Remember my friend Ruth? The one who I got so lost trying to find at church several weeks ago? Well, after passing a long period without contact, I was lucky enough to bump into her in Santo Tomas the other day. I’d tried calling several times, but got strange messages about the line not working, and then lost track of the idea of touching bases with her. When we first met, I’d been very excited to be friends with her for a couple of reasons. First of all, it was just nice to have a Guatemalan friend – meeting and connecting with people is one of the reasons I’m here, after all, and I’d been having a hard time doing that. However, we are clearly compatible as amigas, which is a relief after feeling a bit out of place in a school environment. As I believe I’ve made pretty clear, being a teacher just isn’t my thing. Medicine, however, is, and Ruth works as a registered nurse at the national hospital in Mazatenango.
When I saw here by chance on Monday, she told me that she’d been transferred temporarily to emergency room duty. She invited me to accompany her on shift, which luckily happens to be early mornings. That fits great with me, and so on both Wednesday and Thursday of this week I went with her to Mazate. So far, it has been an incredible, enjoyable and eye-opening experience. I’ve taken to introducing myself as a medical student, because our education system is significantly different from those of the rest of the world, and anywhere else my background would be equivalent to the first three years of medical school. With that, everyone’s been more than eager to give me full access to everything that’s going on. I even had a long, jovial conversation with the hospital director, who I think may now consider me a fast friend.
My first day, a man came in who’d been working on a construction site. He’d fallen and impaled himself on a rebar pole, essentially in a sitting position. An HIV+ man who’d been in a car accident was wheeled in shortly after I arrived. I watched with horror – before knowing that he was HIV+ - as he was catheterized and examined by half a dozen un-gloved hands. When a nurse from another department walked by and recognized him as an HIV patient, I felt sick realizing that I’d been thinking about protective equipment all along and hadn’t said a thing. Having just gotten there, not even yet introduced to most of the staff, I felt out of place correcting them. Lesson learned. I spent much of the morning with an internist who enjoyed the novelty of a) a student to teach and b) its being a gringa. I did rounds in the internal ICU with him, examining patients with everything from pancreatitis to hernias.
The next day, I spent much more time in the emergency room, and was given above and beyond unlimited access. Doctors love to teach, and they were more than happy to give me opportunities which are appropriate for a medical student. That means I was doing a lot more than giving shots. I stitched up the head of a 17 year old car accident victim, pulling his ear back together and closing up a variety of slices across his scalp. I extracted a leatherworking awl which a 15 year old boy had accidentally jammed it into his hand, and took over the ambu bag for an anesthesiologist when he got tired of providing respirations for an unconscious victim of severe cranial trauma.
The national hospital is fascinating because it’s exhaustively overworked and undersupplied. No one knew what to do with our cranial trauma victim once he’d been stabilized, since the hospital’s only ventilator was currently occupied. The doctor had to use suture material which was several sizes too small when re-attach the heel meat of a girl whose foot had slipped into the engine when the motorcycle she’d been riding on crashed. The supply of urinary catheter bags dwindled to nonexistence early on Thursday, so plastic bags taped to the catheter’s end are being employed for now. Lincoln City Animal Clinic has a far nicer x-ray machine than this hospital, and the generally stark and decrepit appearance of the facilities is initially shocking.
That being said, the doctors and nurses are fantastic. They were incredibly nice, and everyone was clearly very focused on their work and in-tune with whatever the current emergency happened to be.
Because it’s a national facility, all of the poor patients who can’t afford a better, private hospital arrive there. Since Guatemala’s a pretty impoverished country (aside from the upper echelons of society tucked behind bodyguards and razor-wire topped fences in the city) that means pretty much everyone with a problem. Among other interesting cases, I saw a 7 month pregnant woman whose uterus had ruptured through a previous cesarean scar. The baby was stillborn, but apparently the mom’s doing alright. A few minutes before, I’d watched a lady with a breach birth being rushed to the operating room, only to have her bed taken over by a tiny bright yellow baby. With fluorescent eyes and skin the color of a Golden Delicious apple, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out she had hepatitis. Um. Not that a rocket scientist should know anything about that anyways, but you get the idea. Ruth’s brother actually came in, too, after having an air compressor explode somehow while he was working on it. Despite a cut across his thumb and blunt trauma severe enough to swell one hand to twice the normal size, he was lucky enough to have relatively little damage.
