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
September 9, 2014 Tuesday
Interesting Name:
Geronimo
Anecdote:
I saw James, a 16 year old African-American male, almost two years ago. His chief complaint: daily very painful migraine headaches for a year. When I examined him I realized that he had chronic sinusitis…for a year. A little different from my private practice in Connecticut where a few days of even mild suffering would have been enough, warranting an immediate, thorough evaluation. I treated him aggressively and, low and behold, the headaches completely resolved.
Here he was today, one and one-half years later and he was doing well. No headaches. He had a dirty jacket on that was pulled together in the middle with a pin. The zipper had broken. His jeans were dirty and ragged. Yet, he sat there very quietly and was grateful for the treatment today. His mother was dressed poorly and had a brown winter hat on and a large, worn winter coat. She sat there quietly, a sweet smile on her face.
South Carolina, March, 2009
Here he was today, one and one-half years later and he was doing well. No headaches. He had a dirty jacket on that was pulled together in the middle with a pin. The zipper had broken. His jeans were dirty and ragged. Yet, he sat there very quietly and was grateful for the treatment today. His mother was dressed poorly and had a brown winter hat on and a large, worn winter coat. She sat there quietly, a sweet smile on her face.
South Carolina, March, 2009
Poetry:
Season
This hour along the valley this light at the end
of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer
of summer lengthening as it begins to go
this whisper in the tawny grass this feather floating
in the air this house of half a life or so
this blue door open to the lingering sun this stillness
echoing from the rooms like an unfinished sound
this fraying of voices at the edge of the village
beyond the dusty gardens this breath of knowing
without knowing anything this old branch from which
years and faces go on falling this presence already
far away this restless alien in the cherished place
this motion with no measure this moment peopled
with absences with everything that I remember here
eyes the wheeze of the gate greetings birdsongs in winter
the heart dividing dividing and everything
that has slipped my mind as I consider the shadow
all this has occurred to somebody else who has gone
as I am told and indeed it has happened again
and again and I go on trying to understand
how that could ever be and all I know of them
is what they felt in the light here in this late summer
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