viernes, 25 de diciembre de 2009
viernes, 11 de diciembre de 2009
What are you willing to bleed for?
Have you ever found yourself face to face with someone’s blood? Maybe a mom reading this has cleaned up a skinned-up knee. Maybe an athlete reading this has helped a teammate with a bloody nose. I don’t know your life experiences but let me ask you another question. How important is our blood to us? What worth does our blood have? Considering that blood is our life source, I’d say the worth is substantially significant. Blood is what keeps us going, keeps us alive. Undoubtedly, our blood is of vital importance and the mere paper cut puts us in an automatic frenzy to stop that red surge because as children we learned that blood needs to stay in our body and that there is imminent danger in the loss there of. So where am I going with this? You shall now see….
Her screams were terrifying with each yelp reaching down and tearing at your soul. You wanted to do something, anything, but you were frozen still, completely powerless, taking in the scene. Surely those around felt the same fear and helplessness that you did but they stood as well, unmoving. It was clear that everyone was impacted by her outburst. Mauro rushed by me to help the three guys who were already trying to restrain Chayo. She, who had just woken up from surgery aggressive and petrified, was clearly a danger not only to herself but others. Now there were four guys holding her down as Laura, the anesthesiologist was summoned to inject Chayo with something to help calm her down. Within minutes the screaming diminished to crying and then to soft whimpering and finally to silence as Chayo, the girl one year younger than me with Down syndrome, fell asleep. An hour later during my break I was chatting with some students outside when I heard Chayo’s ever recognizable cry coming from the roomful of sleeping children. Indistinctively, I rose from where I was and tracked her fraught whimpering to her bedside in the make-shift recovery room. As soon as I opened the door, all eyes in the dark room turned to me. I was the only American in the room but more notably the only one in scrubs. And then as the moment passed all the chocolate colored concerned eyes in the gloomy room passed from me to the back of the room where Chayo and her mother were seated. Slowly but with a tinge of fear, wondering if in the next moment I would be running to get Marcos, I walked to the back of the room and sat down on the cot directly in front of her. Chayo’s eyelids were scrunched together only allowing her eyeballs to peek out every now and then. The two neatly cut curves under her eyes reminded me of two opposing red shaped half moons on either side of her nose. There were hints and trails of dried blood from the half moon shaped scars to the edge of her lips and even a little on her chin. Her left hand was coated in dry blood from the episode of her waking up fist in hand and pulling out her IV. Although the room was dimly lit I could see that her mother’s face was beyond distressed at the current condition of her beloved daughter; however, the immediate comfort and relief brought on by my mere presence was undeniable as a couple of lines in her furrowed brow dissipated. I sat down not knowing what to say much less what to do for my medical career had just started that morning. Unaware of my presence, Chayo started rocking back and forth, heel to toe, weeping and calling out for her daddy and Pepe. Her mother gripped her tightly begging her to calm down with bribes and reassuring promises that she was not alone and that she was ok. This was to no avail until the unbroken chain of Spanish rolling off her tongue informed Chayo that her “doctora” was there in front of her wanting to clean off her face. My breath caught in my throat at these words. I had been mistakenly called doctor all weekend by patients and even jokingly by the students but this was much different. Now I was expected to help clean off the blood on her face. Let me tell you something about me if you haven’t read the previous blog, I don’t do blood. I don’t do pain. I run from pain. I have run from the physical pain of others all my life. But in this moment, a girl, one year younger than me, was looking to me and needing me to heal her. And I knew exactly what to do. I was in this very recovery room five hours earlier when a nurse explained to me the right way to clean a wound for no apparent reason. I just thought he liked to talk a lot so I listened and thank God I paid attention to what he said because I had no reason to at the time. I immediately located gauze and wet it in water and started to blot off the blood ever so tenderly. Chayo was in perfect peace as I steadied her head with my left hand and cleaned her face with my right. And then after her face was clear of red with exception to those half shaped moons under her eyes, I took her left hand and started to wipe off the remaining blood. After I finished cleaning off the blood she started crying again only to be consoled that her doctor was there to clean her face so I started the cleaning process again and this played out until her father and brother arrived. I would guess it was thirty minutes later when they showed up and I finally had faces to match the two names she had been calling out to all along. The family left within ten minutes, leaving me with a heavy heart and one step closer to knowing and understanding my beautiful Christ. You see my Christ died for me. He shed his blood for my sins. Oh, how many times I hear and say those very words! But how much of impact do those very words have on my life? Those words became so real to me last night as I was face to face with human blood, our life source. I couldn’t help but think of my Savior’s blood as I gently cleaned off the blood on Chayo’s face and I couldn’t help but think of my Heavenly Father as I watched the mother’s body flinch as if she was the one in more pain. The fact that the blood of my Savior was spilled for me astounded me in this moment. And how much more so did our God hurt as he willingly gave up his Son to die on a cruel cross at our hands? These thoughts proved powerful and to the point of overwhelming me and striking me in awe of God. The fact that Jesus died on a cross and He didn’t have his Dad there to hold him or a doctor there to wipe away His blood. No, He was beaten and humiliated and hung on a cross. And yes, Mary was there along with others at the crucifixion but He was up there on that cross. They couldn’t reach out and hold His hand. My Savior died on a cross calling out to His Dad. How beautiful but also how horrific did the blood flow! How many times do we say Bible verses and sing songs about the blood of Jesus compared to the number times we take time to think about the words we are saying and singing and then shudder at the very thought of the blood of Christ being poured out for our souls? Jesus bled for me. Man, that’s powerful. It’s powerful to think about those words. It’s powerful to be reminded of those words. It’s powerful to live out those words. I will never comprehend the extent of pain or suffering Jesus went through on that unimaginable day but after my experience with Chayo I am more conscious of the value of our blood. For example, Chayo was willing to bleed to have better eye sight. Jesus was willing to bleed to have me. Then finally I asked myself, what am I willing to bleed for? These are the thoughts and question I have pondered ever since….