I think that the most shocking moment for me happened not long after we’d gotten there. I was standing next to the doctor over a patient complaining of abdominal pain, when I glanced up to see the door swinging open. In sauntered an EMT whose expression I couldn’t distinguish between bored and dazed. “Buenos dias..” he drawled while surveying the room, evidently looking for direction. In his arms, limp, wild-haired and covered in blood, was the tiny body of a young girl. The moment was remarkably reminiscent of the famous Oklahoma City bombing photo of a firefighter carrying a bloodied preschooler out of the debris. This child’s face had been slashed open at the upper lip, forming a gory sort of grin which exposed her bright red mouth and unnaturally jutting teeth. This artificial facial expression stood out perversely, drawing attention from her listless empty eyes and dangling limbs.
Estefanie, as I later learned to be her name, had been in a car accident. She was actually just in shock, and after a thorough exam it was determined that the cut on her face was pretty much the worst of her problems. However, the initial shock of seeing her distorted and unresponsive face being brought into the emergency room is an image that will stick with me for a while. Why on earth the EMTs hadn’t put her on a backboard I have no idea, but I feel like a more conventional presentation would have softened the impact of first seeing her.
Sadly, Ruth will be rotating out of emergency pretty soon. First she’ll head to a turn in Women’s Surgery, which will be neat, and then it’s on to her usual post in geriatrics. Luckily, I’ve already had several doctors offer (unprompted!) to let me work with them once she moves on. I’ve been more happy the past two mornings than I’ve been in the whole combined time that I’ve spent at the school – you can be sure I’ll take them up on the offer!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Monterrico...a weekend at the beach!
Last Friday (September 12th), I returned to Guate, recovering my passport from its hostage status in the immigration office. Sheila was already planning a trip in to pick up Dr. Strode, a Carroll chemistry professor who will be down here working on a sabbatical project for the next few weeks. The timing worked out perfectly, because it also happened to be a three day weekend. September 15th is Guatemalan Independence Day, and the whole country shuts down. The last time we’d gone into the city, Mary and I stayed with her friend Judy, a Montanan who teaches in Guate at an international school for rich kids. The night we stayed at her house, Judy invited a young woman she’d just met to come over for dinner.
The woman, Janet, is a fellow doing HIV/AIDs research for the CDC. She clearly took pity on my isolated, friend-less state, and we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses that night. To be honest, I wasn’t all that disappointed to learn that my passport wouldn’t be returned the same day I dropped it off. After meeting Janet, I was hoping that a return trip could potentially be turned into a weekend retreat with my friendly, interesting new acquaintance. Lo and behold, it turned out far better than I myself could have planned, since the whole country had a three day weekend. Janet emailed me shortly after we met, inviting me to join her and some friends on a mini vacation during those days.
So that’s how I ended up wandering around Zona Quince (the number in Spanish, not the fruit), one of Guatemala City’s upscale neighborhoods, on a beautiful Friday afternoon. After picking up Dr. Strode at the airport I was dropped off at Janet’s apartment complex. She’d left a key for me at the front desk, so I was able to take a real, hot shower and drop my things off. I continue to find the city to be a somewhat unreal experience. I was struck by how very normal Janet’s apartment is. It’s very nice – spacious, with large windows and several balconies. Aside from one very typical Guatemala painting of women in traje, there seemed to be absolutely nothing distinguishing this particular place as being in Guatemala. That seems like such a contrast to my life in Xejuyup and Santo Tomas, where it seems like almost nothing we have or do would be considered normal at home. To put it simply, Janet’s apartment made me feel as if it would be possible to live an American life in a foreign country, should one so choose.
I spent Friday night with Janet and her roommate, and then Saturday morning we loaded up the car for a trip to Montericco, a Pacific coast beach resort. Before leaving town, we picked up two of Janet’s friends, Kammie and Stephanie, who are both teachers at the same ritzy international school as Judy. Apparently, and I was totally unaware of this, there exists somewhat of a circuit of international schools all around the world. They are very expensive, multi-lingual schools which generally conduct classes in English for half of the day. There are teachers who jump all around the globe, working on one- or two-year contracts in sundry large cities all around the world – Social Studies for a year in Hong Kong, 7th Grade Math for two in Rio de Janiero, 4th Grade in Paris, World History in Cape Horn, and now a year or two of Biology for middle schoolers in Guatemala City. It seems like a great way to be a professional nomad – they get paid on an American salary scale, which is enough to live like a king in a good ¾ of the world’s countries.
The entire school had a three-day weekend, thanks to the Independence Day holiday. There were several other teachers who’d also chosen to spend their days off at Montericco, and we ended up spending most of our time as a large, very fun group. It was fantastic relaxing with other Americans for awhile, where it was easy to crack jokes that made sense, we could have analytical conversations about world politics, and all anyone really wanted to do was drink beer by the pool. I figured out rather quickly that I’m much younger than any of them – I’d guess their average age to be a decade greater than my own. However, that only was really evident when I was the only on who didn’t know the words to a Salt n’ Pepa song which was part of our hotel’s eclectic soundtrack.
