An old man approaches me.
I have never seen him before.
He is crying.
He looks at me as though
he knows me, and says, "She died."
I have no words of consolation.
I look up, and see a squirrel drop his acorn into the river.
Ripples form, and then the water settles as if
nothing unsettled it.
I'll never forget those eyes.His piercing gaze took me back to a warm autumn night more than 20 years ago, driving with my father down a country road in Kansas. The night sky was painted a deep purple-black, obscuring the outline of the landscape and creating new forms with boundaries defined only by the imagination of the rare intruder. The darkness was penetrated only by the sound of tires traveling rhythmically over gravel. As we rounded a curve, the beam of the headlights suddenly collided with a deer that had paused a moment too long before completing her journey across the isolated road. The deer stood motionless, paralyzed by the startling flood of light, as the car skidded to a halt. Her eyes were pleading and wide with terror, but she seemed unable either to move forward or to return to the comfort from which she had emerged.
Those same eyes now peered at me from beneath the sheets of a hospital bed.
"Mr. Thomas," I said, as my racing thoughts skidded to a halt, "you are going home today."
"That's what they tell me," he responded in a tone more fitting for one who has just heard the judge's gavel after sentencing.
His fists were clenched but resting calmly on his chest, as though not knowing whether to fight or surrender. His face was encircled by shoulder-length hair and the threads of a beard that was tinged with gray. His clothing flowed loosely over the form of a once-strong body, unprepared for the protracted famine that Multiple Myeloma had brought.
I had first met Mr. Thomas on the first day of my subinternship as a fourth year medical student—an introduction that came at the point of a needle. The resident had asked me to draw some blood for routine labs that had not been obtained for a considerable time since "the damn phlebotomist conveniently comes by when the patient is in radiation therapy." I began to long for such a convenience myself when I was greeted with the admonition that "you've only got one shot at it. If you don't get the blood that you need on the first try, I'm not letting you stick me again."
"Wonderful," I thought to myself as my fingers began to probe nervously for the spongy texture that I hoped would be my salvation. "All I need is another difficult patient."
As my fingertips studied the architecture of his arm, my mind grasped desperately for something—anything—to say that would throw back the curtain of tension that was hanging defiantly in the air. "This is a Veteran's Hospital," I thought to myself. "Ask him what branch of the service he was in." I prayed that, like many veterans, he would tirelessly and proudly recount his years of service once prompted.
"I was in the Navy," he said, his eyes suddenly dancing with enthusiasm, and his words began to flow freely. The catalyst in place, I advanced the needle that had been poised at the entryway of the vessel that was to initiate our journey. I was rewarded with an instant flash of liquid red in the barrel of the syringe. As I released the tourniquet, I breathed a sigh of relief, discovering with some amazement that I had been anxiously holding my breath.
In the days ahead, piece by piece, he shed his protective armor. He spoke with the pride that only a father can know of his son who, following in his footsteps, had embarked on a career in the Navy. He spoke with the pride that only a grandfather can know of his newly arrived grandchild. And he spoke with the fear that only a condemned man can know of pain, dependency, and death.
He spoke not only with words, but with every element of his being. The sharply demarcated lines of pigment that had been branded onto his chest revealed the countless cycles of radiation therapy that he had endured in exchange for the plea bargain of a lesser sentence. The mottled, moth-eaten appearance of rib after rib on his x-rays disclosed a deteriorating infrastructure that had once supported a strong and powerful facade. And the remnants of a crushed vertebra revealed the immensity of a burden that had become too cumbersome to bear.
This crumbling edifice, however, still housed its most intimate secret, ultimately whispered only from the depths of intolerable agony on the day that he was to return home. "I want you to give me something," he said as I stood by the side of his bed, "that will end this pain forever." His words took me by surprise, like the reverberating crack of a starting pistol must sound to a runner who is not yet set in the blocks. Or was it another pistol that I was suddenly hearing—a pistol held firmly against a distraught temple by an unerring hand. That hand, I knew, was one that had held me moments after I was born. It was a hand that had dampened my forehead in the ritual of baptism; a hand that had gripped the side of a pulpit before captivated congregations; a hand that had brushed streams of tears from my cheeks in laughter and in sorrow; a hand extended in pride and congratulations over past achievements; a hand wrapped tightly around the steering wheel of a car that held a deer paralyzed in the beam of its headlights.
