Leaving Marks
Yesterday I sewed up a two year old girl's forehead. She'd fallen into one of her plastic chairs and the skin just above her eyebrows had split into a two centimeter vertical gash. It looked very red against the paleness of her skin and beneath her blond hair above her blue eyes that watched me warily as I came toward her with the numbing medicine and the needles. Her mother sang "The Wheels on The Bus" the entire time. Her grandmother wiped the blood and flush away before it trickled into her eyes. The cut was clean, but it would still leave a mark. The stitches I put in would leave some remnant of her crash. Her grandmother sweat under the bright light. I, for once, was calm and focused during a procedure. I'm getting so that I don't pass out as often.
The last laceration I repaired was also a forehead--of a convict. I didn't worry so much about the scar the left on him. He was held down like the little girl was papoosed, but instead he was shackled to the gurney in the loud adult ER. His guard didn't sing him "The Wheels on the Bus." I wonder if his mother would have.
The mother of a patient stopped me in the street the other day, "Doctor! Dutch Doctor right? You took care of my Mary. She is doing well," I glanced at the girl next to her, but I didn't remember her. It must have been another of her children. The mother looked familiar. I know I'd spent a lot of time with her, but I couldn't place the child. "You did a great job. We think of you often. You are in our prayers."
I woke up early yesterday morning and had time to do yoga. It concluded with putting my hands in prayer position to the "third eye center"--right in the middle of my forehead before bowing to the ground. The center I didn't yet know I would repair later that day for a little blond girl.
In the shuttle to the airport last year, another mother of a patient stopped me. I remembered her daughter. She again thanked me for the time I'd spent talking with her about her eating disorder. I remembered sitting with her and asking her what scared her. Because her eyes told me something did. They welled up and spilled over into tears that would cause her to loose just a little more weight, "Am I going to die?" She asked.
I'm going to see one of my many doctors this morning, the one who my mother stops in the street to thank for saving my life. The one who called the neurologist and who got me into the MRI before I infarcted any more of my brain. The one who first met me when I was curled up in her dark examining room with my mom afraid to touch me because every movement hurt and I couldn't talk or think beyond the pain. I still rated it as 9/10, thinking there must be something that didn't hurt this much, though I didn't know quite what. The one who direct admitted me to a private room in the hospital so I didn't have to wait in the wheelchair in the ER with the convicts waiting for their mothers to sing to them and for someone to sew up their wounds.
The last laceration I repaired was also a forehead--of a convict. I didn't worry so much about the scar the left on him. He was held down like the little girl was papoosed, but instead he was shackled to the gurney in the loud adult ER. His guard didn't sing him "The Wheels on the Bus." I wonder if his mother would have.
The mother of a patient stopped me in the street the other day, "Doctor! Dutch Doctor right? You took care of my Mary. She is doing well," I glanced at the girl next to her, but I didn't remember her. It must have been another of her children. The mother looked familiar. I know I'd spent a lot of time with her, but I couldn't place the child. "You did a great job. We think of you often. You are in our prayers."
I woke up early yesterday morning and had time to do yoga. It concluded with putting my hands in prayer position to the "third eye center"--right in the middle of my forehead before bowing to the ground. The center I didn't yet know I would repair later that day for a little blond girl.
In the shuttle to the airport last year, another mother of a patient stopped me. I remembered her daughter. She again thanked me for the time I'd spent talking with her about her eating disorder. I remembered sitting with her and asking her what scared her. Because her eyes told me something did. They welled up and spilled over into tears that would cause her to loose just a little more weight, "Am I going to die?" She asked.
I'm going to see one of my many doctors this morning, the one who my mother stops in the street to thank for saving my life. The one who called the neurologist and who got me into the MRI before I infarcted any more of my brain. The one who first met me when I was curled up in her dark examining room with my mom afraid to touch me because every movement hurt and I couldn't talk or think beyond the pain. I still rated it as 9/10, thinking there must be something that didn't hurt this much, though I didn't know quite what. The one who direct admitted me to a private room in the hospital so I didn't have to wait in the wheelchair in the ER with the convicts waiting for their mothers to sing to them and for someone to sew up their wounds.
posted by S. at 6:46 AM
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