The weather in Montericco is almost debilitating hot, and the ocean has a frighteningly strong undertow. In response to these two conditions, nearly every establishment boasts a swimming pool (or several.) We spent much of our time drifting between restaurants, the beach and pools. Both nights we sat lounging on the beachside for hours, playing games like Mafia until it was late enough to go dancing. In the on-the-beach clubs, we quickly learned that Montericco is more of a Guatemalan destination than a gringo hot spot. The only other Americans we met were some Peace Corps volunteers, but the place was packed with very upper class rich Guatemalans. I concocted some elaborate tales about being happily engaged or a mother or married or pregnant in order to ward off the latino machismo, although you’d be surprised how persistent they can be. They always asked why my husband/boyfriend/fiancé/baby’s daddy wasn’t there, and pointedly inquire where my ring was to prove my taken status. I only recount all of this so that I can share the level of absolute absurdity to which these schmucks took it. After very deliberately explaining to me all about his Corvette, one guy asked how much my ring cost. “However much it was,” he told me “I’ll buy one for you that’s twice as expensive.” He just looked confused when I replied “But I don’t love you,” and walked away.
In addition to dancing and drinking and swimming and eating, we were able to squeeze in a little, well, I guess you’d call it culture. Endangered Loggerhead and Leatherback turtles lay their eggs on the beach in Monterrico, and the town has a preservation center. Even though they’re endangered, the eggs are sold in large volumes in the local markets. Despite my confusion with regards to international acts protecting endangered and threatened species, locals are legally allowed to sell 80% of the eggs from a given nest. Apparently their supposed aphrodisiac qualities are more important than, oh, I don’t know, the preservation of the oceanic biosphere. Because that’s what this country full of seven-child families and little acceptance of contraceptives needs - more babies.
Luckily, this preservation center buys eggs at the going rate from locals, then incubates them and releases the hatched babies. For a price (of less than $1.50) tourists can buy a baby for the nightly “turtle race,” where everyone lines up, lets them go, and sees who reaches the sea first. Not that that’s really winning, since that’s probably the first cute little bugger to be gobbled up by a seal, but that’s beside the point. We all found the process to be somewhat morally confounding. Babies who hatch during the week spend several days swimming around in a pool, waiting for the weekend’s tourist crowd. They surely use up a fair amount of their finite energy stores, and undoubtedly spread amongst themselves whatever diseases happen to plague turtles. Additionally, “buying” a turtle sort of promotes the currently legal system of selling 80% of the eggs. If the current system is acceptable to both conservationists and turtle egg snatchers, the laws will never get changed to protect the turtles more.
On the flip side, tourists pay about 3 times more for an egg than the conservatory buys them for. All of that money goes to help further their cause, promoting conservation efforts and hopefully educating the public. Basically, it’s still supporting a good organization.
Eventually, we concluded that morally, it’s a wash. But, if we paid 10Q, we’d get to hold an adorable baby turtle for a few minutes. With that decision made, I got to spend at least fifteen precious minutes with my newly adopted Camilla before having to understand the pain of that cruel adage “If you love something, you’ve got to set it free.” She was among the last turtles to enter the sea, losing the race by several minutes. I interpreted this as a sign of intelligence: she was waiting for her siblings to satisfy the appetites of waiting predators before risking her own retractable neck. That a girl!
I feel like this post would be somewhat dishonest if I didn’t mention the fact that en route to Montericco we were in a pretty serious car accident. I don’t think I’ll go into details, since it still terrifies me to think about and I don’t want to pass on the nightmares to whoever may read this. There is no doubt whatsoever that our driver was not at fault, the other driver fled the scene without leaving so much as the glow of a brake light, and Janet’s car was totaled. Some exceptionally kind Guatemalans who’d seen the accident (fearing that the semi would trash them as badly as it had us) stopped to help. They were truly a God-send, as I was the only one of the four of us who speaks conversational Spanish and I had no idea what to do after making sure everyone was ok. Which, by the way, we all were, thanks be to God. The cops did show up, although all they did was take pictures of the gringas while waving their semiautomatic assault rifles around and shrugging their shoulders. As if there wouldn’t be significant and noticeable damage on the truck. Thanks guys – I’m glad it’s not my tax dollars paying your salary!
