40 years ago
the night before Halloween
they let me into the frigid room
where they were keeping you
deeply sedated, your skin blue
and clammy, barely alive after
having trouble bringing you back,
with a wicked incision stitched
from collarbone to near navel
It’s hard to be overlooked, especially if you’re quiet and shy by nature. So I developed a mask. A speak-up, in-your-face, gutsy personality—an alternate face! But inside I’m still shy and non-confrontational.
Food became my comfort. Was I stressed at work? I’d eat. Was I angry with my husband? I’d eat. Was a party too noisy? I’d eat in a corner. I ballooned, but I didn’t feel better. I preferred staying home, snacking, and watching NetFlix to going out.
One Step at a Time Read More »
Behind the closed door of the exam room, patients always hesitate in a predictable manner before asking uncomfortable questions. As the visit winds down, they finally summon their courage and inquire. We providers recognize this scenario, having witnessed it countless times before. Perhaps the patients sense us relaxing into the familiar and feel briefly encouraged to proceed.
Joe is deaf when he isn’t wearing his hearing aids. So he didn’t hear my crutches behind him on the floor at 2:00 a.m. when I got out of bed for a drink of water. We’d just returned from a beautiful Mediterranean cruise. The day before our flight back to the U.S., I’d slipped on a wet staircase and torn the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee. Surgery was successful and my rehab was going well.
But apparently my relationship wasn’t going so well. As I walked up behind Joe, I saw that he was on my laptop, corresponding with a woman on a dating site.
A Parting Gift of Motivation Read More »
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
“Don’t leave menus in the apartments!” a voice called sternly as I stood by the elevators in the building where I live.
The speaker was a substitute doorman I’d never seen before. I was holding a plastic bag typically associated with Chinese takeout food, and I realized that he assumed I was there to deliver meals to weary or sedentary New Yorkers.
A variation of this scene took place another time with a different doorman.
Checking Our Assumptions Read More »
The tables have turned. I am now taking advice from my children.
At my daughter’s urging, I signed up with a personal trainer at the local YMCA. He is a lovely young man. And since he was raised by his grandparents in the Philippines, he has a special regard for old people.
Twice a week, he takes me through a series of exercises designed to strengthen and flex various muscle groups. My goal is both modest and huge: to be able to get up off the floor unassisted.
Joining the Silver Sneakers Brigade Read More »
Had Dad not passed this month fifteen years ago, we would be celebrating his birthday today. He was born–and died–in October.
This was the time when India was still a British colony. Vaccinations, antibiotics and potable water were not yet available, and infant mortality from infectious disease was high. When dad was two years old, his mother noticed that her active baby went from running to limping, and his left leg looked strange. Terrified, she took him to a country doctor who diagnosed paralytic polio and stated that his leg would be paralyzed forever.
Growing up in Pakistan, I aspired to be a doctor. I was fascinated by movies and TV shows centered on the medical profession and the day-to-day work and lives of physicians. To me, they were superheroes, wearing white coats instead of capes.
A familiar figure in the panoply was the stereotypically brilliant and successful physician/surgeon. (Remember Dr. Melendez in The Good Doctor?) Insanely smart and talented, he was also hard-edged, competitive and almost robotic in his laser-sharp focus on reaching diagnoses and treating symptoms.
Observing similar traits among my mentors while in medical school and during my internship, I concluded that while perfect politeness is the norm, feeling or displaying emotion must be atypical.
“Doctor Sahib, Mamnoon!” Read More »
It’s a sunny day, and I’m slowly pacing along the memorial brick path that winds through an untended garden in a vacant healthcare complex.
Scanning the bricks, I stop in my tracks when I spot Mary’s name.
I’ve arrived here early to meet my friend, Tom, with whom I worked years ago when these grounds, in Hillsborough, NC, were home to a busy hospice inpatient facility. In its bereavement offices, counselors like us provided a space for those who were grieving to express their pain and begin to heal.
In the mid-seventies, when learning to be a labor and delivery nurse, one of the first people I met at my new job was Nurse A, a wizened veteran of the department. She stood four feet, eleven inches tall, weighed ninety pounds, had short dyed brown hair and was ten years past retirement age. She sprinted up and down the halls, rushed in and out of rooms, talked nonstop and ordered everyone around like a drill sergeant. Her trademark was the “3 H” enema – high, hot, and hell of a lot – to stimulate contractions.
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