Through the Same Eyes

Today is my last clinic day here at Hillside. I woke up this morning to a slight feeling of disappointment. I have absolutely loved serving here in Punta Gorda and I’ll miss my 5ft patients and mustard yellow walls. Still, I put my digressions aside and prepared for my last mobile clinic. As we began our journey down the now familiar roads of Punta Gorda, I reflected on my clinic experiences the last few days. Yesterday I had the privilege of attending a few more home health visits. Nurse Christine had warned me that the patients we were to see were in rough condition but I wasn’t quite prepared to see what I saw next. We entered the passageway to the home where a door ought to be and saw what looked like a 7 or 8 year old girl laying on a couch. In reality she was 15, but her malnourishment and medical conditions said otherwise. She was covered in a blanket, but as soon as we removed it, my eyes bulged from my head and my heart rose into my throat. She wore nothing but a diaper and her bones protruded from her skin as if she was already dead and decaying. Her arms couldn’t have been bigger around than a dollar coin and her ribs looked like ridges and valleys under her translucent skin. Flies were landing on her face freely as she could not react to shoo them off. Her body was rigid and stuck in multiple contractures. The image of the poor girl laying there will forever be engraved into my mind. She suffered from seizures, scoliosis, mental retardation, and extreme malnourishment. Her situation would be devastating anywhere in the world, but it was even more heart breaking in an area without proper resources. Her quality of life was almost nonexistent. We refilled her medications, but otherwise there was not much we could do. We advised the Aunt taking care of her to ask the government for Ensure (a protein filled drink that helped with malnourishment). She said they had it for a little while, but eventually it got too expensive and the young girl was so emaciated that the drink was hard for her to tolerate. We left with the promise to try and find something similar to add to her regimen. I tell you these stories not because I want you to judge the people of 3rd world countries or to scar your mind with unbearable images, but rather because I want to bring awareness to the fact that this is the reality of some people’s lives. It is heart breaking, but it is also the reason developing countries deserve attention and care. This young girl is just as deserving of quality medical care as anyone else, yet she suffers due to her social constructs (poverty, politics, lack of resources, etc.) So if I can make a difference in this patient’s life, than that is where I belong. My heart is set to serve the most in need. After all, a patient is a patient no matter where they are in the world and isn’t it only right that they all receive the same care? Of course we know the barriers to this, but just because there are obstacles doesn’t mean we shouldn’t still try to overcome them. Many would say striving for equivalent health care between a place like Belize and the U.S. is foolish or impractical, but I say it is shooting for the stars hoping we at least reach the moon. You may notice I rarely post pictures of my patients, especially the emaciated ones. This is because every patient deserves their privacy and to be treated as if a hospital bracelet is on their wrist rather than on display for the world. Additionally, there is a false sense that all people of 3rd world countries are sick and dying and hopeless. The pictures of white healthy people surrounded by devastated black children is one we have to stop. This perception of 3rd world countries doesn’t portray the actual picture; how most people are just like you and me. They work HARD everyday and take care of their children. They visit the doctor when they have a cold, but otherwise get by just fine. Yes, the living conditions are far different and some people are in much rougher shape, but that is not the only story to be told. When someone is suffering though, it is normally in greater capacity than it would be elsewhere and that is what is devastating. One of my biggest goals is to make sure I do not hold myself above these people or appear as a “savior” to them. I want to simply be their clinician, as I would be anywhere else. We must stop ranking ourselves above people due to money, health, status, etc. (this applies to everywhere in our world!). The last thing we must do is enter an impoverished country and portray ourselves as the knight in shinning armor that is there to “save the suffering people.” These people don’t need a savior, they need a clinician and an advocate and a friend. This concept is one I have refrained from talking about because it is difficult to portray, but it is overwhelmingly important. It is hard to find the balance between feeling heart broken for the poor while also respecting them as human beings and deserving of all the same things as us. At the end of the day, we are all equal in this world, we just have different roles. And as much as my role of clinician may seem more important than others here, it isn’t. We are all just gears of a machine that work together to make life work. Every gear is different and has a different job, but they all are equally important in order for the machine to work. It’s okay to feel bad for the people here! I do every single day. But I try not to pity them from a pedestal. We must change our outlook on this world and on others by striving to see everyone through the same eyes. Although what I’m saying may seem obvious and simple, the reality of it isn’t easy. We all struggle with judgment and egocentrism. All we can do is make a conscious effort to catch our thoughts and rework them in our mind. I am so grateful to have sat at these patients sides and to have learned from them. I hope my heart has been humbled and my eyes have been brightened. I am also thankful I got to share some of the stories of my adventures. Through my experiences, I hope you have come to better understand people of poverty and their relationship to the rest of us; important and beautiful while being completely different and yet surprisingly similar. And I hope more than anything that these stories filled you with compassion and understanding (and maybe even drive to make your own impact). I am forever changed after these last few months and I hope my heart continues to feel heavy and light with the weight and reward of healthcare. And most importantly I hope I never stop striving to learn from my patients and to make a difference in their lives. Thank you for your endless support. I am blessed for every single one of you.