We did a pretty great job of taking it all in stride, and once we figured out we were stranded near Montericco the decision to stay for the weekend was unanimous. We all need to wash the glass out of our hair, and a little beach time seemed like just the right thing for our rattled minds. It all turned out alright, and we were able to disperse ourselves among the cars of the other international school teachers, so we didn’t even have to ride the chicken bus back. One more adventure for the memoirs, I guess. All in all, a great weekend, despite the rough start.
The woman, Janet, is a fellow doing HIV/AIDs research for the CDC. She clearly took pity on my isolated, friend-less state, and we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses that night. To be honest, I wasn’t all that disappointed to learn that my passport wouldn’t be returned the same day I dropped it off. After meeting Janet, I was hoping that a return trip could potentially be turned into a weekend retreat with my friendly, interesting new acquaintance. Lo and behold, it turned out far better than I myself could have planned, since the whole country had a three day weekend. Janet emailed me shortly after we met, inviting me to join her and some friends on a mini vacation during those days.
So that’s how I ended up wandering around Zona Quince (the number in Spanish, not the fruit), one of Guatemala City’s upscale neighborhoods, on a beautiful Friday afternoon. After picking up Dr. Strode at the airport I was dropped off at Janet’s apartment complex. She’d left a key for me at the front desk, so I was able to take a real, hot shower and drop my things off. I continue to find the city to be a somewhat unreal experience. I was struck by how very normal Janet’s apartment is. It’s very nice – spacious, with large windows and several balconies. Aside from one very typical Guatemala painting of women in traje, there seemed to be absolutely nothing distinguishing this particular place as being in Guatemala. That seems like such a contrast to my life in Xejuyup and Santo Tomas, where it seems like almost nothing we have or do would be considered normal at home. To put it simply, Janet’s apartment made me feel as if it would be possible to live an American life in a foreign country, should one so choose.
I spent Friday night with Janet and her roommate, and then Saturday morning we loaded up the car for a trip to Montericco, a Pacific coast beach resort. Before leaving town, we picked up two of Janet’s friends, Kammie and Stephanie, who are both teachers at the same ritzy international school as Judy. Apparently, and I was totally unaware of this, there exists somewhat of a circuit of international schools all around the world. They are very expensive, multi-lingual schools which generally conduct classes in English for half of the day. There are teachers who jump all around the globe, working on one- or two-year contracts in sundry large cities all around the world – Social Studies for a year in Hong Kong, 7th Grade Math for two in Rio de Janiero, 4th Grade in Paris, World History in Cape Horn, and now a year or two of Biology for middle schoolers in Guatemala City. It seems like a great way to be a professional nomad – they get paid on an American salary scale, which is enough to live like a king in a good ¾ of the world’s countries.
The entire school had a three-day weekend, thanks to the Independence Day holiday. There were several other teachers who’d also chosen to spend their days off at Montericco, and we ended up spending most of our time as a large, very fun group. It was fantastic relaxing with other Americans for awhile, where it was easy to crack jokes that made sense, we could have analytical conversations about world politics, and all anyone really wanted to do was drink beer by the pool. I figured out rather quickly that I’m much younger than any of them – I’d guess their average age to be a decade greater than my own. However, that only was really evident when I was the only on who didn’t know the words to a Salt n’ Pepa song which was part of our hotel’s eclectic soundtrack.
The weather in Montericco is almost debilitating hot, and the ocean has a frighteningly strong undertow. In response to these two conditions, nearly every establishment boasts a swimming pool (or several.) We spent much of our time drifting between restaurants, the beach and pools. Both nights we sat lounging on the beachside for hours, playing games like Mafia until it was late enough to go dancing. In the on-the-beach clubs, we quickly learned that Montericco is more of a Guatemalan destination than a gringo hot spot. The only other Americans we met were some Peace Corps volunteers, but the place was packed with very upper class rich Guatemalans. I concocted some elaborate tales about being happily engaged or a mother or married or pregnant in order to ward off the latino machismo, although you’d be surprised how persistent they can be. They always asked why my husband/boyfriend/fiancé/baby’s daddy wasn’t there, and pointedly inquire where my ring was to prove my taken status. I only recount all of this so that I can share the level of absolute absurdity to which these schmucks took it. After very deliberately explaining to me all about his Corvette, one guy asked how much my ring cost. “However much it was,” he told me “I’ll buy one for you that’s twice as expensive.” He just looked confused when I replied “But I don’t love you,” and walked away.
In addition to dancing and drinking and swimming and eating, we were able to squeeze in a little, well, I guess you’d call it culture. Endangered Loggerhead and Leatherback turtles lay their eggs on the beach in Monterrico, and the town has a preservation center. Even though they’re endangered, the eggs are sold in large volumes in the local markets. Despite my confusion with regards to international acts protecting endangered and threatened species, locals are legally allowed to sell 80% of the eggs from a given nest. Apparently their supposed aphrodisiac qualities are more important than, oh, I don’t know, the preservation of the oceanic biosphere. Because that’s what this country full of seven-child families and little acceptance of contraceptives needs - more babies.
