Today’s outreach was disastrous. Even ignoring the appalling patient turnout, which may be considered the sole bright spot on our short-lived clinical visit to Gbalahi village, it is hard for me to imagine the couching of more folly through such a limited frame of time. First it was the car engine, which whinnied and sputtered, but refused to turn in the morning. Then it was the reading glasses, generally brought in grand variety, every power from +1.00 to +3.75—we grabbed the wrong bag, leaving us with 4 different powers instead of 11. Then it was the nurse’s defunct ophthalmoscope, which confused us for the longest time until we finally cracked open the battery chamber and found a vacant, spring-loaded hole staring us in the face. The owner of the scope, Sister Beatrice, our ophthalmic nurse for the afternoon, asked if we had spare batteries, to which I responded in the negative. It was then that I thought about Ali’s absence from the outreach, for he had jumped a 13 hour bus from Accra the night before and would doubtlessly arrive casually, if not unacceptably, late to the event. So I called Ali, asked him if he could pick up the batteries on the way to the outreach, and he gladly obliged, albeit with the caveat that his tardiness would be more extensive than before. Truthfully, it was irrelevant—the patients dropped in one by one by one, leisurely and ungrouped. The recording computer was dead. It was hot and sticky and Razak, our trusty transporter, was passed out on a shaded bench, body spanning a length of six patients that, for whatever reason, weren’t showing up today. It was laughable and, I hope, an aberration from the massive outreaches that typify the Unite For Sight program in Tamale. This was our first outreach as a trio— Safari Sam, Snake, and I— and I’m left thinking longingly about the missing parts of our former octet. So, as I did with the last group, I’d like to memorialize them here.
To Dolpho, my roomate, confidante, and storied consultant on feminism and its manifestations in the developing world, I am sincerely grateful for what I’ve learned from you. To be concise, you are impregnably Rudolph Wong—fast-talking, smile-ridden, last-word-having, sometimes-wrong-but-never-in-doubt. You relish your strengths, refuse to fear your weaknesses, and appreciate most the people who won’t accept anything other than the real, bona fide, bullshit-less Rudy. I like that— admire it even— and after finding my own identity and emotional self on shaky ground following this tumultuous year, it was refreshing and instructive to watch you be. I am more confident, comfortable, and ultimately happier in my own skin as a result. The gravy: your infamous one liners dropped like pancakes on our lovely female griddles (“So Nicole, how are the sunsets in Iowa?”), the sincere apology delivered to Mr. Feminist, the Camfed Slogan Affair that almost got you verbally castrated, the sunglassed, Harpoon hatted, Banana shirted, Aldo shoed, slick haired figure that sat behind the drop desk and 5 standard deviations away from the average group dress code (probably 7 SDs from mine), your extensive and well expressed medical acumen that you promise we “will all acquire after a year of medical school.” I’ll hold you to that, Dolpho, especially when I see you in Boston somewhere down the line...
To Lily Flower, the ever-interesting Ellen Degeneris of the Unite For Sight realm (and I mean that in the most flattering of ways), with lightning fast quips, views loud and pressing onward like Prussian armies, and hilarious stories to the hills about life, liberty, and how EMTs can shy away from hangovers without limiting their intake. To express my favorite Lily scenario among the swelling file of choices would be far too difficult in my current state. Instead, let’s just leave it at this: no one comes to Baobab to buy glasses from us anymore... On a final note, I thought you were an incredibly responsible, conscientious, and progressive part of our team. Volunteering to undertake the custodial duties required to manage our data and accounting record showed me immediately that you had a professional attitude toward UFS and I, for one, appreciated that immensely. Best, best, BEST regards as you enter medical school and I’ll catch you if I’m ever in Blacksburg (I think that’s where V-Tech is...)
