Blanquita en españa

It is a helpless feeling when one of your patients is dying and you do not have a cure. Even worst is having the responsibility to tell someone that they are dying. The role of a doctor is to provide a way out of the chaos patients have found themselves in. People come to doctors thinking no matter what illness they have it is curable. Yet there comes a point when it is too late. Not even daily visits, the perfect combination of medications and the newest experimental treatment can fix the damage.

Señora Mary A. was a petite 5’’3, 55-year-old teacher with short brown hair and a face filled with lifelines. She had that typical sweet little old lady appearance. When I first saw her it felt as though she just came to the E.R. to bring some fresh baked cookies. As she walked to her room in a slow almost wobbly gait, she glanced a warm peaceful grin at all of the doctors. That day I was working with Dr. Goyo. When he saw her shuffle by the nurse’s station he reached for her case file.

It read, “ History: smoker of 20 years, 25 cigarettes a day. Diagnosed 2001 with stage I pulmonary carcinoma. Progression to stage IV in 2009, received aggressive chemotherapy, currently tumor free. Reason for visit: complaints of headaches” When any former cancer patient comes in with a headache I immediately imagine the rapidly dividing cells racing to the brain and nestling deep into their new home. Slowly but surely eating away at memories and any future hope of life. When Dr. Goyo and I finishing reading the case history he gave me that look that you never want to see, the unpromising look of defeat. He put on a fake smile and we both trotted into her exam room.

He asked her, “So tell me what brings you in today?” in a voice as if he was oblivious to what we just read. She replied confidently that she had this strange headache for the past week and thinks it is an after effect of menopause. It was like she had forgotten that less than one year ago she had end stage terminal lung cancer. At this point I wondered if she was stupid or that far into denial. Just going through the motions Goyo ordered some x-rays to confirm what we both knew. It was at this time that all the forged smiles dwindled down and for the first time a concerned look emerged on her face. Before she could ask any question, her husband edged into the room giving us a chance to sneak out.

When the x-rays were ready for viewing it was like déjà vu, tumors scattered deep in the “no go zone” of the brain. Chemotherapy would only buy her a few more months filled with needles, forgetfulness and a slow deterioration of life. Surgically inoperable and too advanced for gamma knife or any experimental trials, she would conclude her life in about 4 months. This was my first experience giving someone a death sentence.

Goyo and I walked hesitantly toward the room. I held my breath as I passed through the doorway. Goyo approached her bedside and gently put his had on her arm as he let out at sigh. There was that depressing defeated look again. This death stare did more that any words could have. As this moment she burst into tears and in a panic kept repeating, “lets just take it out and it will be gone.” Every time she said this her husband turned away taking a couple steps toward the window. He stood tall with his arms folded, shaking his head and interrupting his wife every time she tried to suggest a miracle cure. In my head I was screaming, “even if we took out the tumor it wouldn’t stop the cancer from eating away some other organ!” At this point I wish we would have just lied to her and said everything looks good, here is a perscription for something stronger than ibuprofen.

Goyo was trying to calm her down by listing treatments filled with false hopes. She kept looking at me with tears streaming down her cheaks as if I was going to tell her something different. I then zoned out for a moment to focus on not crying. The best technique to momentarily look up, bite the insides of your cheeks and sing happy birthday in your head. She contintued to plead with us for the next 10 minutes crying out, “I know you can fix it, just take it out.” It was at this point that I knew if I wanted to help people I would have to start at the beginning. I couldn’t take back 20 years of smoking a pack a day. The only cure was to go back in time and stop the problem before it turned into a tragedy.

On March 11th 2004 Elena, my Spanish sister, was in Señora Rodriguez math class about to begin an exam. My friend Samu was in Madrid walking above a train station on his way to class when an earthquake like vibration awoke all of Madrid. Terror and Panic struck heart of the country, shifting the pace lives throughout Spain. Everyone remembers where he or she was and what he or she was doing on 9/11. The blank confused look painted on faces with one question racing through everybody’s mind, “what happens next?” The same numb sensation is what all of Spain was struck with March 11th, 2004.

Exactly 911 days after the attack on the twin towers, 11-M took place. At 7:30 AM March 11, during the peak of the morning work rush, a series of bombs echoed in extensive metro system throughout Madrid. This event forced Spain to adapt their approach on national security.

While driving to the grocery store, our car was stopped by the state police. There was a control check set up between where we were, and where we wanted to go. Every car was not stopped, only the ones that the police thought to be suspicious. The car was searched and everyone’s information was run through the police computer system. This was not the first time it happened. Every trip to Madrid or any major city, there is a police barricade serving as a safe guard for the city.

It is the European way to pull out “the polite filter” between the mind and mouth. Everyone is overly blunt and open about what he or she thinks and how they feel. No one stops to think if what they are about to say will hurt your feelings, because everyone has thick European skin. This mannerism translates into how the law handles homeland security. In Spain, when the police case profile, citizens don’t respond with thoughts of a violation of their rights. Feelings aside, Spain continues to take initiative in response to 11-M.

If she was a greeting she’d be a slap
sharp and unforgiving, but straight to the point.
If she was a dance she’d be a flamenco
all eyes are on her beauty, but powerfully stomping on dreams.
If she was a piece of clothing, she’d be a black tailored suit
in charge and all knowing, but speaks with no mercy.
If she was a sound she’d be a crystal vase shattering into pieces
an unexpected accident stinging with shock, but no hope to pick up the pieces.
If she was a smell she’d be carbon monoxide
Undetectable and reeking of hazard, but swiftly delivering death.
If she was a drink she’d be a hot cup of coffee on a cold day
Enticing with its warming comfort, but too hot to drink, every sip burning all the way down.
If she was a criminal she’d be a sociopath
manipulating remorselessly, but delivering the painful truth with no emotion.
If she was an animal she’d be a kangaroo
hopping from place to place, but delivering a painful punch.
If she was an insect she’d be a black widow
slowly weaving an intricate web of silk, but heartlessly taking lives.
If she was a piece of furniture she’d be a shower
constant and tranquil, but washing away future aspirations.
If she was a storm she’d be the eye of a hurricane.
momentarily calm and peaceful, but a fiery drastically altering lives.
If she was a competitor she’d be a card player
always wearing a poker face, but playing with the game of life.
If only she could take a step back to see what she has become, she would be the doctor she once knew.