Luckily, this preservation center buys eggs at the going rate from locals, then incubates them and releases the hatched babies. For a price (of less than $1.50) tourists can buy a baby for the nightly “turtle race,” where everyone lines up, lets them go, and sees who reaches the sea first. Not that that’s really winning, since that’s probably the first cute little bugger to be gobbled up by a seal, but that’s beside the point. We all found the process to be somewhat morally confounding. Babies who hatch during the week spend several days swimming around in a pool, waiting for the weekend’s tourist crowd. They surely use up a fair amount of their finite energy stores, and undoubtedly spread amongst themselves whatever diseases happen to plague turtles. Additionally, “buying” a turtle sort of promotes the currently legal system of selling 80% of the eggs. If the current system is acceptable to both conservationists and turtle egg snatchers, the laws will never get changed to protect the turtles more.
On the flip side, tourists pay about 3 times more for an egg than the conservatory buys them for. All of that money goes to help further their cause, promoting conservation efforts and hopefully educating the public. Basically, it’s still supporting a good organization.
Eventually, we concluded that morally, it’s a wash. But, if we paid 10Q, we’d get to hold an adorable baby turtle for a few minutes. With that decision made, I got to spend at least fifteen precious minutes with my newly adopted Camilla before having to understand the pain of that cruel adage “If you love something, you’ve got to set it free.” She was among the last turtles to enter the sea, losing the race by several minutes. I interpreted this as a sign of intelligence: she was waiting for her siblings to satisfy the appetites of waiting predators before risking her own retractable neck. That a girl!
I feel like this post would be somewhat dishonest if I didn’t mention the fact that en route to Montericco we were in a pretty serious car accident. I don’t think I’ll go into details, since it still terrifies me to think about and I don’t want to pass on the nightmares to whoever may read this. There is no doubt whatsoever that our driver was not at fault, the other driver fled the scene without leaving so much as the glow of a brake light, and Janet’s car was totaled. Some exceptionally kind Guatemalans who’d seen the accident (fearing that the semi would trash them as badly as it had us) stopped to help. They were truly a God-send, as I was the only one of the four of us who speaks conversational Spanish and I had no idea what to do after making sure everyone was ok. Which, by the way, we all were, thanks be to God. The cops did show up, although all they did was take pictures of the gringas while waving their semiautomatic assault rifles around and shrugging their shoulders. As if there wouldn’t be significant and noticeable damage on the truck. Thanks guys – I’m glad it’s not my tax dollars paying your salary!
We did a pretty great job of taking it all in stride, and once we figured out we were stranded near Montericco the decision to stay for the weekend was unanimous. We all need to wash the glass out of our hair, and a little beach time seemed like just the right thing for our rattled minds. It all turned out alright, and we were able to disperse ourselves among the cars of the other international school teachers, so we didn’t even have to ride the chicken bus back. One more adventure for the memoirs, I guess. All in all, a great weekend, despite the rough start.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
La Jornada de Ojos
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything; I was unprecedentedly busy last week. It was very nice to finally remember what it feels like to be running from place to place, barely finishing with one task before moving on to the next. In the three months I’ve been here, that lifestyle has been totally nonexistent for me. As much as I’ve try to get used to living a laid-back, slow-paced life, too much free time is still consistently driving me nuts.
The last week provided a much appreciated departure from that routine. Three American ophthalmologists and their three nurses arrived on August 31st for the bi-annual “Jornada de Ojos.” Every September and February their medical brigade takes over the clinic for a week. A surgical suite established mainly for cataract surgeries was built here over a decade ago, and Guatemalans come from far and wide for exams and operations. The doctors and nurses bring Christmas to the clinic, in the form of glaucoma drops for the patients, surgical tools for Guatemalan ophthalmology residents and copious amounts of trail mix, books and wonderful company for Sheila, Mary, Anna and I.
I spent most of the week down at the clinic, translating for patients during their exams and watching cataract surgeries. I spent all of my mornings in the clinic with the doctors, ran up to the school to teach in the afternoons, and then returned to Santo Tomas in the evenings for dinner.
Working with the doctors was a much needed refresher, reminding me why I’m working so hard applying to medical school right now. I spent most of June and July writing, re-writing, revising, erasing and writing over again the essays and job descriptions for my first round of applications. Then, as soon as that was turned in, I began receiving secondary applications. Most of them require an entirely new set of essays unique to the school, often requiring research into the university’s specific programs.
