To Scientists, Scematics Teach Truth

Source: The Washington Post

Keep praying!

Visions of EKGs dancing in my head

Well I've made the 6 hour drive down to Gainesville Florida; its funny to think that flying down to the DR will take 1/3 of the time it took to drive home. The US is huge as far as countries go. Hispanola (Haiti + the DR) is about the size of Virginia.

This morning at 1my mom and I helped about 20 volunteers from church sort supplies that were donated by local hospitals. Gainesville has a medical school so there are lots of hospitals nearby; the church had so many supplies donated that we had to rent out a warehouse complete with palates and hydraulic lifts to hold it all.

From 10 this morning to 2:30 we got through about half, 80, of the boxes to be sorted. IVs, tubing, EKG supplies, OR supplies, meds, gloves, syringes are dancing in my head. I didn't realize it until we were done, but my parents have spent the last two days doing the same thing with donated clothing. The group had great camaraderie. I spent a lot of time with a 3rd grader named Abraham; I thought of him and his brother as my little ducks. They had tons of energy and loved helping so I'd do the hard stuff and delegate anything that was easy to them. I was glad that I got to give their mother a break. She seemed very tired when we got started, but after an hour or two everyone was really in the groove of working together.

It was drizzeling as my mother and I walked into the warehouse. A combination of the rain, backseat driving and my short fuze for such behavior had made us snippy, but we were able to forget those feelings as the enormity of our task confronted us. Gainesville has a medical school so there are lots of hospitals nearby; a few tenacious nurses from Grace Church so many medical supplies donated that we had to rent out a warehouse complete with palates and hydraulic lifts to hold it all. What began as 11 pallets on the 22nd had bloomed over the past week to cover two entire walls of the warehouse. Never mind the two truck loads (almost $40,000) of rice and beans purchased from the general fund and the generous donations of $27,850 from the church body over the first weekend following the disaster.

Walking in, I met Nicolette - a spunky nurse in black underarmour and glasses - a combination of sporty and sensibility I will hold in deep respect in the future. She and another kind and efficient (harried?) nurse who I would think of as La Dame en Rose would become our tutors in med-speak and answer questions on everything from EKG lead lines to depends.

Still, it was an older married couple who were the keepers of the keys and beningly in charge. The reminded me of the Anderson's from A Bigger Vision Winter Shelter in Athens Georgia (http://www.biggervisionathens.org/). They've retired and now they have devoted their time to doing God's work. Beautiful eh? White haired and wiry, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart; that's the way I hope to go.

After handshakes and a hand waving tour we set down to work. The wall of boxes was 5 rows deep and taller than my head. Little did we volunteers know, but it would shortly regenerate itself like Lucy Ricardo's chocolate conveyer belt with donations collected by a sister church. If we had taken the time to contemplate it; that act could have brought despair, but working for others rather than for ole' George Washington changes your perspective. From 10 to 2 there was simple to much to do to philosophize over mundane topics like quantities. There was always another rack of tubing to carry, or IV fluids to move or the bane of my existence - loose, though covered, needles to sort out of crates that could well have been may of hay.

The initial step was to come up with some sort of organizational plan. Five pallets were laid out to wrap the new stack of full boxes we would be generating. IV fluids, Operating Room, Respiratory Tubing, Medicines, and First Aide would be our main categories, with each box packaged as specifically as possible. After two years volunteering at Athens Regional Health Center and two years coordinating 30 other volunteers at Mercy Health Center I found that I was comfortable in the give and take of a specific goal with loosely defined delegation.

Move these boxes there, sort out the stuff and bring them back to almost the exact spot you started; repeat. Intuiting that the organizational job would be the most difficult; I promptly started on the moving side. It wasn't 15 minutes before a tired looking lady with an extra large navy shirt covering her petite exterior shepherded in three excited elementary aged boys.

Long volunteerism has taught me the value of a willing worker and I could see that the boys liked the idea of helping me carry things. Besides, Joshua, a black boy in highschool, was already working and joking with me so I seemed less threatening than the other white women who made up the majority of the first wave of volunteers - but by no means the majority of the volunteers throughout the day. Or maybe, hopefully, those lines are more blurred here in the racially diverse Gainesville than in my hometown Athens where racial mixing still has the excitement of an avante guard activity - a sad but atmosphere from a University that was only fully integrated in 1986. How refreshing to see those walls come down in service.

