Thursday, January 14, 2010
Home!
The trip is over, but that's okay. Thanks to everyone who has read my blog! I also want to thank other people again. First, my family for supporting me and sending me to Kolkata. Second, Turja and his family for keeping all of us alive and making the program happen. Third, everyone involved in Pratit, especially those who were in Kolkata with me!
Monday, January 11, 2010
"My Third Eyes Sees" by the Pratit members in Kolkata
My third eye sees my fourth eye.
My third eye sees sex, drugs, and violence tonight.
My third eye sees Turja getting sick tonight.
My third eye sees one hand clapping.
My third eye sees a mango in an apple tree.
My third eye sees the spices that make my eyes water.
My third eye sees roots with leaves.
My third eye sees seas of my I’s.
My third eye sees the bottom of the sea.
My third eye sees sex, drugs, and violence tonight.
My third eye sees Turja getting sick tonight.
My third eye sees one hand clapping.
My third eye sees a mango in an apple tree.
My third eye sees the spices that make my eyes water.
My third eye sees roots with leaves.
My third eye sees seas of my I’s.
My third eye sees the bottom of the sea.
My translator friend
In our second medical camp, one of our local translators named Chandann Raiputt laughed when I asked him to tell a female patient that we needed to palpate her stomach. “Go find a girl to do it,” he said. “This is India.” I promptly asked Turja to do the exam, which he of course did successfully. I tell this story because it’s the only time I can remember Chandann being wrong during the past two weeks. I also know that Chandann was receptive to what he learned about medicine in this situation, just as he has been receptive during the rest of his life.
Chandann has told me snippets from his life and promises to write to me with many more details and anecdotes. His parents died during his early years (Chandann has no idea when they died nor does he know how old he is now), leaving him with nowhere to go. He told me that in the state of Bihar, it’s typical for violent land-grabbing locals to force orphans to run for their lives. Chandann made it on the streets for some time, living off scraps from trains. One day, he fell asleep on a train and ended up in Kolkata. When he disembarked alone in India’s third largest city, a pair of street children grabbed him and took him to their leader. Chandann was told that his job was to continue scouring the trains for products and money that he could take back and share with the pack. He lived around the station for a long time (again, he doesn't know how long), forced to become part of the blackmailing and battles between children fighting to survive. But he knew he was quickly dying. When the founder of Future Hope woke him up at the station one morning, Chandann decided to go with him, aware that he could be another victim of legendary organ harvests.
Chandann is still thriving at Future Hope and now has the opportunity to study layout design for automobiles in the UK. Pratit is extremely fortunate that he’s studying in Kolkata for the time being. First, he has been by far our most reliable translator, volunteering at least 25 hours of taxing translation work during our medical and education camps. Without him, we would have had to scramble and probably pay for translators. Second, he has been an intelligent guide and liaison to the city. Turja does a wonderful job at this, but we needed someone else to help us get around. Chandann knows the back roads. Third, Chandann has become a friend to all of us. He's been out to dinner with us and come over to hang out at our flat four nights in a row. It’s clearly been eye-opening for him to experience our lifestyles, but I don’t think this adjustment has been much of a challenge for him. Finally, we know that Chandann is receptive to any type of discussions, including those involving Pratit's relationship with locals. He always provides thoughtful responses.
I’ve debated a lot in my head how we can overcome the language barrier here. In my opinion, securing reliable translators, whether that involves payment or not, seems to be the essential first step. However, I don’t expect to find other translators with Chandann’s unique and truly inspiring character. Maybe Chandann will help us find others with similar qualities. I want to meet more people here that can become my friend like Chandann, people that can make me feel like I’m connecting with the city and its people, not just trying to help the city and its people.
Chandann has told me snippets from his life and promises to write to me with many more details and anecdotes. His parents died during his early years (Chandann has no idea when they died nor does he know how old he is now), leaving him with nowhere to go. He told me that in the state of Bihar, it’s typical for violent land-grabbing locals to force orphans to run for their lives. Chandann made it on the streets for some time, living off scraps from trains. One day, he fell asleep on a train and ended up in Kolkata. When he disembarked alone in India’s third largest city, a pair of street children grabbed him and took him to their leader. Chandann was told that his job was to continue scouring the trains for products and money that he could take back and share with the pack. He lived around the station for a long time (again, he doesn't know how long), forced to become part of the blackmailing and battles between children fighting to survive. But he knew he was quickly dying. When the founder of Future Hope woke him up at the station one morning, Chandann decided to go with him, aware that he could be another victim of legendary organ harvests.