But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:5
Her screams were terrifying with each yelp reaching down and tearing at your soul. You wanted to do something, anything, but you were frozen still, completely powerless, taking in the scene. Surely those around felt the same fear and helplessness that you did but they stood as well, unmoving. It was clear that everyone was impacted by her outburst. Mauro rushed by me to help the three guys who were already trying to restrain Chayo. She, who had just woken up from surgery aggressive and petrified, was clearly a danger not only to herself but others. Now there were four guys holding her down as Laura, the anesthesiologist was summoned to inject Chayo with something to help calm her down. Within minutes the screaming diminished to crying and then to soft whimpering and finally to silence as Chayo, the girl one year younger than me with Down syndrome, fell asleep. An hour later during my break I was chatting with some students outside when I heard Chayo’s ever recognizable cry coming from the roomful of sleeping children. Indistinctively, I rose from where I was and tracked her fraught whimpering to her bedside in the make-shift recovery room. As soon as I opened the door, all eyes in the dark room turned to me. I was the only American in the room but more notably the only one in scrubs. And then as the moment passed all the chocolate colored concerned eyes in the gloomy room passed from me to the back of the room where Chayo and her mother were seated. Slowly but with a tinge of fear, wondering if in the next moment I would be running to get Marcos, I walked to the back of the room and sat down on the cot directly in front of her. Chayo’s eyelids were scrunched together only allowing her eyeballs to peek out every now and then. The two neatly cut curves under her eyes reminded me of two opposing red shaped half moons on either side of her nose. There were hints and trails of dried blood from the half moon shaped scars to the edge of her lips and even a little on her chin. Her left hand was coated in dry blood from the episode of her waking up fist in hand and pulling out her IV. Although the room was dimly lit I could see that her mother’s face was beyond distressed at the current condition of her beloved daughter; however, the immediate comfort and relief brought on by my mere presence was undeniable as a couple of lines in her furrowed brow dissipated. I sat down not knowing what to say much less what to do for my medical career had just started that morning. Unaware of my presence, Chayo started rocking back and forth, heel to toe, weeping and calling out for her daddy and Pepe. Her mother gripped her tightly begging her to calm down with bribes and reassuring promises that she was not alone and that she was ok. This was to no avail until the unbroken chain of Spanish rolling off her tongue informed Chayo that her “doctora” was there in front of her wanting to clean off her face. My breath caught in my throat at these words. I had been mistakenly called doctor all weekend by patients and even jokingly by the students but this was much different. Now I was expected to help clean off the blood on her face. Let me tell you something about me if you haven’t read the previous blog, I don’t do blood. I don’t do pain. I run from pain. I have run from the physical pain of others all my life. But in this moment, a girl, one year younger than me, was looking to me and needing me to heal her. And I knew exactly what to do. I was in this very recovery room five hours earlier when a nurse explained to me the right way to clean a wound for no apparent reason. I just thought he liked to talk a lot so I listened and thank God I paid attention to what he said because I had no reason to at the time. I immediately located gauze and wet it in water and started to blot off the blood ever so tenderly. Chayo was in perfect peace as I steadied her head with my left hand and cleaned her face with my right. And then after her face was clear of red with exception to those half shaped moons under her eyes, I took her left hand and started to wipe off the remaining blood. After I finished cleaning off the blood she started crying again only to be consoled that her doctor was there to clean her face so I started the cleaning process again and this played out until her father and brother arrived. I would guess it was thirty minutes later when they showed up and I finally had faces to match the two names she had been calling out to all along. The family left within ten minutes, leaving me with a heavy heart and one step closer to knowing and understanding my beautiful Christ. You see my Christ died for me. He shed his blood for my sins. Oh, how many times I hear and say those very words! But how much of impact do those very words have on my life? Those words became so real to me last night as I was face to face with human blood, our life source. I couldn’t help but think of my Savior’s blood as I gently cleaned off the blood on Chayo’s face and I couldn’t help but think of my Heavenly Father as I watched the mother’s body flinch as if she was the one in more