Dr. Han plays the violin

Dr. George Han

I sat down in the waiting room again this morning (see previous entry). It was the last day for one of the North American physicians named George Han, who had worked in Botswana for almost a year. To commemorate the occasion, and he had volunteered to come in and play his violin for the Baylor Clinic’s patients and staff.

It was only 7:20 but the clinic was bustling. Patient registration and triage was beginning, and nurses and physicians were darting from room to room escorting patients and retrieving charts. The youngest kids were scurrying about laughing and squealing, playing some simple and no doubt universal game that I long ago forgot how to play. Several older children and caregivers around me were looking over the medical records they had brought. I felt a bit bad for them, for we health care providers make the description of even the simplest sickness incomprehensible to the lay reader. (Jargon makes us sound and feel more expert, I suppose.)

One child was not playing or reading. He simply rested his elbow on his lap and his chin on his open palm, and looked at me inquisitively.

George had asked me to take pictures and video of his performance and so I stood up as he started to play. The crowd, hearing the music, went wild. Like me, they seemed to prefer the fast parts. I was near certain that the appreciation for fast violin ensured that the crowd would love bluegrass, and this left me with a feeling a kinship. As I slapped my thigh and tapped my toe to the beat, I did not feel at all too far from home.

Thank you for the music, George…and everything else you did for the children of Botswana. [George is joining the CDC’s Epidemic Intelligence Service in the upcoming weeks.]

The beginning of a day not without pretty things - A [well-lit] patient encounter

Upon arriving to work, I enter through the waiting room, for there is no other way to enter. That is just as well, for walking through a labyrinth of knee, waist and chest-high children reminds me why I showed up to work in the first place.

Usually, I just wave to whoever is noticing my entrance as I walk through. There is usually a lot of commotion in the waiting room, and so few notice. I then stop at the reception desk and say good morning. Then, I walk upstairs to take care of administrative duties. Some days I come back down to see patients. Many days I do not.

Today, I arrived a little early and, to my surprise, there was singing. This was not surprising in and of itself, but rather because the singing was fifteen minutes earlier than the usual time, which is 7:30am.

I sat down to listen, wishing that I knew the words and what they meant. Well, in a sense I knew the meaning. The song meant that I was in Africa, where a day is started with a song…as are most meetings or other important gatherings. The song meant that I was not in the United States, where the day starts with, let’s see, coffee…and maybe some email. The song meant that, though many in the room had HIV and would wait in cramped quarters for much of the day to have their life-preserving medications refilled, the day would not be without pretty things.

I sat in the back row of the lined chairs of the waiting room, listening. To my left, a baby of about eighteen months was clapping. His performance was spotlighted by a patch of sunlight entering through the high windows of the clinic lobby. The beam of light, no more than eight inches squared, gave the child a peculiar but striking golden glow. When the music stopped, the illuminated baby said “aaah, aaah, aaah…” to the previous beat, stopped suddenly, looked around, and giggled.

He did not know the words either.