Chandann is still thriving at Future Hope and now has the opportunity to study layout design for automobiles in the UK. Pratit is extremely fortunate that he’s studying in Kolkata for the time being. First, he has been by far our most reliable translator, volunteering at least 25 hours of taxing translation work during our medical and education camps. Without him, we would have had to scramble and probably pay for translators. Second, he has been an intelligent guide and liaison to the city. Turja does a wonderful job at this, but we needed someone else to help us get around. Chandann knows the back roads. Third, Chandann has become a friend to all of us. He's been out to dinner with us and come over to hang out at our flat four nights in a row. It’s clearly been eye-opening for him to experience our lifestyles, but I don’t think this adjustment has been much of a challenge for him. Finally, we know that Chandann is receptive to any type of discussions, including those involving Pratit's relationship with locals. He always provides thoughtful responses.
I’ve debated a lot in my head how we can overcome the language barrier here. In my opinion, securing reliable translators, whether that involves payment or not, seems to be the essential first step. However, I don’t expect to find other translators with Chandann’s unique and truly inspiring character. Maybe Chandann will help us find others with similar qualities. I want to meet more people here that can become my friend like Chandann, people that can make me feel like I’m connecting with the city and its people, not just trying to help the city and its people.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
“My Third Eye Sees” by our students
My third eye sees myself meeting Dev.
My third eye sees myself playing cricket.
My third eye sees myself dancing in front of the Taj Mahal.
My third eye sees myself meeting Koyel.
My third eye sees chow mein.
My third eye sees myself playing badminton.
My third eye sees myself playing football.
My third eye sees myself meeting Salman Khan.
My third eye sees myself playing cricket with Shahrukh Khan.
My third eye sees myself chewing Nimki.
My third eye sees myself reading Bengali books.
My third eye sees myself eating fruits.
My third eye sees myself eating chili chicken on top of a mountain.
My third eye sees myself riding an elevator in a tall building.
My third eye sees the Penn students visiting my house.
My third eye sees myself standing at the top of the Taj Mahal.
My third eye sees myself riding in a flying car.
My third eye sees myself riding a horse.
My third eye sees myself as a flying bird.
My third eye sees myself walking on the moon.
My third eye sees myself riding a ferry.
A few short comments:
This is an exercise I learned from Michelle Taransky while coordinating Write-On! last semester. The major similarity I see between West Philly middle school students and these students is their adoration of celebrities. This also highlights their focus on their technically possible dreams.
We told them from the beginning to focus on fantastic ideas, not things that they can do in this reality. We decided to thoroughly reemphasize that after they produced a chain of dreams about meeting celebrities and playing sports. The very next statement: “My third eye sees myself reading Bengali books.” With the way these kids have shown that they can learn, I have no doubt that many or most of them will be able to read Bengali books if they continue with school. Only about 50% will enter the government school system when their time at this schoolhouse ends.
I’m quite excited to ride elevators and eat fruit when I get home.
I’ll be posting a “My third eye sees…” by Pratit members in the near future.
My third eye sees myself playing cricket.
My third eye sees myself dancing in front of the Taj Mahal.
My third eye sees myself meeting Koyel.
My third eye sees chow mein.
My third eye sees myself playing badminton.
My third eye sees myself playing football.
My third eye sees myself meeting Salman Khan.
My third eye sees myself playing cricket with Shahrukh Khan.
My third eye sees myself chewing Nimki.
My third eye sees myself reading Bengali books.
My third eye sees myself eating fruits.
My third eye sees myself eating chili chicken on top of a mountain.
My third eye sees myself riding an elevator in a tall building.
My third eye sees the Penn students visiting my house.
My third eye sees myself standing at the top of the Taj Mahal.
My third eye sees myself riding in a flying car.
My third eye sees myself riding a horse.
My third eye sees myself as a flying bird.
My third eye sees myself walking on the moon.
My third eye sees myself riding a ferry.
A few short comments:
This is an exercise I learned from Michelle Taransky while coordinating Write-On! last semester. The major similarity I see between West Philly middle school students and these students is their adoration of celebrities. This also highlights their focus on their technically possible dreams.
We told them from the beginning to focus on fantastic ideas, not things that they can do in this reality. We decided to thoroughly reemphasize that after they produced a chain of dreams about meeting celebrities and playing sports. The very next statement: “My third eye sees myself reading Bengali books.” With the way these kids have shown that they can learn, I have no doubt that many or most of them will be able to read Bengali books if they continue with school. Only about 50% will enter the government school system when their time at this schoolhouse ends.
I’m quite excited to ride elevators and eat fruit when I get home.
I’ll be posting a “My third eye sees…” by Pratit members in the near future.
