On Being a Tourist
“Of course!”.
My voice rang out confidently as I was asked if I was willing, and ready, to suture up a patient. My heart raced; anxiety was not present, but perhaps a nervous confidence and eagerness began to creep in. This would be the first patient who would not be under general anesthetic on whom I would practice one of the oldest forms of medicine. I roamed across the emergency department, silently questioning why I had stated I knew where to find all the supplies for the upcoming task. Glancing about what was perhaps my favorite place in the hospital, I saw a jungle; the techs scurrying about, nurses and pharmacists skillfully swinging from room to room controlling chaos, the physicians gracefully managing the most ill of patients, and the charge nurse looking out upon her pack with pride and poise. Feeling more aligned with a tourist, I chose to foolishly continue my search alone, which soon ended when I caught the closing door into what I thought was the supply room. The nurse who I followed gave me nothing more than a passing glance, down at my badge; after all, what harm can a tourist do.
With armfuls of supplies which could sustain an operating room, I returned to lay my prize at the side of the physician. A minute passes. He looks to his side, separates a few items, and says, “go on.” Perhaps it was the look in my eyes or the infinitesimally short amount of time in which I hesitated but he let out a quick, tired sigh, and stood up. I eagerly followed. He took me to a small opening where a few patients were all being guarded together. An elderly woman, hooked up to a mobile monitor, lay in bed; next to her, a woman with gentle brown hair and eyes which once seemed to have a fire was sitting at the edge of the bed. Her right hand crossed over the other, holding some gauze. The physician deftly loaded a syringe and injected an area in her hand; standing on my toes, I tried looking over his shoulder. He stood up. After a few sentences of instruction, he was gone. I stood there, finally able to see the small cut on the woman’s hand. “Let’s get this fixed up.” I said it confidently, with many more years in my voice than in my hands. Although I had no major doubts or concerns regarding my ability to, at the very least, clumsily suture skin, I felt a bizarre sensation. Should I tell her this would be a first for me? Or should I place all my trust, behind hers, in myself? “No time for this” I thought, “there is work to do.”
While volunteering at the food bank, some packaging had won the battle against a box knife and she was the casualty. The incision was clean and precise. After a deep breath and mental review, I turned to face her. My instruments were carefully laid across her stomach in a sterile field. With movements that surprised me, I quickly put on sterile gloves and loaded the needle. The skin lay piled up, in a half moon with bright tissue shining underneath. The blood was slightly oozing like a small lake against the shores of the moon. I chose to anchor the apex of the moon to the other side in order to provide some tension. My hands, initially wary, soon fell into a rhythm. The noise of my surroundings faded as my fingers elegantly danced with the metals and strings. I stood up and felt an ache in my neck. How long was I hunched over? I confidently asked the woman to look at her hand. “Looks good, thanks.” I thought so too.
Later, I packed up my things, perhaps not as eagerly as others, in preparation to leave. I said my farewell to the physician. I deftly dodged and weaved my way through jungle, but slowly, as if my body was telling me to stay. However, it was quiet now; but the nurses were still working and the technicians still scurrying. Not much had changed. I walked through some double doors back into the city; perhaps I was less of a tourist than I thought.
Talib Chaudhry is a third-year medical student at the University of Oklahoma College of Medicine. His interests include global health access, medical education, and he enjoys supporting Thunder basketball.
