The following is an account of a day in my life. It begins with a dream: "Andale, es todo," I say
(All right, that's it!). "The medication is bringing your blood pressure back to normal. You'll be fine. By the way, how are the kids?" I pat my patient Pancho, a farm laborer, on his brawny
shoulder and escort him down the hallway of the Mendota Clinic. I wake up. Lying in bed, I contemplate how vividly my dream depicts the future I aspire to: administering primary care in Mendota, a small
farming community in central California where I grew up. Mendota is populated mostly by Hispanics. I remember how everyone called me "el chinito"
(the little Chinese), and knew my family because we were the only Chinese family in town. In high school, I observed many physicians come and go at the Mendota Clinic where I volunteered; those departed did not speak Spanish or have extensive exposure to Hispanic culture. Moreover, I was saddened because I saw many people, particularly migrant farm workers, succumb to preventable diseases. In spite of persistent signs of illness, most of them went without treatment because they lacked health insurance or were unwilling to visit a doctor for fear of what they might discover. Members of underserved communities, such as Mendota, require more than a well-trained physician if they are to receive the health care they need. They need a physician who is also trustworthy, affable, and understanding of their plight:
a friend. I yearn to be that person serving in Mendota. After brunch, I go to the
gym, although today I do not plan to work out. Winston, a wheelchair-bound 45 year old who suffers from cerebellar myoclonus, awaits me to assist him with his workout and shower, as he has for the past four
years. Winston's neurological disease, since its onset during his college years, has prevented him from properly coordinating his movements and fully contracting his voluntary muscles. Over time, the disease
has progressively robbed him of the physiological functions which most people take for granted in daily life--such as the ability to see clearly, pronounce words accurately, and walk. Seeing Winston's
favorite blue plaid shirt invokes my recollection of our first encounter. I was working out when I saw Winston slip from one of the weight machines. Setting my weights down quickly, I rushed to him and
helped him up. Although I did not fully understand the disjointed, unclear sentences he blurted out, I ended my workout to watch over him and make sure he would not fall again. Having recognized my earnest
desire to help, he asked me to assist him in the shower after his workout. The memory of scrubbing a complete stranger from head to toe with a hand-towel has been clearly etched in my mind. Over the past
four years, I have come to understand that it is the heart-winning smile of a man who seldom smiles that continually encourages me to spend time with Winston. Furthermore, his disability makes me aware of
human fragility, and re-sensitizes me to pleasures in life as simple as watching a baseball game, which was once Winston's favorite pastime. The phone rings as I return home from the gym. My dad is
calling to chat. My dad abandoned his career as a professor in China with the hope of a better future in the U.S. for his children. Humbly toiling 70-hour work weeks without complaint, my parents have
struggled financially to keep my brother and me in college. Talking to my dad leads me to reflect on the sacrifices that he and my mother have made, sacrifices so enormous and noble that they can only come
from the hearts of the two individuals dearest to me. My parents' dedication has inspired me to put my best effort into everything I do. Reluctantly, I end my conversation with my dad because I have to leave
to work in the lab. In an attempt to ease my parents' financial burden, I have maintained two jobs since my sophomore year in college, consistently working 15-20 hours a week during the school year. At
9:00 p.m., hunger drives me home to raid the refrigerator. While eating, I read an issue of Time magazine, paying close attention to the manner in which experienced writers use English. Throughout elementary
and high school, advanced reading and writing courses were never offered because half of the students spoke little, if any, English. Of the few college-bound students in my graduating class, none passed the
Subject A exam or scored above 500 on the verbal section of the SAT. At the time, I was unaware of what that meant about the quality of the schooling I received in Mendota. When I came to Berkeley, however,
and when I struggled with the verbal section of the MCAT, I realized that my English skills were deficient. Now I read and write whenever possible. Before I finish reading the magazine, I rush to my
second job as a night attendant for Bob, a quadriplegic. Over the past two years, and for five nights a week, I have observed sudden mood changes in Bob which manifest his frustration with being confined to
a wheelchair and his emotional void created by the loss of contact with his family. I
frequently sense Bob's urgency to recount his daily experiences to me, as if he might go mad otherwise. As usual, today I listen and try to understand his predicament while I go through my
routine--transferring Bob to bed, sterilizing and bandaging his sores, emptying his urine bag, inducing his bowel movement, and changing his catheter. Sometimes, Bob has diarrhea, and I have to clean his
wheelchair and his lower extremities. When Bob occasionally breaks out with a fever, I hurry to his apartment and respond to his needs, sometimes at 4:00 a.m. Before I cover Bob with a blanket, the sight
of the scars scattered all over his legs reminds me of his infection by methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. The resulting cellulitis and vasculitis caused two of his four attendants to quit
immediately--perhaps it was the gruesome appearance of his massive necrotizing lesions or his episodes of fever that repelled them. I remember substituting for the attendants who quit, and recall comforting
Bob in the worst phases of his illness. Once Bob is comfortably in bed, I return home to get some rest myself. Weary, but unable to sleep after a long, yet typical, Saturday, I toss and turn in bed,
excited by the encouraging words Winston said earlier: "I have no doubt that you will make a good doctor." |
