Tarapoto

I have a little five year old boy draped over my lap, face down. With one arm I'm holding his legs firm and still, and with the other I'm rubbing his back. I lean over and say to him, "It's okay, small friend. You are so brave, so good, only one minute more."

I pin him still as Jackson injects the thick white penicillin into his little brown backside. His whole body bristles with pain. "Okay, okay, my sweet brother," I whisper, "All done. No more. We're finished."

His tears leave wet spots on my scrub pants. He can barely stand on one leg, and I have to help him with his plastic sandals.

I hate giving shots.

Every now and then when I'm drawing up a syringe in preparation for another injection, I cringe, and wonder if perhaps I chose the wrong profession. During the last few days of our clinic near Tarapoto, my primary job has been to fill prescriptions and administer injections. In an average day I administer 60-70 shots.

I enjoy the precision of preparing the ampollas of various medications, and I like educating the patients about what I'm doing and why and the potential actions of the drugs in their bodies. But I don't like taking them to the back room, all enclosed by dusty black tarps, and having them lay down on their tummies, expectant, while I clean their skin with alcohol.

Sometimes the little old ladies will reach up and kiss me on the cheek, and even say "Thank you," while they still have tears in their eyes from the burning medicines in their muscles. I can't handle it.

So whenever an appropriate person is sitting around in the dental room, or hanging out in the pharmacy, I have them give the shots for me. I'll do the comforting, they can inflict the pain.