It’s hard – really hard – to spend so much time trying to articulate why I want to be a doctor, how I know I’ll be a good one, why you, Medical School No. 43, want me as badly as I want you….blah blah blah. It all begins to feel very empty and one-dimensional. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember having career goals; how am I supposed to convey my passion and desire in a medium as bland as black ink on white paper? I find medicine fascinating; the idea of dedicating my life to studying every minute detail of what makes us work is exhilarating. Honestly, I just get a kick out of it. However, through the process of writing “when I grow up I want to be a doctor” a million different creative ways, I’d somewhat lost track of the truth in the statement. It was beginning to feel like an idea which I’d been told to sell, regardless of whether or not I believed in it. “You’ve set a goal, now achieve it” is a different mindset than “pursue your goal because you love what it stands for,” and I’d begun to undergo the unfortunate transition from the latter to the former.
Then, right on time, cue the ophthalmologists. Before they arrived, I was excited about the change of pace which a half-dozen visitors would bring. I was looking forward to spending some focused time in the clinic, and I was eager for a chance to be useful and busy. However, the truth is, I wasn’t exactly expecting to care much about the actual work they’d be doing. “Eyes? Eh. Take’em or leave’em” would probably be an accurate representation of my medical interest in the subject. I’ve seen some enucleation (removal) surgeries on dogs before, and they were interesting enough I suppose. I’ve always taken advantage of the opportunity to dissect the surgery’s end product, but I can claim to have ever found myself particularly captivated by it. Truthfully, I couldn’t have explained the difference between a cataract and glaucoma before this last week, although I had at least heard of them.
Fantastically, the doctors and nurses were more than accommodating, allowing me all sorts of front-row and back-stage access to the goings on of the operation. For the first time in ages, I was reminded of my total fascination with biology, anatomy, physiology, pharmacology…all of the sciences which come into play with medicine. The week felt like a flashback to my entire childhood and adolescence, which can be blended quite conveniently into a single image of Jenna asking her father “Why?” That question, and the subsequent search for an answer or explanation, seems to have occupied the majority of my lifetime brain activity:
“Why do cows get milk fever? Why do dogs get salmon poisoning? Why do we have to test animals for TB before shipping them across state lines? Why do cats get diabetes? Why do you put neon dye in an animal’s eye when you want to examine it? Why do you treat kidney failure with subcutaneous fluids? Why are you using Baytril this time, and not Keflex? Why did you pull this tooth and not that one? Why does the spleen look like that? Why are taking out the meniscus on this ACL dog, but you didn’t on the other one? Why do you get more prolapsed uteruses during a full moon? Why do you have special diets for cats with chronic urinary tract infections? Why can’t we (pretty please!) do a cesarean on this dog? Why don’t you do major surgeries on horses? Why are people worried that their horse will be a crypt orchid? Why can you live without your pancreas? I mean, it seems pretty important....”
Asking a million question, varying from the trivial (why are most calico cats females?) to the downright unanswerable (why would anyone ever own a dog that’s not a golden retriever?), and getting solid thoughtful answers is easily my favorite pastime. School’s alright in that respect; the only problem is that as a student you don’t usually get to craft your own questions. Instead, it starts to feel like you’re simply presented with answers, and told to do something with them. Write a paper. Do an experiment which proves these facts true. Not much time, or energy, is left over for the much more enjoyable process of learning by simply watching and asking.
The return to a truly intellectually stimulating environment, where I was once again encouraged to ask, ask, ask and ask some more, was like a throwback to working with my dad. Most importantly, it reminded me of how much I really do care about the answers to all of my questions – I want to know how everything biological works for the simply purpose of enjoying the knowledge. I have no idea why that’s true for me with anything scientific, yet I could care less how the internets intertwine. Nonetheless, that’s just me, and it’s what’s driven me to pursue the study of science (however informally; think coyote dissections in the driveway while in grade school) since day one.
What’s more, once I become a doctor, I’ll be able to take it one step farther. More than just understanding the background of “why,” I’ll be in a position to apply that information. Ahh! I can’t imagine what would possibly be more fun!
What’s more, I find the process of explaining medical conditions incredibly fulfilling. More than just pestering the docs with questions and glancing over shoulders, I got to help. One of the doctors employed me as his full-time translator while he examined patients. I loved the whole process of watching, helping, and translating throughout the entire exam. Providing a good, honest explanation of someone’s medical condition and how it’s going to be address has a feeling reminiscent of public service. Summarizing the important aspects of a complicated medical scenario, in a way which gives the patient a clear picture of what they’re dealing with and how they need to react essentially de-mystifies the magical machine of the human body. After all, could you draw an anatomically correct picture of an eye? If you were told tomorrow that you had glaucoma, would you know what that really means? Probably not, but you would notice if you went blind. We take the normal functioning of our bodies so much for granted, and it can be terrifying to hear that something’s gone awry. But I’ve always found that really understanding a problem makes it so much less scary. That’s why I it’s so rewarding to put the body’s functions into plain words. It takes away a fear of the unknown and replaces it with a sense of prerogative.