I focus again on the eyes before me, not knowing how to respond to their plea. The fear in those eyes was so penetrating, it was as if it had become my own. It was the fear of living another day in pain, as well as the fear of dying. It was the fear of not knowing which direction to turn, and so being afraid to move at all.
We talked for some time about living and dying, and about what could and could not be done. We talked about the doses of morphine that would be needed to eradicate the pain for hours, for days—forever.
"It's not easy," he said, "to go home, I mean."
"No," I responded, "it's not easy to go home. But it's something we all have to do."
Doctors unhearingly speak
Nurses diligently work
A machine hums
drip drip drip
The child cries
and silence falls
Many of my American colleagues think that Burma is just
another unknown country that does not affect our lives
in America. This is wrong; Burma does affect our lives
through heroin.
For example, while assigned as an M3 student at the
Labor Room in Michael Reese Hospital, on two occasions
I helped deliver "heroin babies" from addicted mothers
who were going through "cold turkey." Many of our
addicted patients in other clinics are the result of
the years of "Heroin Missiles" from Burma.
I am a dissident writer-artist engaged in a non-violent
struggle for Democracy in that blood-soaked unhappy
land. I get no pleasure exposing the truth about my
native land. I am doing this only to help my people
overthrow that evil dictatorship and achieve true
Democracy.
 |
Go to Illustration |
After putting it off as long as possible, I decided it was time to go to sleep. So, I took off my suit and tie and changed into my blue cotton pajamas. After lying down on the left side of the bed, I reached over to the bedside table and set the alarm clock. I took off my glasses, pulled the comforter over my stomach and shut off the lights. Sleep did not come easily, though. Thoughts continued to race through my head as I stared at the ceiling. However, the numbing darkness that enveloped me eventually lulled me to sleep.
After a couple of hours, I sensed a dull weight lying across my chest. Although it was not a heavy burden, it was noticeable enough to disturb my light sleep. I opened my eyes, looked down, and saw that her right arm was draped across my chest. Her arched palm protected my heart from further damage; her delicate fingertips engulfed it and squeezed life back into it. With every breath she inhaled, I felt her right breast press against my lowest right rib. With every breath she exhaled, I felt it slowly receding. I followed the subtle curvature of her arm back to the point where it disappeared into the fabric of her silk undershirt and into the curly waves of her hair. Her hair glistened like deep Caribbean waters on a moonlit summer night. Within the black tresses, I spotted the dull luminescent shine emitted by her right earring. It was one of the set I had given her when we first fell in love. The jasmine scent of the perfume she always dabbed behind her ears sweetened the air around me. Although her face was hidden behind the locks of hair which fell on her cheeks and behind the curvature of her left shoulder, I could easily visualize its innocent expression as she peacefully roamed about in her world of dreams. Where her arm came into contact with my chest, where her right hip touched my right hip, where her right leg touched my right leg—I sensed the warmth of her being diffuse into me. Even though I was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable, I could not dare to move and disturb her sleep. With her next to me, I felt whole...once again.
The alarm clock buzzed and jarred me awake. I quickly turned to my right in order to catch a glimpse of her. She was already gone. Alone under the covers of the bed, I felt shivers running through my body. I wanted to cry so much; however, the tears had stopped a long time ago. Although rays of golden sunlight were streaming into the room, everything looked grey. I knew that once I got out of bed, changed into my suit and tie, and headed off to work, the emptiness would disappear...at least until tonight. But, then, she would be there. To comfort me.
The clamor continued, unresponsive to reason.
The harpies and sharpies continued their clamor.
They all had their say, then went on their way,
Leaving him, alone, to do the work.
The soft loving voice continued to whisper,
"Follow your heart!" And it dulled the great din.
"Look to yourselves," he sought to remind them.
"Help me sustain your comfort and health."
"You're killing yourselves, and maiming each other,
Faster than Nature or I can correct.
Give me a chance to stay ahead of your problems.
Help me sustain and protect what you have."
No one listened, but the clamor continued.
Nothing stopped, just the whisper remained.
"Follow your heart," the gentle voice said.
And he wept, while he bent his back to impossible tasks.
Sodom and Gomorrah continued. No one listened, no one heard.
The giant struggled on, pilloried and damaged,
Trying to stave off the inevitable end.
Finally he shrugged, sharing the Fate of his people,
Following his heart, trying to heal and to mend.
And the Voice now was silent, its comforting done,
Only silence remained. The music was gone.
