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Latest Voices
Finding Words
I moved through my work with steady precision. One hundred and eighty-three scripts accomplished, one technician and I, alone on a Saturday. This, plus the order needed to be put away. And the phone kept ringing. And there was a steady stream of questions and counseling on how to use medications correctly.
The Times They Are A-Changin’
In the tiny town where I grew up, we had two pharmacies. Both pharmacists knew you, your family, and what your general medical needs were. If your car wasn’t available—common in those one-car-per-family days—they would run your medicine out to your house at their first opportunity. In an emergency, they would open the pharmacy at night.
A Life-Sustaining Oasis
The interns and even the pharmacists come and go, but all of them quickly learn to recognize me, since I spend a lot of time at the pharmacy. That is because my prescriptions are never ready to be refilled at the same time. However, I don’t mind what others may see as an inconvenience. It does not bother me to stand in a long line, waiting for my turn.
May More Voices: At the Pharmacy
Dear Readers,
When I was a first-year medical student, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes–and soon found myself a frequent visitor at a mom-and-pop Bronx pharmacy just a block from the medical school.
Kind and efficient Mr. Tepper, the pharmacist, dispensed my insulin, my syringes and my glucose test strips. As I made the rude transition from excellent health to chronic illness, it softened the blow that the man handing me my lifesaving supplies knew my name, was aware of my sad tale and made sure that I didn’t run out of anything.
The Golden Hour
It is autumn in Melbourne. The nights are cool, but the late afternoon holds the glowing sun in the cup of its hand before it sinks behind the rippled sea. This is my favorite time of day—the hour or so before the sun sets, when I walk home under a golden canopy of giant plane trees and watch the sky prepare for night.
Scars and Screams
When I think of scars, my mind drifts back to my rotation in the Burn Unit as an intern in Mumbai, India. We were conducting trials on the use of a plant-based calendula gel on burn dressings. As an intern, I would attend to each patient throughout my entire twelve-hour shift. My patients were young women, some even younger than myself at the time, usually between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, all victims of burns.
Allowing Medicine to Break My Own Heart
Growing up in a small town as a high achieving oldest daughter, my understanding of scars was purely physical. Skinned knees, a few stitches, and a small crescent moon on my right forearm were my sole casualties.
Relief
When Mike had been sedated for a few days, I talked with his wife Sue, who shared that Mike would not have wanted to linger like this. Before being sedated, he told her that he hoped to pass within a day or two. It was troubling to Sue that he was lingering like this.
Original Scars
My chest tightens, then relaxes, as the tears roll down her face. She gradually bares her soul, revealing the events that led her to my exam room. She may have been born to a mother whose own experience with trauma stunted her ability to be a supportive parent. She may have suffered abuse at the hands of people who were supposed to be trustworthy. Or she may have experienced the loss early on of the primary person in her life who understood her.
