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| Source: Rhymeswithorange |
"I don’t think you are from around here because your English isn’t very good”
It was not the elderly patient with acute mental status change who made the statement during her brief moments of lucidity in the ER, it was her son who said that immediately after asking where I was from. As a response, normally I would share I was an immigrant who came here more than ten years ago. However, the way he looked at me and the tone of his voice completely caught me off guard. I just finished the discussion on the plan of care for his mother who was to be admitted and asked him what question he had for me when it dawned upon me the real reason why he asked, and the absurdity of it made me chuckle and excuse myself quickly from the room.
This was not about my English; this was about me being different, and his effort to convince me I didn’t belong was a rancid reflection of his own ideology. Was it my role in the ER to provide the excellent care that his mother deserved or was it my calling to defend myself while enlightening somebody else? I already had my answer.
I barely processed my thoughts when it was time to see the next patient who presented with possible complications of pancreatitis. As I examined him, I started to remember all the occasions in which my identity became a talking point. In the past, a middle‐aged patient asked the nurse to let me know he didn’t want to be seen by a foreigner; an elderly patient had a terrible experience during the Korean war so he might not be receptive to any oriental folks as suggested by his family; a friendly female patient asked for my first name then told me that she liked to give her Chinese co‐workers American names so it would be easier for her to say.
Still in the middle of reminiscing another incidence, I winced when I noticed the current patient’s tattoo. Unapologetically, it read “White Pride” inked in an ornate font that covered the entirety of his upper back then gradually faded into depictions of thorny vines draping over his shoulders and mingled with the rest of what looked like haphazardly done prison emblems and eyeless skulls extending all the way to his elbows. I couldn’t chuckle, my feet grew too heavy for me to flee, and the numbness I felt as I shared with him the potential plan of care was almost complete when he said: “It hurts so damn bad, quit talking please.”
Maybe the emotional skin I wore everyday might have grown thicker. Maybe I should have prepared a verbal bag of witty comebacks. Maybe I could have reacted the same way I did to both the first patient’s son and the second patient. Instead, I felt awful for the latter’s pain as he was suffering immensely. He was sick yet trusting me to involve me in his care, and such was the duty I owed him. In contrast, the first patient’s son was his own extra baggage he had to carry as his mother’s life expedition reached an impending end, and if he had been concerned enough about her, he wouldn’t have cared where on earth I came from.
My past experiences on the nature of this beast was indirect and rather dismissive; hence, it was the first time anybody ever came to me with the primary intention for confrontation. Commanding respect does not come naturally for everybody, demanding it fails much more frequently in certain situations. Going into diagnostic radiology, fixing specific malady of the mind and illness of ideology is beyond me. Whenever I must pull myself onto the sidewalk of my journey in medicines gasping for a break, there will always be the patients who remind me of why I want to be a doctor in the first place and keep me going with not only more empathy for their sake but also better understanding of myself.