Each window shows subtleties, intricacies
not of being but of pieces
What perceived if this were a glimpse of the soul
when I arrive as the surprised
visitor
What understood if everything but the essence
when I arrive as the pretend
doctor
Boxes that show something I've seen many times
now betray beauty I may
never again
behold.
Could the same representation of me show
which person stands here
interpreting
Is it the man, would be healer
who sees nothing but an
aberrance
of blood
Is it the best friend, almost son to her
who sees beyond the black
and white
into helplessness
Now this great tool in revealing its own inadequacy
gives me this final portrait
of one gone
I try to accept in the same sterile manner
failed attempts to contain
new feelings
into cubes allowing no color,
no depth
But walls are already erected
layers of fear guilt and
arrogance
too high to climb
too well laid to see through
Time, it seems, has run out
on a life once vibrant and
awake
on a life once begging to
help
Two people hurtle towards reality
forced to let go of something
precious
One to find the elusive peace
beyond the pain of existence
One now only able to see his own reflection
a poor likeness
distorted by the shiny sheet
of squares
To the horizon stippled by the minor juts of the mountains partly
obscuring the sun like the towers along a castle wall in whose
courtyard lives the ugly Beauty of the Sonoran desert
Suddenly
my first completely paid for car begins to shake like a silent baby
in
pain, exhausted from crying
I pull over to the side of the road
There is a four inch rubber bubble sticking out of the side of my
factory-issue right front tire
A grey defect of stretched black disrupting the sooty symmetry of my
wheel perhaps too tired of spinning on the unforgiving Arizona
asphalt
I gingerly push it in with my finger, but it pops right back out
If I were to poke my nails into the membrane pouch it would blow
flatulent radial air into my face
Maybe this is what my doctor meant when he said I have an
aneurysm in my aorta
A defect in my blood filled internal rubber tire
Maybe it would burst
Right now
I would never make it to the discount mall
With regular maintenance, I always thought my car would drive
forever
But it can also end up on the side of a hot dusty road with no other
car for miles
The doctor says he can patch my tire, with a white-walled graft like
new
I kick my tire like an old king helpless in a shrinking realm
The right front axle falls on my foot
Now I am getting two operations
Henry stepped off the bus onto the curb at Broadway and Sheridan. It was March and cold in Chicago, but the sun was bright and Henry narrowed his eyes to the harsh light. He stood at the corner as the bus pulled away from its exhaust, holding a plastic grocery bag under his arm. The tightness inside, the jerky unsteadiness was still there, and he waited for the first step. He crossed Broadway into the shadow of the Hotel Chateau.
"Where you been, Henry?" said the manager, behind his glass.
"Hospital."
The manager moved his face close to the hole for talking. "Tomorrow's the first, don't forget."
A few men reclined on broken-down couches in the dim lobby. Henry paused a moment, then moved carefully toward the elevator. He closed the accordion steel door and gazed upward at the small ceiling. A naked bulb burned there, and Henry felt it inside, in his guts, both hot and cold. The elevator accelerated upward, and he sensed a numbness move down his legs. He opened his room and put his bag on the bed, seating himself on the edge. He bent his old head, ran his fingers through his dirty, gray hair. The room was close and dark. Curtains faded yellow and tattered obscured a single dirty window.
There was a knock at the door.
"Henry? You back?" came through the wood.
Opening the door partway, Henry saw the face of Frank, his neighbor next door.
"I thought that was you," said Frank. His gums showed beyond the grin of his broken yellow teeth. "How you feeling?"
"Well my stomach mostly doesn't hurt anymore," he replied. "Come on in."
He stepped aside, looking down, to let Frank pass. "I don't know that it's a cure exactly."
"What'd they say you got?"
"Called pancreatitis. It's a bad pancreas, from drinking, they said."
Frank sat on the bed. He stretched out his lanky legs and crossed them. Henry closed the door, rested his hand on the knob and began twisting it back and forth.
"Did they give you some medicine?"
"Something liquid right into my veins. It was for my nerves, they said. For a couple days, then some pills. I was throwing up. They kept coming by to take my blood."
"Count Dracula, ha ha ha" laughed Frank, showing his gums.
Henry walked unsteadily to the sink on the wall. There was a small mirror there, and on the shelf above, a toothbrush, a jar of pomade, a book of matches. The light switch stuck out from the wall, coverless, attached to a few frayed wires. He studied his face in the mirror, the tan, thick lines of skin and the dry lips. His eyes glinted, scared and intense, like the eyes of animal.
