tshering
07-25-2014, 11:27 AM
Earlier, at the beginning of our medical internship, we had our community medicine posting. For one whole month we were posted in the village. It was the only time during my internship when I really enjoyed myself. The hostel where we were put up was surrounded by tall trees on all sides. The village was small and made up of low thatched huts that flanked the main road. Every time we had to go to the town for grocery or other needs, we would see the children playing outside the houses, squatting and scribbling in the mud, or playing some crude form of hopscotch. In the mornings and evenings, we would sit in the out patient room and see patients. People would come in mostly with minor complaints like cough and cold, fever or some small injury. There were a limited number of medicines that could be prescribed because the hospital was run by the government and everything was free.
There were old people, in their sixties and seventies, who would come in every week, asking for painkillers for this and that, and no matter how much you tried to explain to them, in your broken local dialect, that painkillers were not for long-term use, they would just move their heads from side to side and refuse to leave without a prescription.
In my second week there, I developed a soft corner for a boy who used to come to the hospital for dressing his wound. He was around nine or ten years and was mentally challenged. I don’t know how he injured his leg, he probably fell off his cycle. He would come in everyday without fail and sit patiently on the bench outside the dressing room waiting for his turn. He had wide bright eyes, and there was always a look of surprise on his face, which was incredibly sad and endearing at the same time. The day I first saw him sitting on that bench, I called him and asked him his name. Then I asked him how old he was, and he said he was three. That was when I realized he was mentally challenged. After his dressing I took him out to the shop just outside the hospital and bought him a packet of biscuits. He gave a big smile and walked down the street towards his house without looking back. I wasn’t expecting him to. From then on everyday, whenever his dressing was done, I would take him to the same shop and buy him some local home-made sweets or biscuits or groundnuts. He really liked groundnuts and whenever the shop lady handed him a big paper cone full of groundnuts, for which I would pay a measly amount, his face would be full of joy, as if he’d found some great treasure. I would ask him to give me a handful from his cone just to tease him and he would do it gladly.
One day he came along with his grandmother to the hospital. I was just passing by outside the hospital and I saw him lingering behind her shyly. I remembered I had a lollipop in my bag so I called out to him to come out. His grandmother gave me a suspicious look as he ran out towards me. I handed him the lollipop and walked away. I wondered what the grandmother would have thought of me. Did she feel offended by my gesture? Did she take it as a gesture of pity towards her grandson? I myself didn’t know any better. All I knew was that I had to do what I did. There was no logic or reasoning behind it.
After a few days his wound had completely healed. On the last day I saw him, the dresser scolded him for coming to the hospital and told him not to come again. I never saw him in there after that.
After two weeks we returned to our main hospital in town.
On the way back, I tried to look out for him, wondering if I might find him among the children playing outside, squatting and scribbling in the mud, but I didn't.
There were old people, in their sixties and seventies, who would come in every week, asking for painkillers for this and that, and no matter how much you tried to explain to them, in your broken local dialect, that painkillers were not for long-term use, they would just move their heads from side to side and refuse to leave without a prescription.
In my second week there, I developed a soft corner for a boy who used to come to the hospital for dressing his wound. He was around nine or ten years and was mentally challenged. I don’t know how he injured his leg, he probably fell off his cycle. He would come in everyday without fail and sit patiently on the bench outside the dressing room waiting for his turn. He had wide bright eyes, and there was always a look of surprise on his face, which was incredibly sad and endearing at the same time. The day I first saw him sitting on that bench, I called him and asked him his name. Then I asked him how old he was, and he said he was three. That was when I realized he was mentally challenged. After his dressing I took him out to the shop just outside the hospital and bought him a packet of biscuits. He gave a big smile and walked down the street towards his house without looking back. I wasn’t expecting him to. From then on everyday, whenever his dressing was done, I would take him to the same shop and buy him some local home-made sweets or biscuits or groundnuts. He really liked groundnuts and whenever the shop lady handed him a big paper cone full of groundnuts, for which I would pay a measly amount, his face would be full of joy, as if he’d found some great treasure. I would ask him to give me a handful from his cone just to tease him and he would do it gladly.
One day he came along with his grandmother to the hospital. I was just passing by outside the hospital and I saw him lingering behind her shyly. I remembered I had a lollipop in my bag so I called out to him to come out. His grandmother gave me a suspicious look as he ran out towards me. I handed him the lollipop and walked away. I wondered what the grandmother would have thought of me. Did she feel offended by my gesture? Did she take it as a gesture of pity towards her grandson? I myself didn’t know any better. All I knew was that I had to do what I did. There was no logic or reasoning behind it.
After a few days his wound had completely healed. On the last day I saw him, the dresser scolded him for coming to the hospital and told him not to come again. I never saw him in there after that.
After two weeks we returned to our main hospital in town.
On the way back, I tried to look out for him, wondering if I might find him among the children playing outside, squatting and scribbling in the mud, but I didn't.