotional rollercoaster I’ve ridden. Which is to say that some days in Paraguay I needed real finding. She’s the one who knocked on my door and told me to come out and have lunch. She’s the one who welcomed me into her home whether I felt like talking or not. She can fill the silence as much or as little as needed. It’s her cooking I think of when I miss Paraguayan food.

She sometimes walked me part of the way home after our days that ran into evenings together. Always she blessed me and said a prayer for my safety when I left her home, even though for about half my time in Paraguay our houses were 50 meters apart and kitty-corner across a street.

I dreamed of seeing her mother one last time. But COVID and medical school delayed my return too long. We lost my soul sister’s mother before I could visit again. My soul sister was her primary caretaker. She was devastated when her mother died, but she’s also freer now. The grandson she’s raised is a teenager now (he was a kid when I lived there). I like to think it’s easier being a grandma raising a teenage grandson than a child grandson; but I don’t know if it is. Perhaps I’ll find out when I visit. I’m also overdue to see that same grandson who was like a baby brother to me. I was supposed to go back for his 15th birthday, but COVID squashed that plan. I’ve always had a sweet spot in my heart for that kid; it’s funny because my husband, who I met years after Paraguay, has the same name as my soul sister’s grandson. I wonder if I’ll recognize her grandson now that he’s almost a young man.

And just as she did when I lived across the street, my soul sister checks in now and again even though I’m seemingly lightyears away. She always asks when I’m returning to Paraguay. I’ve been back twice since I moved to the US, but that’s not nearly as much as I would have liked. Life doesn’t follow the course you expect. But when she sent me birthday pictures recently, I had a real answer: I’m visiting the first half of this year. Si Díos quiere (to use the Spanish phrase so popular in Paraguay, “If God wants”). I’ll bring my husband so that my soul sister and my other Paraguay friends can meet him. I also want him to see the country that stole my heart. I’ll visit my soul sister during her 70th year even if it’s not on her exact birthday. Luckily, Paraguayans are more flexible about time than Americans.

Maintaining the Body/Mind

In zooming around healthcare settings, I’ve noticed that many people approach illness as a weakness or a betrayal of their body and mind. I’ve even noticed myself having a similar feeling occasionally when I must visit my own doctor. This way of thinking is like how I think about my car: I expect my car to get me from A to B every time I ask it to, with minimal effort on my part, and no upkeep.

To further outline the analogy between bodies/minds and cars:

  • The hospital is to the body/mind as the auto shop is to a car after a crash. If something gets damaged, we usually must fix it to run again.
  • The primary care setting is to the body/mind as an oil change, tire change, and alignment are to a car. For optimal performance, we must continuously do some upkeep and occasionally get a tune up.

As we examine the analogy between cars and bodies/minds there is an essential difference. If we have the money, we can buy a new car periodically to avoid all the upkeep that inevitably comes with the wear and tear of use. However, we each only get one body/mind and, therefore, not even money can spare us the required upkeep that comes with the wear and tear of life.

Considering that we each only get one body/mind and life is hard, I’d like to propose the viewpoint that going to a primary care provider isn’t a visit with the enemy. It’s not intended to be a place of judgement or punishment. Instead, think of primary care appointments as tune ups that include chatting with an expert on the human body/mind. In this chat, we can uncover what aspects of our body/mind are optimized, what aspects aren’t optimal, and how we each can make our body/mind run better. By optimizing our body/mind, we may prevent many diseases from occurring (prevention is better than treatment, why get sick if there’s a way to avoid it completely?). 

In a similar fashion, no one wants to stay in the hospital, but needing the hospital isn’t unique; it’s part of the human experience in places where hospitals exist. Hospitals can save lives and fix big health problems. They might not be the most pleasant places, but without them we might not get the care we need to recover when things in our bodies/minds break. If we can think of our hospital care team as a bunch of people on our side who are looking out for our bodies/minds, it might make the whole experience a little better.

 Just as we know our cars require a certain amount of upkeep, I challenge all of us to remember that the body and mind also require a certain amount of upkeep without considering a need for that upkeep a shortcoming.