Frank leaned back on the bed, and his hand brushed the grocery bag sitting there.
"They give you anything good to take home with you?"
Henry walked over and picked up the bag. He pulled out a green kidney bean-shaped bowl. It had still a few drops of water inside from being rinsed out the last time. "This is what I puked in. Called an embassy basin."
"Emesis, sis sis sis," said Frank, displaying his gums again.
"Emesis," said Henry. "Anyway, I got plenty of use out of it."
"You gotta have pretty good aim to hit this," said Frank, moving the bowl through the air.
"Yeah Frank, I guess you do." Henry stood there, rubbing his fist on his grubby pants leg. "They gave me an appointment to a stop drinking meeting next week."
"You going?"
"I guess."
"What was it like there?"
"I don't know. I was in kind of a fog, you know. That stuff they gave me for my nerves made me loopy."
"Like being drunk?"
"It was and it wasn't. I felt weighed down, you know, slow, like lying in a tub of water. Everything came and went in slow motion. I could hear people, but it was as if I was listening through a wall. Some things I didn't get. ETOH, what's that?"
"Dunno."
"Well it was very strange."
Frank jumped up off the bed and hitched up his pants.
"Lester's getting a bottle now," he said.
Henry's eyes widened a little, and he felt something move in his stomach. He looked toward the window and rubbed his eye with his fist.
"We're going to his room if you want to come down."
Henry looked back to Frank. They regarded each other for a moment.
"I mean if you want," said Frank.
Henry cleared his throat, scratched his face. "Well Frank, I...Lester..."
"Lester got himself a new old radio we're going to listen to," said Frank. He moved toward the door. "Things are just the same around here, Henry."
Frank opened the door and looked back. "You come on down if you want."
Henry stood in the middle of the small, still room. He moved to the window and sat on the sill, looking out. People were moving along the sidewalk with purpose, and further off, the tall buildings downtown stood firmly, like an old forest. Henry spread out his fingers. They trembled as he placed them on the windowpane. Small borders of fog framed his fingers on the glass. He looked at the people hurrying along under the cold sun. "Where are they going?" he wondered.
I flip through the pages of Life. I know it's dangerous, but just wash your hands later I tell myself. The wrinkled pages must contain the corpses of a billion germs and some live ones too, contaminated by previous patients. The hands on the clock move too slow and too fast. Occasionally other patients cough and I want to hold my breath. A little boy plays on the floor. His mother is glad he isn't crying.
A nurse, holding a thin chart, calls my name. I follow her.
"What brought you in?" she asks.
"I'm congested. I have had a headache, sinus pressure, and greenish-yellow discharge from my nose for several days," I reply.
She scribbles in the chart, then jabs a disposable thermometer in my mouth. Eventually she finishes taking all the vitals, smiles mechanically, places the chart on the door, and tells me, "A doctor will be with you shortly."
I wait.
There is a scraping sound of paper against door. A tall, thirty something, female in a long white coat enters, holding my open chart.
"What brought you in?" she asks.
Cutting to the chase, I proclaim, "I have a sinus infection and need antibiotics."
She gives me this funny look, asks a few more questions and starts to examine my ears, nose and throat.
I feel her press on my frontal and maxillary sinus.
"Well," she says, "I think you have rhinitis so you won't need antibiotics."
I explain to her that I have bad allergies and every year some of my colds progress to sinus infections and antibiotics are needed. I stress to her that I know when I have a sinus infection brewing.
She looks at me funny again and informs me that is not how she practices. She writes me a prescription for an antihistamine and decongestant.
I stare at the scrips. What a waste of time. All this sitting and waiting. That frontal pressure is such a sensitive test. And antihistamines are great when you need to study for finals. I shake my head in disbelief.
I leave the clinic and find a phone.
"Dad, I have a sinus infection. I'll be there in an hour," and I head to my car.
If summer comes, is autumn not far behind?
Nurses managed all of the complicated
interventions. They dealt with an involved
dressing protocol. They tried to be creative
about his bowel program. They used all of
the tricks to prevent urinary tract
infections. They developed a sound turning
procedure.
One day when a new nurse walked in to
help others who were cleaning Donny up after
an involuntary bowel movement, she found him
completely exposed. She unobtrusively placed
a towel over his genital area. For the first
time, Donny looked her in the eye and
mouthed, "Thank-you."
to buy a salmon steak for dinner.
