Shortly before I left the U.S., I had a patient from Nigeria. He was a refugee living in San Diego on his own. Maybe he lived with his sister or some relative, but I can't remember exact details. His story was super intriguing, as he described his living situation in Nigeria within the context of the sociopolitical climate at the time. He talked of warring tribes, and how he was from one tribe but the other tribe dominated the country and wreaked havoc, including horrific violence, on the people.
He was a farmer but decided to flee Nigeria after being abused by members of the tribe in command. He had lived in the U.S. for a few years and wanted to stay, but his immigration status was being contested and he was risking deportation. He was worried about returning back to Nigeria, as he felt he received better healthcare in San Diego, which was one of the reasons he was referred to me.
His story was so fascinating and enlightening that I decided right then and there who I wanted to work with when I returned to the U.S.: refugees.
I had another refugee patient from Cuba who escaped to the U.S. in the early 1980s. As a doctor, the Castro's government demanded that he swear allegiance to the Communist party. But he refused. So he was thrown in jail and tortured for a long time until he managed to escape on a boat to Miami. He described his injuries, which sounded horrific and continued to cause him a lot of pain. I was treating him for diabetes, which was actually really frustrating experience even for an open-minded medical anthropologist, because he refused to take the insulin he desperately needed, instead choosing herbal liquid remedy he got from a botanica that only seemed to make him sicker.
This patient was so pleased I knew about Cuban culture, and since I couldn't really get him to agree to comply to his recommended regimen, (doctors know best, right?), we would sit and talk about Cuban history and food and culture. At least I was the one provider he'd have a long conversation with, as with the others he just gave short answers. I felt privileged he trusted me enough to share his life story. One evening I made him a big batch of moros y cristianos (Cuban blacks beans and rice), for his appointment the next day, but he didn't show, and shortly after I left for Peru.
I had met another patient from Laos or Cambodia, I can't remember specifically, who was really impressed that I knew about his country's sociopolitical history (ha, that's not saying much that I can't remember two years later which country he was from!) and he was eager to talk to me about his country. All of these patients instinctively understood that their country's history and current events directly correlate to the state of their health. This is an awareness that I've never come across in any of my other immigrant or American patients. What I was able to figure out was that because they fled their country in a time of horrific turmoil, they had a story to share, and that story impacted everything about them, from their health to their living situation to their financial situation to their family relationships.
I was so impressed with their self- and cultural-awareness that I decided that working with refugees would be my next step when I returned to the U.S. San Diego, according to this SignOnSanDiego.com article, has over 150,000 refugees residing in the county, making it "one of the largest refugee centers in the country." I recall that a relatively large refugee community from East Africa reside in City Heights, which is a colorful low-income neighborhood not too far from downtown. I don't quite know what prevented me from checking into volunteering or working in clinics in City Heights. I suppose working with the homeless and low-income immigrants in the East Village and Logan Heights was challenge enough for me at the time.
Now that I have a date in mind, I'm going to start researching clinics and other agencies in City Heights and start reaching out to my contacts to find out what volunteer and/or work opportunities they have there. I would have only been gone a year, so I don't think I will be that behind and can quickly regain my just burgeoning status as a healthcare professional and medical anthropologist in San Diego.
Being seen as a professional is really a satisfying feeling, I have to admit. One of my students in an advanced class loves to talk to me about healthcare, including health policy, here in Peru as compared to ones in the U.S., and I really enjoy it. I haven't given health advice or discussed healthcare in many months, and it feels like far too long. It's really my passion, and if I know anything, this is what I'm really really good at.
In another class, a student and I were discussing the right to die as one of our business conversation topics. I was describing some of the technical aspects of life support and euthanasia, and my student was a little taken aback by how much I knew. But I was like, of course I know these things, I'm a healthcare professional. But how would she recognize me as that? I'm just an English teacher to her. I feel like the taxi drivers back in the U.S., you talk to them about their life back in their home countries, and they were doctors and electrical engineers and lawyers among so many other types of professionals. But there in the U.S., they made their way simply and humbly as a taxi driver. So I understand now how that feels.
One of the reasons I want to return to the U.S., besides wanting to work with refugees, is that I want to give of myself. I'm just not in a giving place here. I beat myself up over this sometimes, but then I have to remind myself: I work six days a week with one day off, three days of which are 12.5-hour days, and I barely have enough to live on each month. So no, no wonder I don't have any desire to give. I can barely take care of myself, which means I certainly don't have enough resources, like time or energy, to give to others.