Friday, January 8, 2010
1.8.09
We held our most recent medical camp in a social club attached to a temple. The temple’s two human-size female goddesses faced a cow pattie-covered wall across the narrow street. The wall guarded the jute mill of famed violence. Here is a sequence of events from the camp:
For only the second time since arriving, we were all told to stop working at once in order to examine a particular patient. It was a ten month-old girl with encephalocele. Her brain was squeezing out of a gap in her skull, forming a bulge the size of a golf ball just above her forehead. This is the case we were prepared for; we’re funding the child’s surgery and recovery costs. Minutes after we sat back at our stations, puja began just feet behind me. Attuned to the bells and unintelligible chants, I questioned and examined a diabetic and hypertensive woman that had stopped taking her medication without explanation. She just wanted her blood pressure checked. After the prayer stopped, I examined an 88 year-old man with extreme protein-calorie malnutrition. He weighed 60 lbs. with no meat on his arms, legs, or chest. Marasmus, especially on his arms, made me want to vomit and/or cry more than any other bodily sign I’ve seen. (I’ve learned that I can control those reactions by getting back into my healthy body and pulling its parts together.) He also was in severe respiratory distress, had no front teeth, was blind in one eye, and had glasses so dirty that I don’t believe he could see out of the other.
I saw another malnourished man later. He was more capable of communicating with us and repeatedly asked me if he was going to be okay. (He was, except for that whole weighing only 75 lbs. part.) When I got on my knees and touched his feet for the PMS exam, he became quite emotional and repeatedly bowed to me. I love forming a doctor-patient relationship, even if it’s unintentional and I’m not a doctor.
Edit: The scans on the child revealed that it was not encephalocele but rather meningocele. That's good news.
For only the second time since arriving, we were all told to stop working at once in order to examine a particular patient. It was a ten month-old girl with encephalocele. Her brain was squeezing out of a gap in her skull, forming a bulge the size of a golf ball just above her forehead. This is the case we were prepared for; we’re funding the child’s surgery and recovery costs. Minutes after we sat back at our stations, puja began just feet behind me. Attuned to the bells and unintelligible chants, I questioned and examined a diabetic and hypertensive woman that had stopped taking her medication without explanation. She just wanted her blood pressure checked. After the prayer stopped, I examined an 88 year-old man with extreme protein-calorie malnutrition. He weighed 60 lbs. with no meat on his arms, legs, or chest. Marasmus, especially on his arms, made me want to vomit and/or cry more than any other bodily sign I’ve seen. (I’ve learned that I can control those reactions by getting back into my healthy body and pulling its parts together.) He also was in severe respiratory distress, had no front teeth, was blind in one eye, and had glasses so dirty that I don’t believe he could see out of the other.
I saw another malnourished man later. He was more capable of communicating with us and repeatedly asked me if he was going to be okay. (He was, except for that whole weighing only 75 lbs. part.) When I got on my knees and touched his feet for the PMS exam, he became quite emotional and repeatedly bowed to me. I love forming a doctor-patient relationship, even if it’s unintentional and I’m not a doctor.
Edit: The scans on the child revealed that it was not encephalocele but rather meningocele. That's good news.
1.7.09
We visited the school for the third time to talk about germ theory, hand hygiene, and first aid. I’m extremely surprised by how quickly these students remember what we tell them. Our translators also are doing an excellent job, seemingly taking the teaching into their own hands.
Between the schoolhouse and the park where we play, there is a strip of twenty or so chest-high, tarp-covered homes on the sidewalk. The strip is divided in the middle by a gated display of Ramakrishna’s first British disciple standing above a polluted pool. A student that acted as a bacteria cell in one of our demonstrations led us into his home on this strip. A young girl cooked on a kerosene stove as I scooted in on my butt. Turja and I sat alone inside for a moment, cross-legged with our heads just below the tarp. The father of the family quickly came to greet us. He is a former rickshaw-driver that now works in the mineral water factory a few kilometers away. He said four people live and sleep on the 25 sq. ft. cement tile floor. When I asked through Turja if the city hassles them about their overt squatting, he said people only get paranoid when a government doctor visits the settlement to treat them.
The US consulate, a young Penn alum, dropped by our education camp in a full business suit. When a Pratit member picked him up, he immediately said, “I didn’t bring a checkbook with me.” Aww, shucks. One-by-one, we talked his head off. He kept the conversation light and uncontroversial while we discussed our organization, slums, and Kolkata in general.
