Thursday . April 4 . 2002 . 8:15pm |
home visit This morning at clinic, I had a bad combination--a male patient who was making vaguely inappropriate sexual comments towards me, who also happened to present with a persistent rash over his groin. The thrill of my young life thus far does not include asking a grown man to pull down his shorts and show me Mister Wankie while he tells me I'm cute, asks me if I'm married, whether or not I like Puerto Rican men, and inquires when I'll be returning to my "home country" because "your people need you." This afternoon, I went on my weekly home visit with Dr. H. Home visits are like house calls--visits that the doctor makes to take care of the medical needs for patients that, for one reason or another, are unable to leave their homes. Usually, just because of the nature of home visits, most of Dr. H's patient's are what she calls "the frail elderly," but today, our patient was only 28 years old. I actually had to re-read the chart a couple of times to make sure it wasn't a typo--82 years old maybe, instead of 28--but there was no typo. She is a 28 year-old woman who was born with developmental delay and a host of other health problems that can only be attributed to bad luck. She's bed-bound, in chronic pain, and communicates mostly by grunting, shouting "no," and a series of limited hand gestures that only her mother can understand. Though there's nothing acute that's immediately killing this patient, Dr. H regards her condition as terminal. "One day, she'll develop a whopping aspiration pneumonia and she'll go," she told me today. "Our job is to make her as comfortable as possible until then." The patient and her mother live in a small, clean, suburban home close to the hospital. The kitchen is bright and sunny and decorated in country décor. Their dishtowels and potholders are matching green gingham terrycloth. A big screen TV in the living room is mounted in a cherry wood entertainment center, and blares Spanish soap operas most of the afternoon. Jesus is a friend here, and hangs out in every corner of the house, on every wall. Jesus on the cross. A woodcut of Jesus looking troubled but kind. Jesus in a painting, chilling with sheep. They have raspberry-scented SoftSoap in the bathroom for us to wash our hands. The patient's room is decorated like that of a young child, with pink-painted walls and toys everywhere, though many are still in their original boxing and wrapping. Proud graduation photos of relatives hang next to the TV, which also broadcasts Spanish soaps and is tilted towards the head of her bed. Baby dolls are mounted all along one wall, affixed to the surface by glue, nail and hooks. Some grin toothlessly. Other just stare. Three smaller babydolls wearing matching striped outfits are hung with string along the bottom ledge of a bookshelf, like a trio of tiny lynch victims. Her oak twin bed is neatly made with a checkered quilt but lies empty--it has since been replaced by a mechanized hospital bed. Here is where the patient lies all day, every day, immobile but for her arms and head, which flap and turn incessantly for attention. A nebulizer machine sits near the head of the bed, small bales of adult diapers sit at the foot. A small bureau sits next to the window, tiled with feeding tubes, medical paraphernalia, bottles of pain medication. As we walk into the room, the patient starts to shake her head from side to side and screams, because she doesn't want us to touch her. The window of her bedroom faces south towards the small backyard. The shades are open. It's a sunny day outside, but cold. |