pain. The fact that the blood of my Savior was spilled for me astounded me in this moment. And how much more so did our God hurt as he willingly gave up his Son to die on a cruel cross at our hands? These thoughts proved powerful and to the point of overwhelming me and striking me in awe of God. The fact that Jesus died on a cross and He didn’t have his Dad there to hold him or a doctor there to wipe away His blood. No, He was beaten and humiliated and hung on a cross. And yes, Mary was there along with others at the crucifixion but He was up there on that cross. They couldn’t reach out and hold His hand. My Savior died on a cross calling out to His Dad. How beautiful but also how horrific did the blood flow! How many times do we say Bible verses and sing songs about the blood of Jesus compared to the number times we take time to think about the words we are saying and singing and then shudder at the very thought of the blood of Christ being poured out for our souls? Jesus bled for me. Man, that’s powerful. It’s powerful to think about those words. It’s powerful to be reminded of those words. It’s powerful to live out those words. I will never comprehend the extent of pain or suffering Jesus went through on that unimaginable day but after my experience with Chayo I am more conscious of the value of our blood. For example, Chayo was willing to bleed to have better eye sight. Jesus was willing to bleed to have me. Then finally I asked myself, what am I willing to bleed for? These are the thoughts and question I have pondered ever since….
But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:5
Playing Doctor with the Optometrists
So I don’t do pain. I don’t do blood. Since I was in middle school my grandmother has always told me, “Brooke, you should be a nurse when you grow up, just like your mother, aunt, and other grandmother.” And I inwardly cringe every time that suggestion leaves her lips because I couldn’t imagine dealing with people’s physical pain on a daily basis. I didn’t always use to be like this. I feel like this all started when I had to deal with physical pain on a daily basis. It was when pain became a struggle and fight in my life that I became super high sensitive to the physical pain of others. However, being at MITC, especially during the summer, I have had to learn how to overcome or at least deal with my anxiety over this issue because I have had to translate for over hundreds of medical consultations. For instance, one week I was working with a curly haired doctor from Shreveport and at the end of the week she told me that when I was in front of the patient and she was examining the patient from behind she didn’t even have to ask if the patient was feeling pain in the area that she was touching because all she had to do was look at the expression on my face. With that being said, it’s been a difficult process and you knowing this background info will help you understand my story about a girl with Down syndrome named Chayo. This past weekend at the compound a team of eye surgeons came from Louisiana and Tennessee to operate on over a hundred patients. The students worked hard to turn MITC into a make-shift hospital. My assignment was to translate and work with the children specialists, Dr. Black and Dr. Debbie. I cannot describe in words how special and unique this opportunity was for me because these surgeons that I had the blessing to work with are some of the best in the country. I had the opportunity to scrub in two surgeries and was taught the different kinds of instruments used and the manner in which to hand them to the doctor. I watched and gave instruments to world renown, Dr. Brad Black, who performed a surgery in forty minutes that someone later informed me that this would have taken medical students at UT eight hours to do.
The first picture is from one of the surgeries that I had the honor of scrubbing in for. Here Dr. Black is fixing a little girl’s crossed eyes. This was a special case for me because this girl is one of the ones from the Orphanage here in Cordoba that I work with every Thursday. I promised her that I would be there with her the whole time. The procedure for this type of surgery includes loosening the muscles from the eye, straightening the eyes up, and then reattaching the muscles to the eyes so that when the child wakes up, her or his eyes are lined up. This particular surgery is extremely important because if the child is not operated on before puberty he or she will actually go blind in one eye. The second picture is of the two girls from the orphanage that were operated on and this picture was taken two weeks after their surgeries. I really enjoyed my time with the team of eye surgeons and hope to work with them again.
Mark Stern, a very talented professional photographer, took pictures all weekend of the work. If you would like to see some more of his pictures you can go to this link.... BUT be warned.... there are numerous pictures of surgeries so if you have a weak stomach when it comes to blood, i would pass if i were you..... http://marksternphoto.zenfolio.com/cordoba
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)