Even in my Dreams

December 20, 2011

Even in my dreams, I wander through these endless halls of tiled floors, elevators and desks. I pass each room, peering inside to see people lying in their beds attached to intravenous catheters, respiratory catheters, urinary catheters, feeding catheters; too many catheters. I enter each room as if I were a ghost hovering invisibly above the tiled floors. Why does my spirit keep bringing me back here? Haven’t I seen more of this place than any person should need to? Why would I choose to spend the rest of my life amidst these hallowed halls that echo with the cries of children long since passed away? I don’t know. All I know is that even in my dreams, my spirit returns.


We live in a complicated time. It’s difficult to know what is right and what is wrong. It is challenging to understand how to help others and to what extent that help should go. I don’t believe anyone should have life handed to them. I do believe in showing compassion to those in need, but I also believe that it is solely one’s own responsibility to help themselves. I believe that we should all suffer to some extent and that we should allow our suffering to mold us into stronger, wiser and better people so that we can lead those who will follow in our footsteps. I don’t believe in lecturing, but in teaching by example of one’s own actions. I don’t believe in making life as easy as possible for our children or trying to fix every single medical condition they may develop. True, children don’t need the flue, but is it so wrong to allow a child to grow up deaf? Maybe only when their ears are no longer manipulated by earthly whispers, their hearts can truly hear God. In the end, do we want our children to be beautiful because life did not bend them, or do we want our children to become beautiful because life bent them, but could not break them?

I don’t believe in the special education programs children with special needs are put into. What a child with a handicap needs is to be reinforced with the concept that they are just as capable as their peers and that through adamance and perseverance, they can compete with the most intelligent and most able. What special education programs do is exactly the opposite; they let children grow up into their teens believing that they are stupid and not able. The teachers, the superintendents, the district managers, they all stand by while dreams are crushed and hope is lost. What a child with a handicap needs is a group of teachers who believe in him enough to put him in regular classes and encourage him to work harder than he ever thought he could, not warehouse him in a room where students are graded on coloring inside the lines. Because inside that broken shell of a body drifts a soul that needs you to believe in it more than it believes in itself.

A Lesser Being (Part 1)

December 10, 2011

I unboarded the county bus and made my way to where the city buses boarded. I boarded a random bus to take me to a part of the city I had not yet seen. I took the bus, being sure not to go too far that I couldn’t walk back to the transit, nor to unboard too far from a bus stop. The idea was to get off at a random location and look for medical offices and clinics to inquire about job shadowing and volunteer work opportunities.

If Google Maps is to be believed, I walked for a ninth of a mile before spotting a pediatric clinic. Since I love children and am fairly sure I want to work with them specifically as a doctor, I considered this a fortunate turn of events.

I made my way inside to a rather shabby looking interior. There were other people in front of the receptionist desk, so I took my place in line. The line moved quickly enough and I was soon faced with a receptionist. As I explained my purpose for being there, my college statues and provided references to confirm my story, I was given rather hurtful glares by the receptionist. As I wrote down my contact information, the receptionist twiddled a pen with her thumb and index finger, giving me a look that clearly told me two things: first, she did not want to be within ten feet of me and was evidently disgusted with my presence; second, she did not feel I was worthy of observing a physician in his or her workplace and that my life goals were merely an annoyance to her workday. Nonetheless, I remained adamant, impervious to her barefaced glares and determined to stick to business. As I wrapped up my descant and thanked her for her assistance, I offered her my hand to shake. She glanced at my hand, acknowledged its presence with a nod and turned her back on me to walk away. My hand still in midair, I stood there dumbfounded and dazed. I lowered my hand, turned to the exit and walked out.

As I walked away, something inside of me wanted to turn back, reenter the clinic, walk back up to the front desk and firmly, yet calmly state to the receptionist, “I’m human too.” I did not turn back, but rather I kept walking onward and away, angry voices screaming in my mind.

In my Heart the Same

December 10, 2011

The God of all the world
Took the sinners and made them saint
God chose the weakest ones
To bless them with His strength

The Lord of all creation
Took the meager and made them bold
God made a child a king
A shepard, a healer of souls

God, my Lord, my Father
You choose the ones most afraid
You give to them the heart of a warrior
The faith to follow the plans you made

Father thou art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy will be done on Earth as in Heaven
And in my heart, the same

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