Last day of September
11:00 pm Saturday night found John, Karen, Jackson and I sitting around in the office, swapping stories and laughter. I jumped up when I saw Hermano Abraham, one of the mision employees, standing at the door. He walked in gently, supporting a hand hidden by a bloody and ragged towel with his other arm.
“What happened?” Karen asked.
She jumped back, disgusted, when she saw his mangled finger emerge from under the rag.
I took Abraham over to the apartment where all of the supplies are stored, followed by Jackson and Abraham’s wife and daughter, all in a parade. Jackson and I put on gloves and carefully assessed the situation.
I felt like I was back at summer camp doing wound care—explore extent of injury, make decisions, wash thoroughly, cover with appropriate ointment, bandage, plan further evaluation.
Abraham left the apartment 20 minutes later, seemingly pleased with his clean and carefully wrapped appendage.
The most frustrating portion of the procedure was our language barrier. I want to be able to smoothly and thoroughly explain what I’m doing and why. I want to provide verbal comfort because I know what I'm doing hurts, and I feel bad about it. Instead, my Spanish is choppy and blunt. I am able to communicate the necessary information but am ashamed of my verb conjugation and sentence structure.
“What happened?” Karen asked.
She jumped back, disgusted, when she saw his mangled finger emerge from under the rag.
I took Abraham over to the apartment where all of the supplies are stored, followed by Jackson and Abraham’s wife and daughter, all in a parade. Jackson and I put on gloves and carefully assessed the situation.
I felt like I was back at summer camp doing wound care—explore extent of injury, make decisions, wash thoroughly, cover with appropriate ointment, bandage, plan further evaluation.
Abraham left the apartment 20 minutes later, seemingly pleased with his clean and carefully wrapped appendage.
The most frustrating portion of the procedure was our language barrier. I want to be able to smoothly and thoroughly explain what I’m doing and why. I want to provide verbal comfort because I know what I'm doing hurts, and I feel bad about it. Instead, my Spanish is choppy and blunt. I am able to communicate the necessary information but am ashamed of my verb conjugation and sentence structure.
posted by Ansley at 10:01 AM
1 Comments:
Ansley, I loved reading this post this morning. I slipped into bed last night at 11pm after a day spent with unhappy families, questioning state inspectors, and sick patients. My day began at 5 when I left to see a woman who will die today of an acute intestinal obstruction. I am so proud to have a daughter who is a healer by gifts and training. Keep working on your Spanish, but I'm sure your patients can sense the compassion that you are expressing non-verbally. Ted
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