Despite my occasional disillusionment with the process of applying to medical school, I know that all of this essay-crafting-application-fee-paying-letter-of-recommendation-requesting-circus-show’s-worth-of-hoop-jumping will be worth it in the end. I’ll be a good doctor, because it’s what I really want to do. Spending a week working alongside wonderful, kind and encouraging doctors and nurses only served to reinforce what I’ve known all along, even if it had been buried under a mountain of transcripts and application forms.
So, dear readers (“readers” is plural because I know that I’ve at least got Mom and Dad still checking this every once in a while), this particular blog entry may not be as interesting or entertaining as you’re used to. No silly situations which required a tricky escape, no cultural mishaps, days of bedridden near-death or elaborate descriptions of My Guatemalan Life. However, it’s what’s been going through my mind, so it’s what you’re stuck with. Lo siento. If you find this rather introspective diatribe to be boring, I’ll leave you with something to laugh about: Jenna, in her infinite wisdom, thought that teaching sex ed to classrooms packed full of 55 unruly, boisterous, impudent, disobedient, irreverent, energetic, disrespectful, bilingual (and I’m not referring to English) teenagers was a good idea. That’s what’s been keeping my on my toes since the doctors left. Imagine the mayhem. Ay…mi vida chapin…
The last week provided a much appreciated departure from that routine. Three American ophthalmologists and their three nurses arrived on August 31st for the bi-annual “Jornada de Ojos.” Every September and February their medical brigade takes over the clinic for a week. A surgical suite established mainly for cataract surgeries was built here over a decade ago, and Guatemalans come from far and wide for exams and operations. The doctors and nurses bring Christmas to the clinic, in the form of glaucoma drops for the patients, surgical tools for Guatemalan ophthalmology residents and copious amounts of trail mix, books and wonderful company for Sheila, Mary, Anna and I.
I spent most of the week down at the clinic, translating for patients during their exams and watching cataract surgeries. I spent all of my mornings in the clinic with the doctors, ran up to the school to teach in the afternoons, and then returned to Santo Tomas in the evenings for dinner.
Working with the doctors was a much needed refresher, reminding me why I’m working so hard applying to medical school right now. I spent most of June and July writing, re-writing, revising, erasing and writing over again the essays and job descriptions for my first round of applications. Then, as soon as that was turned in, I began receiving secondary applications. Most of them require an entirely new set of essays unique to the school, often requiring research into the university’s specific programs.
It’s hard – really hard – to spend so much time trying to articulate why I want to be a doctor, how I know I’ll be a good one, why you, Medical School No. 43, want me as badly as I want you….blah blah blah. It all begins to feel very empty and one-dimensional. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for as long as I can remember having career goals; how am I supposed to convey my passion and desire in a medium as bland as black ink on white paper? I find medicine fascinating; the idea of dedicating my life to studying every minute detail of what makes us work is exhilarating. Honestly, I just get a kick out of it. However, through the process of writing “when I grow up I want to be a doctor” a million different creative ways, I’d somewhat lost track of the truth in the statement. It was beginning to feel like an idea which I’d been told to sell, regardless of whether or not I believed in it. “You’ve set a goal, now achieve it” is a different mindset than “pursue your goal because you love what it stands for,” and I’d begun to undergo the unfortunate transition from the latter to the former.
Then, right on time, cue the ophthalmologists. Before they arrived, I was excited about the change of pace which a half-dozen visitors would bring. I was looking forward to spending some focused time in the clinic, and I was eager for a chance to be useful and busy. However, the truth is, I wasn’t exactly expecting to care much about the actual work they’d be doing. “Eyes? Eh. Take’em or leave’em” would probably be an accurate representation of my medical interest in the subject. I’ve seen some enucleation (removal) surgeries on dogs before, and they were interesting enough I suppose. I’ve always taken advantage of the opportunity to dissect the surgery’s end product, but I can claim to have ever found myself particularly captivated by it. Truthfully, I couldn’t have explained the difference between a cataract and glaucoma before this last week, although I had at least heard of them.
