Eastern Europe Calls

-the smells of homemade bread, wine, honeysuckle, fish

-the taste of black coffee, pastry, bread, dried fish, European chocolate, of tea, of cabbage and potato soup, of cherries
-the feel of the weight of a toddler in my arms, a hand with chapped skin, a rubber ball in my hand, a kerchief on my head, of dust on my hands from the road and the wheelchair, of the grimy poles on the buses and the sensation of nearly falling as I hold on for dear life

-the sounds: of barking dogs, of music in the courtyard, of grandmothers sitting on the bench in the park, of children yelling, of horns honking

-the sight of: the People’s Palace, cherry trees, trees with white paint on them, rows and and rows and rows of grey apartment blocks, rows of cribs, tiny hands reaching up, swings and scrapped knees

I am so ready to be immersed in  all of it again.

yet also so anxious..

Despite all the craziness of this week with Raena moving out and Karen and me trying to rearrange everything we own and me trying to frantically pack and prepare for every possibility and still be awake enough the next day to keep up in clinic I am excited and I can’t believe its really happening

I am so excited yet so anxious. I am not anxious about leaving home (although I am sad about not seeing Ren or my med school girls for a while but I am used to long distance relationships by now). I am not anxious about flying across the world. I am not anxious about living in the developing world or working in a place where I don’t speak but a little of the language. I am not worried about going. I am worried about retracing my steps and coming back.

I am taken back to my last visit to Dupont. It was 24 hrs. after arriving at Regan from Bucharest. I was exhausted, jet-lagged and my senses were overwhelmed by the cleanliness, brightness and friendliness of America. All of the sudden as I walked into the brand new orthopedic care center waiting room I am paralyzed by what I see. I don’t know rather to cry or scream. There are children everywhere, children just like me. And I realize I just came from a place full of people like me but where there are not smiling, laughing children zooming around in wheelchairs, bouncing on crutches, signing a story, working on homework. Instead there are endless rooms with cribs and cots of frail, clammy, grimy children with death grips and haunting glances that ask you a single haunting question why not me? Why not me? Why not take me home? Why not care for me? Why not treat my diseases? Why not teach me? Why not give me a chance?

I resisted sitting among them. I felt so removed from them yet I knew in my saner parts that I belonged here. Finally my knees could not take the indecision. I sat down in one of those colorful waiting room chairs and rejoined the world of the living. I just broke inside as I did it, it was just so unfair. Why not me? Why was I here and not there? Why was I on my way to med school and not in a bed somewhere or even dead? I managed to get through the appt and then fled home.

This time home is medical school. Home is the very thing that nearly led me to a state of hysterics. I can’t run and I can’t hide. It will be all around me, everyday, all day.

My research PI splits his time between working as a peds ID at Wake and as the head of two pediatric AIDS program one in India and one in Africa. How does he do it? How does he jump between worlds? How does he sleep at night? How does he not start smuggling children in his suitcase?  Maybe he pulls it off because he has seen so much he is numb. Maybe he pulls it off because he can remove himself from his patients. Does he never ask Why not me?