In one room, I was seeing a Rastafarian man. He complained of not feeling well and needing us to “flush his body of the bad feeling.” He had already visited a health food store and a chiropractor in search of a cure, but decided after significant weight loss that it was about time for some western medicine. He was a pleasant man, a strong presence, and an artistic soul. With his lanky and thin arms, he gracefully added movement to each statement. It was very exuberant, but natural and smooth at the same time. I often asked questions and got strange replies. For example, when I asked when he returned from his home country, he began to tell me about the food he ate back home and how delicious it was. And when I proceeded to ask the same question again, he replied, “I go home often, I’m a performer and enjoy making my music back home.” My attempt failed not once, but twice and I explained what had happened to my preceptor when I left the room. He asked the question a third time and still did not get a reply. It happened often… I imagine, because for every question there is more than an answer. There was a story. Various cultural interaction, which I have witnessed, often take time to provide details and offer background to every story and every statement. It was different for me, but I enjoyed it. I once again felt like a Sherlock Holmes in the making. After the interview, I began the physical examination. Since he complained of abdominal pain and diarrhea, I thought it would be fitting to listen to bowel sounds and palpate the abdomen. I asked my new and jolly friend to lie on top of the examination table. He lifted his shirt and I was surprised by an umbilical hernia the size of half a fist. I could see very active peristalsis beneath the thin layer of skin. It looked like hundreds of creepy crawly worms running amuck. I had never witnessed anything like this and was startled… I later found out that it could be quite normal with a hernia in that spot. As I gently placed the stethoscope on his belly, I heard very loud grumbling similar to water quickly coming out of a jug. He was later diagnosed with an H. pylori infection, described by the lab tech as the most impressive positive test she ever did. We gave him our western medicine, said our long good-byes, and encouraged him to drink his tea concoction that he was convinced settled his stomach. His problems were complex, but could be easily treated. But out ordinary treatment wasn’t the answer to his reluctant use of western medicine, his unwillingness to visit a doctor in a timely manner, or his fear that the bacteria had also spread to his brain. They were just pills in a bottle that would invisibly extinguish bacteria, but do no more. Our drugs are far from overachievers, but rather do the minimum to aid our patients.
In another room, I met with a woman in her late 20s along with a nurse I’ve grown very fond of. The women brought along her new baby boy who had only laid eyes on our world a week ago. We were seeing this baby, because of his label as a “high risk newborn.” He had this title, because his mother, who had tattoos covering her arms and neck, had used cocaine while pregnant and the newborn was brought into this world addicted to a drug that ends lives. While in the room, the new mother answered a phone call and explained that her boyfriend was in jail and she didn’t get calls often, so she had to answer. My heart wrenched and in that short time that she spoke on the phone a million ideas ran through my mind. How this baby was already so disadvantaged, a step behind the starting line, and how he would have to work hard to make up for a poor beginning. How he didn’t have any control over his situation and how his parents’ struggles would affect every day of his life. I was saddened by the entire situation and I said a silent prayer for the new family, for new beginnings and for happy endings. For this woman, we prescribed suboxone, a medication that can be successful in treating opiate addictions. Once again it was an ordinary pill that would ease the physical symptoms of withdrawals and help ease cravings, but it would do no more. It wouldn’t take her boyfriend out of jail and wipe his slate clean. It wouldn’t teach a mother responsibility and patience. And it wouldn’t give this baby a pure welcome into a world that he deserved.
Our ordinary medications do no more than they are designed to do. They work wonders and ease pain of the muscles and joints, but do not heal pain within the soul or heart. They calm overactive intestines and prevent infection in wounds, but they can’t calm someone out of anger or prevent heartache and sorrow. They have limits and only our passion and words can begin to penetrate all the other problems that need solutions.
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