We took the consulate on a tour of the squatter settlement, the likes of which I doubt he had seen before. The houses are made of bamboo, most with tarp covers, and usually reach three or four stories high. The alleys between them are no wider than four feet. We visited at 3 pm but most first floor rooms on the shadowed interior of the settlement were completely dark. We were invited into the home of Payal, possibly the brightest student that we’re teaching. Her mother left her family when she was about one and her father is an abusive alcoholic that lives with her grandmother and her. They had a two-story home with only two rooms. The three of them slept on the second bamboo floor, a 50 sq. ft. room. They also had a battery-powered TV in their bedroom. When we walked out, we saw the floss we gave Payal on the first day hanging by the door.
Between the schoolhouse and the park where we play, there is a strip of twenty or so chest-high, tarp-covered homes on the sidewalk. The strip is divided in the middle by a gated display of Ramakrishna’s first British disciple standing above a polluted pool. A student that acted as a bacteria cell in one of our demonstrations led us into his home on this strip. A young girl cooked on a kerosene stove as I scooted in on my butt. Turja and I sat alone inside for a moment, cross-legged with our heads just below the tarp. The father of the family quickly came to greet us. He is a former rickshaw-driver that now works in the mineral water factory a few kilometers away. He said four people live and sleep on the 25 sq. ft. cement tile floor. When I asked through Turja if the city hassles them about their overt squatting, he said people only get paranoid when a government doctor visits the settlement to treat them.
The US consulate, a young Penn alum, dropped by our education camp in a full business suit. When a Pratit member picked him up, he immediately said, “I didn’t bring a checkbook with me.” Aww, shucks. One-by-one, we talked his head off. He kept the conversation light and uncontroversial while we discussed our organization, slums, and Kolkata in general.
We took the consulate on a tour of the squatter settlement, the likes of which I doubt he had seen before. The houses are made of bamboo, most with tarp covers, and usually reach three or four stories high. The alleys between them are no wider than four feet. We visited at 3 pm but most first floor rooms on the shadowed interior of the settlement were completely dark. We were invited into the home of Payal, possibly the brightest student that we’re teaching. Her mother left her family when she was about one and her father is an abusive alcoholic that lives with her grandmother and her. They had a two-story home with only two rooms. The three of them slept on the second bamboo floor, a 50 sq. ft. room. They also had a battery-powered TV in their bedroom. When we walked out, we saw the floss we gave Payal on the first day hanging by the door.
1.6.09
We held our third medical camp in a dirty, poorly lit 10x10 ft. social club. We had to put two tables outside under a tent because of limited space. A border patrol campus was directly behind us. One guard stared at us from his tower on the other side of the wall.
I worked with a new doctor and thoroughly enjoyed his help. He maintained a sense of humor, gave me the opportunity to perform as complete of an exam as I wanted, and explained what he was diagnosing and why he prescribed what he did. Our first few patients were particularly interesting. The first woman had been diagnosed with scabies the day before but couldn’t afford her medication. It’s absolutely satisfying to pay for medications for a patient that you believe will follow through with the treatment. Unfortunately, we can’t apply treatment to her bed, so the scabies will probably come right back. The second patient was a very young child with protein calorie malnutrition, represented by severe edema in his stomach and feet. The third patient had a tumor in her neck and a tumor in her cheek. A past blood test on a tumor in her arm supposedly revealed that it was benign, but the other tumors had not been checked. The doctor I was working with recommended to the camp administrators that we pay for biopsies. She was told to come back in thirty minutes, but apparently she never returned. That was my first ever patient with tumors, and I have no idea what happened to her. Another man probably still had TB after he quit his medication eight months early. He said that everyone in his family died of TB a few years earlier.
I worked with a new doctor and thoroughly enjoyed his help. He maintained a sense of humor, gave me the opportunity to perform as complete of an exam as I wanted, and explained what he was diagnosing and why he prescribed what he did. Our first few patients were particularly interesting. The first woman had been diagnosed with scabies the day before but couldn’t afford her medication. It’s absolutely satisfying to pay for medications for a patient that you believe will follow through with the treatment. Unfortunately, we can’t apply treatment to her bed, so the scabies will probably come right back. The second patient was a very young child with protein calorie malnutrition, represented by severe edema in his stomach and feet. The third patient had a tumor in her neck and a tumor in her cheek. A past blood test on a tumor in her arm supposedly revealed that it was benign, but the other tumors had not been checked. The doctor I was working with recommended to the camp administrators that we pay for biopsies. She was told to come back in thirty minutes, but apparently she never returned. That was my first ever patient with tumors, and I have no idea what happened to her. Another man probably still had TB after he quit his medication eight months early. He said that everyone in his family died of TB a few years earlier.
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