Diagnosing in Dominica: The Power of Words

If I’m being perfectly honest, I am writing this right now for several reasons, one of which is to distract myself from the amount of stress I currently feel. Our next exam is a week from today followed by an Anatomy Lab Practical on Tuesday, and despite knowing that I walked myself into this situation fully understanding that my limits would be stretched in every single way possible, this knowledge doesn’t take away from the pressure and weight I feel at this moment. If there is one thing this blog has shown me over the last several months, it is that writing always makes me feel better. Ergo, here I sit with a fresh cup of coffee and a cup of Chicken Wild Rice Soup.

In thinking back upon the first 25 years of my life, it had never really crossed my mind to question or evaluate how I best coped with stress. Somehow, on a level that I didn’t even understand, I just knew how and I did it. While looking through files on my computer over the last few weeks, it struck me how many times I had taken 15, 20, 30 minutes when I was stressed to just sit down and write. Write about the weather. Write about my classes. Write about relationships, buildings, experiences, anything. I just wrote. More often than not, whatever it was that I would end up penning (or typing) had absolutely nothing to do with where I started. It would generally start on one topic, and end in a completely unrelated realm of my life. As I was taking a study break earlier this afternoon, I stumbled upon the blog of one of the most eloquent, mature, beautiful (inside and out), and truly genuine young women I have ever met; my brother’s girlfriend, Jackie. Six and half years ago they started dating, and I never imagined that she’d still be around. Wait, don’t take that the wrong way. By that I mean, he was seventeen and she was sixteen, and I don’t know about you, but thinking back to when I was sixteen? I could barely decide on what shirt I wanted to wear to school, let alone think about starting to date somebody who would be around for what would turn out to be: two more years of high school, eight combined years of college, a parents’ divorce, several study abroad and internship experiences, and, most recently, emergence into the “real world.” To me, they are both amazing, and despite our ups and downs, she is the sister I never had.

As I was reading through some of her posts, it struck me how completely raw they were. Not in the sense that I felt like I was reading something I shouldn’t be, but in the simple fact that they relate completely to the human experience. To things that so many people are afraid to talk about or simply experience because of social, cultural, familial, educational (whatever else you may call it) norms and expectations. How did we get here? How did we reach a point where talking about our highest highs and conversely our lowest lows is not only undervalued, but discouraged? Shouldn’t we be open to facing those human experiences together? Words, whether their usage (or lack thereof) is well thought out beforehand or not, have an immense power that I believe has become underutilized and in some cases abused. In one of her posts, she says, “If I had one wish, it would be that people embraced with aliveness and with reverence the power and sacredness of words and wordlessness.” In reflecting on this, not only in how I experience my personal friendships and relationships, but also how it impacts me professionally, I am brought to a lecture we had a couple weeks ago about the importance of the patient interview and how we go about obtaining a patient’s history. So much of the measure of success in this experience is the way in which we, as physicians, use our words, and subsequently how we interpret and accept the words (or wordlessness) of our patients. As we were told in this lecture, 85% of the information we need to make a diagnosis when a patient enters our office is obtained during the patient history. Why wouldn’t we use this tool to the utmost extent to ensure we are giving our patients the best care and experience they could possibly have?

On that note, I now digress to where my mind was upon beginning this post. In looking back over the last few weeks, my posts have mostly been written on Mondays, so today being Monday, I began thinking this morning about what I wanted to write. In what became a failed attempt at straying away from an introspective, philosophical post, I began thinking about rain. As I was falling asleep last night, raindrops the size of skittles (yes, I just referenced Skittles, and perhaps their ad slogan “Taste the Rainbow” came to mind as I wrote it) began slowly tapping my window. Now, I don’t know about you, but the sound of rain on my window is one of the most relaxing, peaceful sounds that I can think of. Maybe it has more to do with growing up in Minnesota and getting cozy in a full armchair on a rainy (or snowy) day with a book and a wonderful cup of tea, but the crisp and refreshing smell of rain on what is normally a hot and sticky island was extremely welcome. When I woke up this morning, the rain was still falling. At that point; however, instead of thinking about how peaceful it was, I began thinking about having to walk to school in it. Remembering how three weeks ago I had left my apartment equipped with my umbrella “just in case” only to arrive 10 minutes later on campus with the bottom half of my pants dripping with water, and the notes in my backpack running ink, I was not excited to even think about experiencing that again. I was determined it wasn’t going to happen. Not this time. Not today. I loaded my backpack, wrapped it in the waterproof cover that I bought, grabbed my rain jacket and umbrella, and set out for class. As I walked out onto my balcony expecting to be hit with a wave of humidity, I was instead faced with a refreshing breeze, and again, that peaceful, soothing sound of rain. Not wanting to lose this moment, I pulled out my phone and took a couple pictures. Granted, the Caribbean is not visible when it rains, but I realized how incredibly beautiful this place can be, even when it’s raining.

Last Friday I received an email from the postal department alerting me that I had a package to pick up between 10am and 1pm today while the customs office was open. Along with at least 10 other people, I wandered over to the office this morning to pick up my first big piece of mail since arriving on the island. I knew it was coming, but it still didn’t take away from the excitement I had to be receiving something from home. When I approached the window to obtain my "package slip," I was surprised to find out that I had also received two additional pieces of mail! One from an old friend in Minneapolis, and another from my Grandparents. As it had when I walked outside my apartment to venture onto campus earlier this morning, it struck me how the littlest things can often make the biggest difference.

With that, I now must return to studying, and will leave you with a couple pictures of my first “care package,” as well as some of the “decorating” I did this past weekend in my apartment to keep the inspiration and motivation flowing.