To Nicky C, the sweet and spicy, hectic electric Iowan who had the cajones to do a public impression of me (Disclaimer: I do impressions of everybody I’ve known for any length of time, assuming they’re idiosyncratic enough, but rarely receive an accurate rebuttal), I will miss your partnership in Type-A crime. Timeliness, efficiency, precision, progression—these were the desired grapes of our obsessive wrath and I appreciated how devoted you were to those criteria. With studying for the MCAT on your plate alongside volunteering, I was concerned that you would fall out of the group dynamic as a few others had previously. Of course, you would probably respond, laugh rising and palm vertical, “You. Don’t. Know. Me. Jordan,” then appropriately slapping the table, “I will be at every group dinner, at every movie night, every night at Mike’s Pub, I can make everything, the MCAT stuff will. Get. Done. Period.“ and, of course, you would be right. At the very least, I’m happy you made every dinner, since it “Alot-ed” me a guiltless extra helping of spaghetti or fried rice each time. But seriously, it was great working and talking with someone who operates under paradigms similar to my own (putting aside political persuasion). More than anything, you’re just a downright fun person to be around, so much so that even my solemnest moods were softened in your presence. You are going to perform swimmingly on your MCAT, gain admission to a very fine college of medicine, and become an unquestionably devoted physician and mother (though probably the first before the second). But in the meantime, get me that stint we talked about on a farm up there—I’m making a photography book entitled “Iowa Skies for Rudy’s Eyes”.
To ‘We Jamen’, the baby-loving, Cali-repping, sweetness itself wrapped up in a long dress and bound with a floral headband, it always brought a smile to my face to see how much this trip meant to you. From the group’s first bonding in Mole to our most recent revelry at Mike’s Pub, it was clear that you were genuinely happy and comfortable and relishing the moment so much. On the outreaches, you were perpetually engaged with the patients, particularly our pediatric cases, and having a blast at any and all stations—no one dropped conjunctivitis patients with your panache. We talked ad nauseum about the ins and outs of being pre-med and med and I thought it was so, so commendable that you candidly revealed your doubts and struggles with pre-med life. Regardless of grades, scores, and the overly competitive and self-righteous attitude typical of a high-octane pre-med, you have an empathetic edge in patient relations that is instrumental to the proper delivery of quality healthcare. It doesn’t take an academic genius to diagnose cancer, but it takes an emotional genius to shepherd the patient through his/her treatment. You’ve got that emotional IQ, especially with children, and I know that, if you want it, you’ll be a splendid doctor. Just don’t forget to join the Skype discussion between Snake, Ni-NAHHHH, and I when you crawl into the lambent caverns of organic chemistry.
To Ni-NAH, Nina Pinta Santa Maria, Niña, the person whose wavelength, hewn from the right blend of life-loving chill and New York assertion and liberal collegiate passion, we’re all trying to get on, it was a privilege getting to know you over the last month. There is much to recount in that month, beginning with the three days you, Safari Sam, and I were waiting eagerly for the new bloods (memorialized above, plus Snake, who is currently aloft in a mosquito net of dreams) to arrive. We had two of those long, personal, everything-under-the-sun conversations common to people our age and I came out of it with immense respect for you and with a stronger, more comfortable grip on life than I had before. The points of intersection were innumerable— the enigmatic process of figuring out what kind of doctor one should become, the common pathologies and smile-worthy moments of long distance relationships, cultures driven by alcohol and how different we are from our siblings and the local market value of various energy bars, since I was long Cliff and you had reasonable positions in Zone Gold and Market Pantry Fudge Graham. We went on literal mango runs with Alot, searched far and wide for the ‘sickest rays’ in Tamale (...well, TICCS at least), gutted enough Spanish omelets at Swad to declare our own Inquisition (must note Dolpho as a contributor), and led surprisingly triumphant 4th of July plans. I eagerly look forward to ordering “The Jordan” at the practically existent Mimi’s Panini’s, I will not soon forget “I am LARGE and IN CHARGE,” and I’ll be sure to put a Bianco Farm visit into my New York itinerary this fall. Though, you should know, I am expecting to drink fresh goat milk out of the calabash, so guard it well.
To all of you, thank you for making the last three weeks meaningful, productive, and genuinely, humanly fun in the few ways that college is not. Salud.
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