A while ago, I was at a dinner sponsored by The Schwartz Center for Compassionate Care. It was a dinner for all of the Patient and Family Advisory Councils of Massachusetts General Hospital. We have eight of them, and so the room was quite filled with not only patients and families, but with administrators at all levels.
Unknowingly, I was sat next to the moderator who stood at the beginning of dinner, and asked us all to think of a moment of compassionate care. Then a runner went around the room with a microphone where people could share their stories. And all of the stories were good ones, small acts of kindness that at the time made the pain of the moment more bearable. We all have had those moments. The truth is, I have a hundred stories of compassionate care, but I had chosen one of my favorite stories, one that truly went above and beyond. It was the first one I had thought of.
I had no intention of sharing it with the larger group.
But the moderator, at some point in this discussion, asked the microphone runner to come up to her, and then she looked at me and said, “Darcy, I bet you have one that you can share with the group.”
So I stood up, and here is the story I told:
“My daughter, Wendy, was born healthy, but had an infection that shut down the small blood vessels of her body. She spent over 180 days in the hospital. At the time we were living in a small Vermont town, but we had to move down to the Boston area to be closer to the hospital, especially once we knew that Wendy needed a kidney transplant. So once we moved, Wendy’s nephrologist, after Wendy’s [outpatient] appointment was over, looked at me and asked me how Wendy was doing with all of this, how we as a family were doing with all of this.
“I answered that our apartment was fine, transportation to and from the apartment was good, but I was worried because Wendy had no friends. She couldn’t go to preschool because she was so medically compromised, and she had been in and out of the hospital for so long that she really didn’t have any interaction with any kids at all.
“The doctor looked at me, was silent for a second, and said, ‘I have a daughter. She’s only a few years older than Wendy. Let’s have them meet.’
“And so, maybe once a week for a number of weeks, we would meet at the Playground by the Frog Pond in Boston Common, and Wendy would play with Ashley.”
You could hear gasps in the banquet room. Maybe because this was so unusual, maybe because it was so special. It wasn’t medical, it was emotional. I wanted Wendy to have a friend in this new place where we lived. Wendy’s doctor, as a mother, understood exactly what I needed, what Wendy needed. She needed to feel like a normal kid.
Would it surprise you to know that I was asked to retell that story many times over the next few months?
I’ve been thinking about this doctor a lot lately. This doctor, who when she goes on vacation, often will come back with a present for Wendy. This doctor who brought a snow globe for Wendy to hold while she got wheeled into the operating room when she was getting her kidney transplant. This doctor, who when Wendy got air lifted to the hospital while in heart failure and I couldn’t go on the helicopter with her, this doctor called me on my cell phone and told me not to worry, she would be there to meet the helicopter while Michael and I drove down from Vermont. This doctor, whom recently when Wendy had an MRI and they told us it would be a week until they let us know (if Wendy had a brain tumor or lesions) went down herself and badgered a radiologist to read it with her, and then called me to tell me it was clear.
This doctor. This doctor is an immigrant.
She is an Indian woman, Dr. Sharma. Her accent is incredibly thick and she talks a mile a minute. Her grammar and syntax are sometimes laughable. She uses idioms wrong, like instead of saying, “You are between a rock and a hard place,” She would say, “You are between two hard places” and your brain has to figure out what she meant while she plows on with her rapid speech. This doctor, whom the first time I met on the other side of Wendy’s bed in the PICU spoke so quickly and with such a thick accent I despaired that we were doomed because I hadn’t understood a word she said.
And yet, today, I can’t imagine our lives without her.
Shock waves went out among the medical community this past week with the new travel ban and executive order to build a wall along our southern border. The truth is, the United States Medical system relies on immigrants. Hospitals have had to scramble to figure out exactly what they are going to do, because the new President has made it very clear that his “America First” makes all immigrants suspect. And yet, more than 25% of all physicians in the United States are foreign born.
So is America First just a slogan? Does it mean America First with fewer immigrants, or does it mean America First with the best medical system in the world?
It seems to me, in a country that was founded on immigration, you need the best minds working on the hardest problems in medicine, in science, in public health.
No matter their country of birth.
One thought on “Compassion is Sometimes Foreign”
Reblogged this on Karen M. Cook.