I had another refugee patient from Cuba who escaped to the U.S. in the early 1980s. As a doctor, the Castro's government demanded that he swear allegiance to the Communist party. But he refused. So he was thrown in jail and tortured for a long time until he managed to escape on a boat to Miami. He described his injuries, which sounded horrific and continued to cause him a lot of pain. I was treating him for diabetes, which was actually really frustrating experience even for an open-minded medical anthropologist, because he refused to take the insulin he desperately needed, instead choosing herbal liquid remedy he got from a botanica that only seemed to make him sicker.
This patient was so pleased I knew about Cuban culture, and since I couldn't really get him to agree to comply to his recommended regimen, (doctors know best, right?), we would sit and talk about Cuban history and food and culture. At least I was the one provider he'd have a long conversation with, as with the others he just gave short answers. I felt privileged he trusted me enough to share his life story. One evening I made him a big batch of moros y cristianos (Cuban blacks beans and rice), for his appointment the next day, but he didn't show, and shortly after I left for Peru.
I had met another patient from Laos or Cambodia, I can't remember specifically, who was really impressed that I knew about his country's sociopolitical history (ha, that's not saying much that I can't remember two years later which country he was from!) and he was eager to talk to me about his country. All of these patients instinctively understood that their country's history and current events directly correlate to the state of their health. This is an awareness that I've never come across in any of my other immigrant or American patients. What I was able to figure out was that because they fled their country in a time of horrific turmoil, they had a story to share, and that story impacted everything about them, from their health to their living situation to their financial situation to their family relationships.
I was so impressed with their self- and cultural-awareness that I decided that working with refugees would be my next step when I returned to the U.S. San Diego, according to this SignOnSanDiego.com article, has over 150,000 refugees residing in the county, making it "one of the largest refugee centers in the country." I recall that a relatively large refugee community from East Africa reside in City Heights, which is a colorful low-income neighborhood not too far from downtown. I don't quite know what prevented me from checking into volunteering or working in clinics in City Heights. I suppose working with the homeless and low-income immigrants in the East Village and Logan Heights was challenge enough for me at the time.
Now that I have a date in mind, I'm going to start researching clinics and other agencies in City Heights and start reaching out to my contacts to find out what volunteer and/or work opportunities they have there. I would have only been gone a year, so I don't think I will be that behind and can quickly regain my just burgeoning status as a healthcare professional and medical anthropologist in San Diego.
Being seen as a professional is really a satisfying feeling, I have to admit. One of my students in an advanced class loves to talk to me about healthcare, including health policy, here in Peru as compared to ones in the U.S., and I really enjoy it. I haven't given health advice or discussed healthcare in many months, and it feels like far too long. It's really my passion, and if I know anything, this is what I'm really really good at.
In another class, a student and I were discussing the right to die as one of our business conversation topics. I was describing some of the technical aspects of life support and euthanasia, and my student was a little taken aback by how much I knew. But I was like, of course I know these things, I'm a healthcare professional. But how would she recognize me as that? I'm just an English teacher to her. I feel like the taxi drivers back in the U.S., you talk to them about their life back in their home countries, and they were doctors and electrical engineers and lawyers among so many other types of professionals. But there in the U.S., they made their way simply and humbly as a taxi driver. So I understand now how that feels.
One of the reasons I want to return to the U.S., besides wanting to work with refugees, is that I want to give of myself. I'm just not in a giving place here. I beat myself up over this sometimes, but then I have to remind myself: I work six days a week with one day off, three days of which are 12.5-hour days, and I barely have enough to live on each month. So no, no wonder I don't have any desire to give. I can barely take care of myself, which means I certainly don't have enough resources, like time or energy, to give to others.
This wasn't really in my plan when I first arrived, because I really had planned all the time I was in San Diego preparing for this trip (and it was just supposed to be a trip at first), I was researching volunteer opportunities in Buenos Aires and Colombia. But arriving here while seriously ill with 6-8 weeks left to recover totally threw a wrench in my best laid plans.
But that's life, yeah? Now I know what it's like to live paycheck to paycheck, to live off bread for a days at a time, to count literally cents to make it last for the rest of the week, to try to take care of my health with limited to resources, to shuffle from place to place to live, to have a small social support network, to live as an immigrant in a developing country. These experiences are only going to add to my abilities as a healthcare provider and anthropologist, and for that, I can only be grateful. Through struggling, we can learn so many life lessons and become better for it.
