Now I have more to think about, but before I dive into that, I'm going to give you an example of what I have written. It doesn't really have much to do with patient specific medical conditions. The patients serve as a means to portray a life lesson. I've worked in the medical field for nearly three decades, so many of them have passed. I wouldn't know how to contact some of them.
Susie is black, but you wouldn't know it by glancing at her. A glimpse would suggest that she looks unusual, but you'd have to look closely to see that her nose is a little wider than a white person's nose, and her skin, though pale, looks as if there's a darkenss beneath a coat of dust. Her eyes are brown; the lashes graying with age. She gets her hair done every other Friday, and the beautician is the first person to tell me that she is black: "She has black people hair." Susie's skin reveals how she spent her life being judged by not one race but two.
Susie has a husband, Fred, who comes to see her often. Fred looks more African American than Susie does, but there is something Native American in the mix too. Fred and Susie met when they were in the military. Fred likes to preach and practice cadence. He takes pride in chanting those naughty ones known to soldiers who have spent too much time alone.
In a moment of great insensitivity, I asked Fred if Susie was black. I regretted asking him the question; his reaction told me that he had suffered a great deal of pain because of the mixture of bloodlines. He said, "Now Redbird, we are not going to talk about that." Months later, Fred brought in Susie's old photo album for me to look at. Fred found a way to show me what he could not discuss; it seemed as if he wanted me to know that Susie's father was missing from the pictures. Her mother and aunts were photographed and had skin the cololr of milk-chocolate.
Susie and I have a shared fantasy. We will someday go to the beach, don bikinis, and hire cabana boys to cater to us. Susie cannot tolerate having the air removed from her cuff to speak, but she moves her hands some, which I interpret as a wave, and smiles when she sees me. She was a looker in her youth. There is a picture of her in her military uniform hanging in her room. She doesn't seem to fight to stay alive like the others do. Maybe her fight is over. She seems content to lie there. She gives what she can, her smile. When she wants something, she raises her eyebrows. When she has a headache, she squints her eyes together. Ive come to know more about Susie than I know about myself. My skin is darker than Susie's. I question my own heritage as I try to unravel Susie's; her skin sends me on a quest to discover my roots.
I didn't know my grandfathers. My father's dad died when he was a little boy. I have a picture of my dad standing over his casket, which is covered with a flag. My dad has his last name, but was raised by his stepfather who we called Ralph. My grandmother divorced him.
My mother was raised by her stepfather. Her father lived next door to her mother and admitted being her father, but would have nothing to do with her. I met him once. He showed no reaction to seeing me. It was like going to a new church where people welcome you but are not sure you really believe or belong. Though I've never known my grandfathers, I know my grandmothers.
Okay, so that's how it goes. Susie could be one of several patients that I have cared for over the years. Some have very distinguishing marks, but sill, they're not uncommon. Do those of you who responded think that this makes a difference?
Thanks,
Red Bird
