I went into a room to check on an 83 year-old man's progress that day. "Good morning sir." I said clearly as I turned on the light and approached his bed. His eyes perked up and his head tilted slightly towards my voice. In the corner the television was blaring away on some news channel some family member or nurse had put on for him. I realized as his eyes stared at the ceiling that he would not be focusing directly on me. I involuntarily speak louder asking him how his night was. In reply, a slew of noises issued from his toothless mouth. I put my ear close to him to hear him better. No avail. How was I supposed to gather information from this fellow?! I stood at the side of his bed despairing that this man with a rich history (all 83 year-old people have a rich history) couldn't communicate what he was trying so hard to tell. I continued explaining my exam steps as I checked his heart and lungs and operative site and legs. He never stopped with his trail of words. In fact, I couldn't hear clearly at all in his chest due to his larynx sending sound waves down through his body into my stethoscope. As I said goodbye and left, he quieted down in what I imagine was frustration. He might have had a stroke, but he obviously was aware of people. He just couldn't communicate effectively and that is what made me saddest.
In opposition to that experience, I met a nurse later on that day who was from the Philippines. She had immigrated 58 years ago. At the spry age of 79, she worked regularly in the operating room as a circulating nurse--the nurse who makes sure everything runs smoothly in the OR and gets stuff we don't have in there. She was telling us stories about her younger days and stuff about her husband. Her husband is Japanese and apparently when she married him, the Philippine government took away her Filipino citizenship. She told an elaborate story about how she eventually kept from being deported to Japan through friends in high places and even getting her name on a bill that Lyndon Johnson signed. And then there was the story about her husband who was to be deployed in the war "in just a few days when the war ended." At one point a newer worker in the area, some nurse or tech, came by asking if she would help move the patient back to the ready OR. The 79 year-old fixed a look on the intruder which clearly meant, "Let me finish my story, then I'll take care of it!" She picked up where she was decribing a kamikaze's underwater counterpart, a Kaiten. Her husband had been training as a pilot for one of these and was scheduled to be deployed a couple days after Nagasaki. Her wrinkled face was animated throughout the storytelling. Deep furrows appearing in her brow when reciting the parts regarding her possible deportment and the fact that her husband was a Kaiten pilot. Wrinkles clearing out with her smiles when she reached the happy conclusions of remaining in the States and her husband not being deployed incidentally.
In one day I encountered two people who showed me the wide variability in human function and communication. I also grew to appreciate different qualities in each. From the gentleman patient, I had a glimpse of future disability that is more likely to strike than sudden death and the possibility of unheard stories. From the nurse, I learned the richness of a life and the joy of knowing the lives others have lived. In fact, it gave me hope hearing her realizing that the gentleman probably had regaled other people with his own stories prior to his mishap. I hope those people take those stories and remember them time to time.
What are we but the sum of our experiences and knowledge?
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