Fantastically, the doctors and nurses were more than accommodating, allowing me all sorts of front-row and back-stage access to the goings on of the operation. For the first time in ages, I was reminded of my total fascination with biology, anatomy, physiology, pharmacology…all of the sciences which come into play with medicine. The week felt like a flashback to my entire childhood and adolescence, which can be blended quite conveniently into a single image of Jenna asking her father “Why?” That question, and the subsequent search for an answer or explanation, seems to have occupied the majority of my lifetime brain activity:
“Why do cows get milk fever? Why do dogs get salmon poisoning? Why do we have to test animals for TB before shipping them across state lines? Why do cats get diabetes? Why do you put neon dye in an animal’s eye when you want to examine it? Why do you treat kidney failure with subcutaneous fluids? Why are you using Baytril this time, and not Keflex? Why did you pull this tooth and not that one? Why does the spleen look like that? Why are taking out the meniscus on this ACL dog, but you didn’t on the other one? Why do you get more prolapsed uteruses during a full moon? Why do you have special diets for cats with chronic urinary tract infections? Why can’t we (pretty please!) do a cesarean on this dog? Why don’t you do major surgeries on horses? Why are people worried that their horse will be a crypt orchid? Why can you live without your pancreas? I mean, it seems pretty important....”
Asking a million question, varying from the trivial (why are most calico cats females?) to the downright unanswerable (why would anyone ever own a dog that’s not a golden retriever?), and getting solid thoughtful answers is easily my favorite pastime. School’s alright in that respect; the only problem is that as a student you don’t usually get to craft your own questions. Instead, it starts to feel like you’re simply presented with answers, and told to do something with them. Write a paper. Do an experiment which proves these facts true. Not much time, or energy, is left over for the much more enjoyable process of learning by simply watching and asking.
The return to a truly intellectually stimulating environment, where I was once again encouraged to ask, ask, ask and ask some more, was like a throwback to working with my dad. Most importantly, it reminded me of how much I really do care about the answers to all of my questions – I want to know how everything biological works for the simply purpose of enjoying the knowledge. I have no idea why that’s true for me with anything scientific, yet I could care less how the internets intertwine. Nonetheless, that’s just me, and it’s what’s driven me to pursue the study of science (however informally; think coyote dissections in the driveway while in grade school) since day one.
What’s more, once I become a doctor, I’ll be able to take it one step farther. More than just understanding the background of “why,” I’ll be in a position to apply that information. Ahh! I can’t imagine what would possibly be more fun!
What’s more, I find the process of explaining medical conditions incredibly fulfilling. More than just pestering the docs with questions and glancing over shoulders, I got to help. One of the doctors employed me as his full-time translator while he examined patients. I loved the whole process of watching, helping, and translating throughout the entire exam. Providing a good, honest explanation of someone’s medical condition and how it’s going to be address has a feeling reminiscent of public service. Summarizing the important aspects of a complicated medical scenario, in a way which gives the patient a clear picture of what they’re dealing with and how they need to react essentially de-mystifies the magical machine of the human body. After all, could you draw an anatomically correct picture of an eye? If you were told tomorrow that you had glaucoma, would you know what that really means? Probably not, but you would notice if you went blind. We take the normal functioning of our bodies so much for granted, and it can be terrifying to hear that something’s gone awry. But I’ve always found that really understanding a problem makes it so much less scary. That’s why I it’s so rewarding to put the body’s functions into plain words. It takes away a fear of the unknown and replaces it with a sense of prerogative.
Despite my occasional disillusionment with the process of applying to medical school, I know that all of this essay-crafting-application-fee-paying-letter-of-recommendation-requesting-circus-show’s-worth-of-hoop-jumping will be worth it in the end. I’ll be a good doctor, because it’s what I really want to do. Spending a week working alongside wonderful, kind and encouraging doctors and nurses only served to reinforce what I’ve known all along, even if it had been buried under a mountain of transcripts and application forms.
So, dear readers (“readers” is plural because I know that I’ve at least got Mom and Dad still checking this every once in a while), this particular blog entry may not be as interesting or entertaining as you’re used to. No silly situations which required a tricky escape, no cultural mishaps, days of bedridden near-death or elaborate descriptions of My Guatemalan Life. However, it’s what’s been going through my mind, so it’s what you’re stuck with. Lo siento. If you find this rather introspective diatribe to be boring, I’ll leave you with something to laugh about: Jenna, in her infinite wisdom, thought that teaching sex ed to classrooms packed full of 55 unruly, boisterous, impudent, disobedient, irreverent, energetic, disrespectful, bilingual (and I’m not referring to English) teenagers was a good idea. That’s what’s been keeping my on my toes since the doctors left. Imagine the mayhem. Ay…mi vida chapin…
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