Friday, September 4, 2009
My Daughter's Shirt
http://kitchendispatch.blogspot.com/2009/09/my-daughters-shirt.htmlThe surgical practice has closed, but the requests for records still come in. Just recently, I ferried a request for records from a former patient. At first I didn't remember the patient, but after looking through their chart, it all came back.
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Over the years, we had many patients. Most, we cured. Others, we shepherded through to a dignified end. Many left an imprint on us, changed us in some way, reminded us of needs other than our own. I found her chart, wished her well, and mailed it. Then, I opened the email.
The Hubs sent me a photo of one of his littlest patients. He wanted to thank me for sending some small shirts to replace the ones that were cut off when they came to the clinic with injuries. But wait a minute ...I knew that shirt. It had been our daughter's, and now a little girl in Afghanistan was wearing it in the hospital unit. The war came crashing upon me. I wished this shirt could be a Talisman for her. Because unlike our daughter, who wore it before her, this little girl hasn't gone to school. She hasn't lived a life -- free from fear she'd be blown up, maimed or have family members disappear. This little girl was born into chaos. And I wished that by wearing it, her life could be different.
I wished the shirt magically could bring back the leg, which the team had to amputate. I wished the shirt were a time wizard that could set back her life by a day, make her take a different route, so that none of this ever happened.
But it won't.
And that's the shitty thing about war. The consequences can be the bitterest of syrups for us to swallow and live with. We grapple for thoughts, especially those of us watching it from afar, not able to do anything, except wait, watch and hope .The team is trying to get her to Jalalabad via private means to be fit with a prothesis. I'm sure for the team and for The Hubs there will be many cases like this. But for me, this little girl wearing my daughter's shirt, in a makeshift unit in a remote part of Afghanistan, one leg amputated, is the person imprinted on me.