Standing in front of me in the express line
was a balding, bespectacled, average-looking guy.
I looked down to see what he was purchasing:
A pack of Kools with the seal broken.
A Bic lighter in his right hand,
a cigarette dangled from his mouth.
He appeared agitated
The box of salad
in front of him
was being meticulously taped
shut.
He motioned to the cigarettes.
"Two dollars, twenty six
cents, please."
He handed over two ragged singles,
fumbled for change
and bolted.
My salmon was two ninety
four, paid with a five.
She handed me his singles in change.
I walked out the door and
smelled cigarette smoke.
I had just begun to unload my backpack in my hut, my new home, the fancy one in town with the corrugated tin roof, when the first knock came at the door. I scrambled for a shirt to put on—damn it was hot. Who could that be? How do you say "beat it, I'm relaxing" in Thai? I mumbled a variety of words that probably didn't fit together and made my way over to the door. I opened the latch and there he was, standing completely naked: my first patient. How come I thought it would be much more glamorous than this? Perhaps I single-handedly would bring back a youth from the death grips of malaria. Or perhaps I would safely deliver a villager's baby and she would name her after me. But there he was, the boy with the lacerated scrotum, staring me plain in the face. Blood was oozing out in a slow, but steady stream. I had to do something quickly. "Doctor foreigner," his dad was saying, "you have to heal my son."
I had arrived in Thailand a mere six months before that day to start my two and a half year adventure as an American Peace Corps Volunteer. As many times as they try to drill it into your head that you are not sent as an ambassador to save the earth and all things in it, you don't believe it at age twenty-two. When I signed on to the Peace Corps, I had been matched very carefully to a midwifery program in Mali, West Africa, which had been canceled just weeks before our starting date due to a bad drought in the area. Peace Corps programs are not relief work, I was told. They are development programs, which means that areas must start with some basic resources. I must admit that I was sorely disappointed by the news. I had imagined myself camping out in tents in the desert, sleeping on the clay ground, and administering health care to the poor. Saving the world, so to speak. When the Peace Corps rep in Washington suggested Thailand as an alternative, my heart sank. I had been there on holiday a few years before, and I thought it was the epitome of "cushy." They had plenty of food, I thought, plenty of water, the people weren't dying of pestilence—what was I supposed to do there? But I decided to go, and make the best of it. As it turned out, my group of nutrition volunteers was a type of pilot group, so that we got to pick any area of the country in which to spend the next two years. I travelled for several months, did a little research, and true to my mode of self flagellation (must be my Catholic upbringing), I assigned myself to the poorest, driest and most isolated village I could find. I was in Northeast Thailand, right next to Laos. I arrived with my backpack, my doctor's bag, and the cocky knowledge that I picked up languages quickly, and was one of the top students in our Peace Corps language training program. The smile quickly faded as I stepped off the chicken bus onto the dusty road, and was greeted by the village headman in a totally strange and different language. The people of Ban Sung, my new home, did not speak Thai. They spoke Lao.
Throughout my time in Ban Sung, villagers insisted on calling me "doctor." I had a hard time correcting them, first because of the language barrier that I mentioned, and second because I was a premed even then, and was frankly flattered by the title. Here I was, with the perfect opportunity to experiment as much as I wanted—no residents or attendings at your back, and certainly no threat of lawsuits. Sure, I was sent there as a so-called "nutrition" volunteer. But it was clear right from the start that autonomy was mine, and what these people really wanted was a doctor. More specifically, what they really wanted was drugs. But hey, I was ready for them. I was well equipped with a doctor's bag full of aspirin, tincture of benzoin, and quinine. Not to mention my copy of the book "Where there is no Doctor." I was a regular Florence Nightengale, ready to cure the sick and wrestle disease. But what to do about a lacerated scrotum?
The boy looked up at me, and although I knew he was in pain, his curiosity of this strange white woman overtook him. His father was still pleading for me to help him. A young woman who spoke Thai (and later would become my best friend, Noi) stepped up to the front to begin translating. The boy had apparently cut himself with a sickle while working in the rice field. How he had managed to cut his scrotum so badly was never clear to me, as my language skills even in Thai wouldn't stretch that far. He stood there bleeding, as I quickly thumbed through my copy of "Where there is no Doctor." There was no chapter on lacerations, and certainly no chapter on scrotums. I had some Peace-Corps issued suture material in my bag, but I had imagined that I would be using that for a missing button, not to repair somebody's flesh. The father began screaming for medicine. Noi was screaming back at him, then at me, and the boy had begun to cry. At that moment, I peered out the window to witness a much more distressing sight—there were probably 20 villagers in line outside my hut. My office hours had started, and "Doctor Foreigner" was in business. Too bad I hadn't a clue as to what to do.
