First Words
…thoughts of an anachronistic, solo pediatrician
by Glenn Feole, M.D.
"Be careful too that the reading of your story makes the melancholy
laugh and the merry laugh louder," Cervantes, Prologue to Don Quixote
Contact: ishmaelish36@gmail.com
Blog site: ishmaelish36.blogspot.com
July 15, 2014 Tuesday
Chief Complaint: (written on the chart before I go in the room)
asma
Interesting Name:
Jabari Span
Anecdote:
Being a pediatrician is often challenging. You never know what baffling symptom will present itself for diagnosis...and the infant will refuse to give you a history.
Young Sammy had a red rash that spread all over his cheeks and face. It wasn’t just irritation. It looked like an abrasion and yet he was only nine months old. I was trying to imagine what could give him a scrape there.
Luckily, the Mother told me the diagnosis, and once she did, it all made sense and brought back a flood of wonderful memories. My children all had suffered from this rash a great deal in their younger years.
She said, “It’s a beard burn rash. Too many kisses from Dad at the end of the day.”
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| Long Boat Key No. 1: During a visit to Long Boat Key, on the Gulf in Florida, I created a series of drawings that had so much color and vitality. The environment had a strong influence on my creativity. I will include some of these pictures each day for the next few weeks. |
Poetry:
At Emily's In Amherst
On this day of our visit they are spraying the attic
for spiders, hoping to kill a black widow or two,
and I know she would not like that.
Outside, standing between cypresses, I imagine her
as a girl, playing in cool shadows, little Emily
struck through the heart with an icicle of loneliness.
Upstairs, her tiny bed, the white dress with pearl buttons,
and the bureau where she left the poems
folded, each with a stitch or two of blue thread.
I look across the field to where they carried her
on a door, as if to a bed with wrought iron railings.
There she lies silent while we fall to our knees, speak to her.
Sipping wine from the dandelions of her yard, I ask her
about the lover, if there was one. And I feel certain
I am that lover, all she could look forward to.
Yet I am not such a bad choice. I sit devoted for hours,
loving her well, sharing the wine, the growing darkness,
and I promise to come back, to think of her always.
for spiders, hoping to kill a black widow or two,
and I know she would not like that.
Outside, standing between cypresses, I imagine her
as a girl, playing in cool shadows, little Emily
struck through the heart with an icicle of loneliness.
Upstairs, her tiny bed, the white dress with pearl buttons,
and the bureau where she left the poems
folded, each with a stitch or two of blue thread.
I look across the field to where they carried her
on a door, as if to a bed with wrought iron railings.
There she lies silent while we fall to our knees, speak to her.
Sipping wine from the dandelions of her yard, I ask her
about the lover, if there was one. And I feel certain
I am that lover, all she could look forward to.
Yet I am not such a bad choice. I sit devoted for hours,
loving her well, sharing the wine, the growing darkness,
and I promise to come back, to think of her always.
by David Ray
Coup d'essai:
PART XVII of XX: Migrant Health Clinic Journal, 2002
A small side door was opened a crack so I walked in. The Church was deserted and peaceful. It was traditionally built and it’s overall appearance brought tears to my eyes. There were several statues of Joseph holding his son Jesus, a statue of Mary and Jesus, and a large picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe in an alcove to the left. All of these had large candles, mostly all lit, in front of them along with large kneelers. The kneelers were worn and had been used often. The walls had beautiful, carved stone portrayals of the stations of the cross. The entire interior was of a dark wood, interspersed with many large colored windows. All of the windows listed the donors.
One window portrayed a doctor kneeling down beside his doctor’s bag, which said “Dr. Monk.” He was looking up at God, whose hand approached him from a cloud; the inscription saying, “He was touched by the hand of God.” The dedication was from his great grandson. What better tribute to a life of service could there possibly be? What better tribute from your peers, your son, from your grandson and family? Who was this Dr. Monk, how long had he practiced here, and what kind of person was he? I need to know.
In the back of the chapel was a large container of holy water. There was a very small room that seemed to have no doors and was open, symbolically, to the chapel. This was the sacristy for the priest and it reminded me of the movie Lilies of the Field when Sidney Poitier is talking to the priest inside his truck which served as his office, home and chapel.
The sacristy held just two or three pieces of clothing for the priest on three hangers. Everything was so humble. The Sunday bulletin was dog eared and pinned to the wall, saying “Please don’t remove.” It was the only one I found. It had a commentary that the priest must have taken the time to type out for each day of the week, explaining the significance of that particular saint. The bulletin had told how the priest had taken several teenagers in town to a retreat, with daily mass and prayer as well as entertainment. The adults in the parish were planning a journey to Baltimore to see various chapels, including the St. Jude Shrine and the large Cathedral of the Sacred Heart. On the sign-up sheet, one of the listings was simply “Suzy and Popp.”
There was adoration of the eucharist every Friday for twelve hours and a long list of sit-ins (people confined to there houses) who needed prayers, letters and cards. There was also a Knights of Columbus meeting coming up, which I planned on attending. And all of this in the middle of a corn field, surrounded by a few small trailers, in the small town of Newton Grove. It was going to be an interesting parish to get to know.
Favorite Musician/song:
Herbie Hancock, Cameleon
An funky, creative odyssey of the mind that goes through so many mind boggling permutations and crescendo's. You have to just sit back, eyes closed and absorb every note, every change, every drum beat, every new bass riff and listen in awe to Hancock's improvisations.
Favorite Book/author:
Ashe, Arthur Days of Grace
This book is infused with Ashe's gentle, sensitive and humble nature…his love of his Mother, who died when he was a young child, leaving only the memory of seeing her smiling at him from their door…his devotion to his Father, to his wife and daughter…to his equanimity on the court and his dedication to being the best tennis player and, more importantly, the best person he could be. An inspiration.
Favorite Movie/DVD:
Fugitive Pieces, by Michaels
A beautiful book, written by a poet, and turned into a movie…a moving journey of healing, self-discovery and love. Her commentary is exquisite and poetry in itself.
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