Olaia

Today I headed out on another mobile clinic, but this one was a much deeper journey through the forests. We traveled along a bouncy dirt road for close to 2 hours before a village appeared in the depths of the Belize mountains. We unstrapped all of our supplies from the van and began clinic. Today was the busiest day by far. The village itself was highly populated and the distance from our home set up made their clinic visits quite infrequent. Patients were lined up out the door waiting for us. I worked swiftly, glancing through the patients chart and greeting them with a smile and a terrible pronunciation of their first name. I diagnosed patient after patient slowly becoming more used to the autonomy and trusting my instinct. My prescription writing became more and more accurate. I discovered tinea corporis covering a 4 year old boy’s body, UTI’s, spinal stenosis, and multiple internal infections. I signed my name on the last patients chart and was ready to close up shop after a long day. As we packed up the medication, I noticed 3 young boys standing in the doorway. They shied away from my glance and looked down at their brown school pants murmuring creole to one another. One of our nurses came over and spoke with them in their native language. “They have a patient for you.” She announced. “Which one of them?” I asked. “We must take you.” The one boy said. Long story short, the Dr and I packed up our supplies and followed the children down the dirt road. We climbed over hills and stepped on rocks to cross a creek. Finally we reached a steep incline that the boys began to climb. Dr. Oss and I exchanged a brief look of “yikes” and followed them up the path. At the top of the hill, (or mountain rather), was a small house made of logs with a palm leaf roof. We ventured inside and saw a small, frail old women in a hammock. Her name was Olaia. We kneeled beside her and asked what was wrong. She could barely speak between her gasps of air. She was wearing a shall even though sweat dripped down my face from the heat. She complained of pain in her left hand. I began stroking the hand and tears welled in her eyes. She could barely move it. A pain with even the slightest touch was nerve pain, possibly from old age or years of hard work. The way she bent her wrist made me think carpal tunnel. I listened to her lungs and heard thick rales on inspiration... Pneumonia. We hugged the lady and thanked the family members for the invite into their home. We sent the young boys to retrieve antibiotics for the pneumonia and pain medication for her hand. Then it was finally time to go. I learned so much from today’s experiences. I learned clinically how to diagnose, but I also learned the importance that every patient holds. Each and every body demands its own evaluation without tainted eyes or ears or mind. Although I was tired and ready to return home, this lady deserved my entire medical mind and body to care for her. This is why I chose this career; to look into the eyes of EVERY patient with compassion and free of my own desires. It is not as easy as it sounds when you have sweated through your scrubs, skipped lunch, and listened to 40+ lungs. But still, it is a skill that MUST be learned in order to be a clinical. Every single patient is their own combination of pathology, and they all deserve an equal amount of time and care. As we rocked along the dirt road back to Hillside, I smiled up at the grassy hills. My eyes began to shut with fatigue but my heart was pounding with joy. I wanted nothing more than to be able to give all of myself to these people. Each day I presented everything I had to give; my medical knowledge, my compassion, and my sincerity. And that, my friends, is the goal.