What ensued for the next few days was the definition of the word "frustration" for me. In fact, I did get my glamorous patient on the very next day—a woman with what appeared to me then as appendicitis. Oh my God. What the hell to do with her? Could I cut her open? Don't be ridiculous, I told myself. This woman needs a doctor, stat. But hey, wasn't that me? So much for saving the world. I felt totally helpless. I knew that the nearest hospital was about 10 miles away, but that there was a health station with a staff nurse on duty which was only three or four miles, in a different direction. I made a decision to bring her to the nurse, so we loaded her up in a wheelbarrow and I took turns with her husband pushing her as fast as possible to the health station. The dirt road was more like a mountain trail, filled with rocks and potholes. They eventually transferred her to the district hospital, where she probably had an operation. To be honest, I really don't know. By this time I was pretty humiliated. The lines had really gone down outside of my hut, and only Noi showed up with any great frequency. Villagers still showed up asking for drugs, and did so for the entire two years that I lived there. When my language skills improved I started to argue with them. "Your son's problem is nutrition," I'd say, "and little pills are not going to help." They would nod and leave dejectedly, not believing a word that I said. What good is this foreign doctor, anyway? They were convinced that Western medicine had at its foundation the tenet that drugs are good, and more drugs are better. The villagers spent a lot of time poking fun at Americans, saying that we had it so easy in the land with streets paved of gold. I remember very clearly that we would all gather around once a week and start up the village generator to watch "Dallas" on TV. Try as I might to argue, there was no convincing. "There are lots of poor people in America," I'd plead. "Drugs do not cure everything!" I'd say. They'd smile and then gossip amongst themselves that the government had obviously sent the wrong ambassador out to their village, one with too few pills and no gold to hand out from the streets of America.
Looking back on the whole thing, I am struck by the fact that my overwhelming emotion at the time was to help these people, in any way that I could. I was most adored as the village doctor when I handed out my paltry supply of aspirin or bacitracin ointment. I knew that these things probably wouldn't help too much, but the villagers were so happy when I gave them out. The problem came because there was not an endless supply. Every trip I made to Bangkok, I replenished my doctor's bag with aspirin. And I would have a line in front of my hut for the next couple of days. It was only then that I felt like I was saving the world.
Speed on seas of troubled stealth,
heeling a sturdy keel
through mounting crests
of omen.
Drift on and lose thyself,
finding dreams which reach
toward moonlit horizons.
I'm waiting down here alone.
Do you hear me?
I'm inside you. See, it's me.
I need you, need you to see me.
Baby, I need you.
What do you mean? I am here
waiting on the walls
closing in, contracting
like an iris.
Tell the echoes to stop
splashing,
the heart sounds to stop
beating.
I'm hollow.
Talk to me
inside where I wait.
Tell me where I can
find a room.
Your voice rises
like the moon.
You tell me,
the thunder made me
like the heaven's made,
with the burst of waters
on a waiting virgin earth,
the lightning came on,
the long fingers snapped,
jump-started newborn seas,
new to life, death too.
Yesterday, I saw a glimpse of myself
in that same book.
It suggested a change -
A new approach to health
Yesterday, I saw my father
in life's book
HTN. DM. CHF.
It required a change -
A new way to live
Today, I saw myself
in the numbers 143/95.
It then spoke directly
to me
and
demanded a change
She doesn't need to speak
or say much for that matter;
it was all in the expression
saying—
"It is getting near time that I meet my Lord. He had blessed me with
eight
wonderful children. Whom I'm proud of, but who with all their knowledge
and wisdom appear so helpless, vulnerable but with no fear,"
I thought she might be saying—
And still with a smile.
She doesn't need to speak
or say much for that matter;
it was all in the expression
saying—
"Hand me the pen and let me sign that paper that says, I don't want
to be
bothered, when I or if I stop breathing." So I gave out my hand. She
held it
and to my surprise she uttered "Tak Yo" and that was the only English
word I
ever heard her say, and that was our last goodbye.
