Entries from December 1, 2005 - January 1, 2006

Perspective.

dollyangel.jpg
 
Today my cousin, Frank Perero, sent to me this poem that he wrote.  I wanted to share it with you:
 
 
                                           A LITTLE SUNSHINE
 
                                As he gingerly placed the half-smoked
                                    cigarette on the cold concrete
                                    he tugged at his over-sized glove.
                                He wore a five day growth of beard
                                    and a potpourri of outerwear.
                                This night though, would be
                                    different.
 
                                 Warm winter tempertures had made
                                    this night tolerable. Even enjoyable.
                                 He could save that smoke for later.
                                 He could play with that awkward glove
                                    as a child might, without fear of
                                         frostbite.
 
                                 He could sit up straight against the wall
                                     with a semblance of pride and balance.
                                 He could make eye contact with
                                     passing strangers without the steam
                                     of his breath causing interference.
 
                                        For one night in a long winter he was
                                    human again, all for a Canadian warm front.
 
                                 There is a little sunshine that appears
                                    in all lives, at differing junctures.
                                 And every time it does
                                    we are better for it. Be it a minute
                                    or a lifetime.
  
                                  Like that little bit of sunshine which
                                     allows that half-smoked butt to
                                     be laid out on cold concrete,
                                       to be enjoyed later.
 
 
For this New Year's Eve, these words make me think about the little things we tend to take for granted.  Things that we might actually resent, like a frayed sleeve on our warm coat or having to eat a sandwich for dinner instead of a big meal.  For so many people, these "small" things would be cherished and savored.
 
For tonight and for the year to come, make an effort to appreciate those pieces of sunshine that enter your life no matter how insignificant they seem.  Show respect for those for whom those sunny moments are rare by having genuine appreciation for the lights in your life.
 
Peace, health and success to you all.
Namaste. 
Posted on Sunday, December 25, 2005 at 09:26PM by Registered CommenterClaudette Lajam | Comments1 Comment

Lingua Franca.

coca.jpgThe tangerines are heavenly.  Sweet, juicy.  He gives me four.  "For you, doctor." How did he know I would not have the time for lunch today?  A thoughtful man.  I can see the intelligence in his eyes.

My patient and tangerine fairy is a Korean man.  He tore his Anterior Cruciate Ligament  (ACL) one year ago.  Soccer.  He works as a courier for a fruit distributor.  Very good fruit.  But little English.

I know about ten phrases in Korean.  Learned them during medical school, when on duty overnight in the Obstetrics ward in Flushing.  Women in trouble.  Women who speak not a word of English.  

"Are you bleeding?"  " Where?"

"Do you have pain?"

"Where is your pain?"  "Does this hurt?"

"Follow me."  "Wait one moment."  "PUSH!"   "Good job!"   "What a cute baby!"  "You are doing great!"  "Thank you." "You are welcome."

Great for the Emergency Room.  Not so good for the office.  Can't explain the risks and benefits of surgery.  Can't tell this man about arthritis and the likelihood that his knee cartilage is already damaged after a year without an ACL.  After living for a year with an unstable knee.  We struggle through our conversation in English and pantomime.  I hold up a model of the knee.

"Here.  Here broken.  We can fix, but not perfect."  My hands gesture wildly around the model.

Frustrated, I look online for a translating service.  Perhaps there is a website in Korean which explains this situation? Problem is, I can't read it so I don't know if it says what I want to say.  

I sigh.  He looks at me.

"Doctora,  ?Hablas Espanol?"

Spanish!?  Yes, I speak Spanish!  Why does he  speak Spanish?

We change languages.  He lived for many years in Ecuador.  He is fluent and literate in Spanish.

We discuss his injury.  Surgery.  Alternatives to surgery.  He asks about risks.  He asks about damage already done.  And I can explain these things to him without the internet.  Without a translator. 

We plan to reconstruct his ACL at the start of the New Year.  We've agreed to use a cadaver graft for the surgery.  We complete some paperwork.  Choose a date.  

"Adios, doctora.  Feliz Navidad."

"Y a usted tambien.  너를 감사하십시요."

Only in New York.  

 

Posted on Thursday, December 15, 2005 at 10:59PM by Registered CommenterClaudette Lajam in | Comments12 Comments