Over the last few years, I’ve made
four trips to Piura, Peru. From my first trip as the only freshman in the
bunch, to my last trip as the senior organizing it, I have experienced numerous
memorable encounters. In Peru, we had the opportunity to help at the local clinic
and go on house visits. I was eager to volunteer for these activities because
growing up I enjoyed solving problems and fixing things. As a naive freshman, I
only saw the mechanical side of medicine. I was more interested in watching
cataract surgeries at the local clinic, than seeing the person behind the pair
of dilated pupils. Upon returning to Peru year after year, I began to realize
that simply seeing patients as a new challenge to conquer strips them of their humanity.
In order to heal them on a deeper level, you must see them in their holistic
entirety through the eyes of compassion. During my second trip, one moment in
particular put a face to my image of compassionate care. I still remember that
poignant experience as if it were yesterday.
Brown, grainy particles billow around my rainbow colored tennis shoes incasing
them in a thin coat of dust. Humidity hangs in the tired grey, April clouds as
my eyes catch on small stones stranded on a dirt path. Silence coats the air as we pass an
endless line of makeshift shacks. Dr. Santoro, an American gastroenterologist,
leads our group to small hut with a thin wooden door. Anna, one of the nurses,
knocks and moments later, a young girl’s face appears. The girl leads us into a
room staked out by splintering bamboo poles. As I enter the dimly lit area, my eyes are drawn to a frail abuela (grandmother) draped across a broken
plastic chair in the corner of the room. Everything about her is drawn, worn, and tired. Her small, wrinkly hand
clutches her shrunken stomach. Dr. Santoro stands by the woman’s side, and
warmly speaks to her in broken Spanish, “Abuela,
¿cuáles son sus síntomas” (Grandmother, what are your symptoms?).
She
explains that for the last few weeks she has had stomach pain, but recently, it
has become so terrible she is unable to lie down. Dr. Santoro pauses a moment
in careful thought and then reaches into his bag and prescribes the woman a few pills to alleviate the
pain. From his quiet manner, I know that there is little we can do to help her.
While these pills will temporarily dull the pain, I know her symptoms point to
stomach cancer. In this moment, however, it doesn’t feel right to look at this
woman as a problem that needs a solution. Instead, my head spins in circles. I
feel heart broken and helpless. What can I do to show this woman that she is
not alone in her suffering? How can I serve her when am nowhere capable of
curing her of her afflictions? Entranced in the moment, I reach for her small
hand, and wrap it in my own. We immediately lock eyes, and I see a window into
the excruciating pain she is enduring. Slowly, a contagious radiant smile
transforms her wrinkled face. She squeezes my hands and warmly states,“Eres Hermosa
como una rosa” (You are as beautiful as a rose).
I
realized in my experience with the abuela that you don’t need to have all the
answers to feel something beyond sympathy or pity for someone else. While I
cannot pretend to understand what she was feeling that humid April day, I
learned that compassion is simply actively making the effort to step into
someone else’s shoes especially in times of pain.
After
I returned home and was met with the stresses and expectations of my social and
academic life, I was tempted to compartmentalize that week in Peru. It was much
easier to label it as a one-time experience, than to have to actively apply it
to how I interacted with people at home. However, as I began to discuss the
trip with my friends, I noticed how I was drawn to recounting my experience with
the Abuela. I felt the urge to share my encounter with as many people as I
could because I wanted them to know the power of compassionate care. I wanted
them to understand that while there may not be a concrete answer to every
problem, everyone has the ability to show compassion towards those in need of
comfort.
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