This she said—
And still with a smile.
Every morning, day in and day out, I saw this man.
His words were often unintelligible and thick—
as was his tongue, thick
and dry.
Lips cracked and white. Bleeding. And sore.
Every morning, day in and day out, I saw this man.
His strongest mode of communication: his eyes—
encircled by a swollen mask.
Pleading widened eyes. Innocent. And wanting.
Every morning, day in and day out, I saw this man.
His desires ignored by those who were to be my teachers—
his request too much of
a burden.
A simple want. Ice. And water.
Every morning, day in and day out, I saw this man.
He looked to me. Expected from me. Waiting. Knowing—
mouth open, anticipating
the sensation.
Cold and crunchy. Soothing. And wet.
Every morning, day in and day out, I saw this man.
He touched my heart with no more than one-word phrases—
wooed me softly and gracefully.
No promises. No devotion. No commitment. Just mine.
I am scared
What could it be?
Everything races through my mind
I know my body, something is different
My dorm-mates have teased me for weeks
You can always find her in bed, sleeping, they say
I am too tired to answer back
I am excited
Doctors know everything
He will listen and find a cure
When I see the Doctor, I begin
He interrupts me and questions my mother
Look at me! Listen to me! I silently rage
After the exam, Anemia is my question
"Only black people have anemia" is his reply
"You are bored with your life"
"You do not like your major- maybe you do not want to be a doctor"
"You need to find a boyfriend"
I sit quietly, my mother counters angrily
Reluctantly, tests are ordered and performed
The Doctor leaves the room
I am in own thoughts
What do I say
What can I say
"Your monospot test came out positive"
He does not meet my eyes
A cool slab of raw meat,
Her lifeless heart
Dwarfs my expectations.
What weights borne, what joys sustained?
I am not the first man to gaze with wonder
Into her strong heart.
Later we watch, objective observers:
A mischievous boy explores our lab,
Escapes his Mom, invents new words.
I look around. No one is smileless,
We are captured by his spirit.
Hours pass before I connect
Spirit with Flesh.
His heart holds his spirit,
Her heart held
What hands never will.
"Ach du lieber, Augustine," Augie, the projectionist counts backward: l00, 99, ..., makes ready to drive out the legions of space travelers from distant stars speaking Greek or Egyptian, mumbling "Klaatoo Berada Nicto" to one-eyed "robotos."All the way from Paris by Air France came Doctor Luc, who by some bon chance discovered the virus which he called by some other name only to have it named HIV by the Amerigo Vespucci of virology. Dr. Luc Montagne came to explain 'ow this "leettle thing" brought so much pain, 'ow many poor Afreecahns were infected, 'ow the dread disease could be detected. Came to a hot County Hospital, first a fire bell cleared the hall.
Augie, the projectionist, his beard growing to the left, his moustache to the right, eyes-star-crossed, took the slides from Dr. Luc, got them turned to the other sides. Augie, the cousin of the brother-in-law of the commissioner, thought he detected a minor flaw in the order of things.
Calling for his first slide, with its fluorescence, Dr. Luc is surprised by Augie's thumb and its virus study, warty, inverted Finally a red virus with green DNA and a blue ball wall of protein appears cleverly identified backwards as HIV, the yellow antibodies which approach it look undecided. Killer cells are exposed, angering the "Virus Mafia."
Augie, shoulders slumped, waves at slides in the dark, hears coughs and polite sneezes, pale blue thoughts flow from pale blue ice, suddenly melted, perspires on his white coat, looks backward through his glasses, wonders how the Chimpanzees infected with virus lived so long, thinks about them eating bananas, turns the next slide upsidedown
"Apoptosis," explains the French Doctor, showing pictures taken with electron microscope, cells, losing their nuclei,
"Autoimmune," says Dr. Luc, pointing his finger, yellow antibodies hold blue balls against purple T-Cells, "a vaccine will not work."Augie's machine chews up a slide with a microscopic picture that looks like a husky-dog with granny-glasses, "Mycoplasma," calls out the great doctor after his disappearing slide burns through eyes, and melts the polar ice cap. "AIDS, a complex combination of infection, immunity double-signals, late-stage phenomena...," paints the French Artist.
"Death, despair, fear, evil, sex, danger..." cries the television announcer, Augie's cousin, as another machine chews up the science and spits it out, and a heartless, brainless zombie waves the flag, points a robotic finger, sends out a death ray.
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