"Do you boys know what we're doing?"

"Packing medicine for the Haiti earthquake victims."

"You're right! Where's Haiti."

Abraham points in the vague direction of South.

"Well you're doing great work by helping them!"

That "good job" was all it took and the boys were racing to beat Josh in carrying boxes.

"I'm strong see?"

"Definately!"

With the five of us moving boxes to the to be sorted area we soon outstripped the ten or so volunteers wading through seas of what seemed like a strange mixture of a household junk drawer and toolbox. My mother took the leadership role here and correctly identified the boys and I as the source of the majority of the new boxes.

"Alyssa you've got to stop brining us new boxes. We're overwhelmed. Come sort."

A quick glance in her direction showed a clear backlog, but it also revealed too many people in too small a space, so I escaped in a nearby corner filled with the familiar world of IV fluids to begin my sorting. Like spring ducklings the boys melted away into other tasks & toys, but my new friends would not abandon me for long.

IV bags were a comfortable choice for me. A few years back, I volunteers for the Anesthesia Departement at Athens Regional Medical Center. It was rumored to be one of the prime spots - they actually had work for you and you got to see the tail end of 5 or 6 surgeries every week. The rumors proved true; it was well worth getting in line 3 hours early to secure 1 of the 3 spots several hundred pre-health sciences students would vie for. Unlike my previous posts, Anesthesia was fun. I wasn't just making charts or photocopies; I was decked out in full OR regalia from my hair net to my boot covers and I couldn't have been happier. The techs knew how to delegate too. If it was a slow day, we laughed. And if was a busy day I learned on the job - fast. So the muted tones of lactated ringers, heparin, sodium chloride, potassium chloride and normal saline were comfortable friends of mine. Even if the boxes they filled weighed more than 30 pounds.

Plus the fluids were for the most part separate from the jumble of other donated items. A fact that let me feel productive while the initial organizational structure was being developed for the rest of the items. By the time I had found and sorted almost all of the fluids the nurses had a brisk sorting system worked out and I happily fell in place.

((((WRITE ABOUT SORTING HERE)))))))

Later I would tell Abraham's mother how pleased I was to see her teaching her children so young the importance of caring for our neighbors. The tension in her earlier had evaporated and we staged a thinly veiled conversation about how football players at the University had to get good grades or they wouldn't be allowed to play for the benefit of a staring Abraham. It take a village.

The best part of the day was seeing the racial walls crumble; that's something I hope to see more of in my lifetime. We were easily half black and half white - with a latino and eastern european immigrant mixed in as well. But everyone was just enjoying the feeling of doing good work for others. I heard a quote once that "we have succeeded in creating a society where we have neither true work nor true play" a quick google search isn't giving me the author but it you know it please help me give the author his credit. And it's true, isn't it? We don't often get the chance to do manuel labor and see its immediate result. Its very gratifying.

I also got to talk with Paul Emery (the pastor who has helped put together my DR trip) and Denny Heiberg. Denny did some pastoring; I guess my parents had told him how upset I was when it looked like the DR stuff had fallen through and he reminded me who is in charge and that its not worth getting upset since God often repeats the same plan of provision throughout believers' lives. He's right of course, but mostly I just felt chagrinned. It was fun talking with Paul as well. He was a missionary kid and its great to see his eyes light up when he talks about helping people. He must have said 3 or 4 times now "can you believe that they pay me to do this?"

And now Psalm 126:2

"Don't you know He enjoys

giving rest to those He loves?"

Yes!

The Best Laid Plans

Six months, six months, the thought of six months without direction terrified me more than the thought of seven more intense years of school. I'm from good German stock. My grandmother Omi, moved in with my

mother at 82 to help her take care of me -- as an infant. I laughed at her as a child, who would choose to work so hard all the time. Now I go home for Christmas and wear out a saw taking down limbs for my parents. Work? I can do work. But wait?

Waiting is harder.

So it is with surprise that I find myself at the end of two months of waiting and a bit nostalgic for it. December was for my parents and January was for my friends. After eleven academic semesters (most people graduate in eight) I can finally sign my name: Alyssa Anderson BS.

So what do you do with a BS in Biology and six months to kill? Pretty much what you do with a BA in English.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4GwrEuULwY&feature=related

From the musical: Avenue Q

What do you do with a B.A. in English,

What is my life going to be?

Four years of college and plenty of knowledge,

Have earned me this useless degree.

I can't pay the bills yet,

'Cause I have no skills yet,

The world is a big scary place.

But somehow I can't shake,

The feeling I might make,

A difference,

To the human race.

Oh yea, I'm also qualified to teach other people to take the MCAT (Medical College Admission Test). Aside from that, pretty much all a BS does is qualify you to be a lab tech (read: automatic test-tube cleaner) and get an advanced degree. And there is that guy I know who shots the birds that land on the runway at Hartsfield Jackson International and tests them for bird flu, but I don't really think I'd like that. And guns scare me.

So as I faced down the prospect of six months as a waitress (better than the test tubes, believe me) I was presented with a glorious opportunity. Paul Emery's official title is "Missions Outfitter;" this former missionary kid spends his days planning for people to go on short and long term mission trips. http://www.gracefl.org/pray-for-paul-haiti-relief-team. Though I have never been a member of Grace Church, my parents moved recently, they introduced me to Paul and he immediately introduced me to the Sabados.

This married couple is a pair of missionary doctors who work with two other couples of missionary doctors in the Dominican Republic: Quisquea La Bella. I'm not quite sure of the exact number yet, but I hear that at least one of these doctors is also a pastor. What intrigues me most about this core group of doctors is that they have been there for the last 20 years. It is a sad truth that short term medical missions are big business in South America. Some groups do some real good, but many it seems, exist to assuage guilt and pad resumes. After spending the last two years in a free clinic in Athens Georgia that provides an excellent level of care, follow up services, and access to any specialist necessary, I found that such flight-by-night clinics left a sour taste in my mouth. Many of my friends do not even realize that I have been to Panama. So as I thought about medical missions, still my close to my heart after my extremely positive experiences at Mercy, I was very selective. Finding a group like Corazon del Siervo that is run by doctors who live in country permanently and even went to medical school there was a breath of fresh air. Corazon del Siervo http://www.corazondelsiervo.org is their organization and out of that heart they have agreed to take me on as intern/nurse/nanny or whatever else is needed for the next five months.

What impresses me most about this family is their total dependence on the Lord. I (of course) was ready to be there for the whole 6 months before I start medical school but my parents are (wisely I expect) a bit more reserved. So as we're talking with Francisco Sabado on the international phone Mom wants to make sure that I don't overstay my welcome or get in the way. Out of respect for her more than agreement I ask Francisco if they have space for me. His response? "Of course or God wouldn't bring you." What's more its taken me 4 emails to finally get even a mention of money from them. But that clearly is not what this family is about. Here's a copy of my last email from them:

If you could bring camel bag water backpacks for each of my kids. Luke wants blue, Isaac wants red and a pink one for Annika. If they have a few front pockets for granola bars or snacks, etc. that would be great. I will pay for them. I think they have them in the sporting goods at Walmart, but if not the sporting good store will have them. (If you dont know what they are, ask Paul). Thanks so much.

Of course these will not be the questionable ones from Walmart; I've seen them leak myself, and they will be a gift. I had a great time picking them out on Amazon yesterday -- though pink is surprisingly impossible to find. We had to compromise with sky blue. But these will be nice day packs that'll hold a lunch and sweater in addition to the water bladder. I'm also planning on getting a few carabeans for the daisy chains so the kids can lash stuff down, and I want to hide a few granola bars in the packs for them to find.

I've also been crashing cramming my medical spanish again. It's been a semester and my Spanish feels so rough! Thankfully there are some awesome free podcasts; I really like "Medical Spanish Podcast" (original eh?) its put out by an internal medicine doc, Molly Martin, who really knows her stuff. Yesterday I was working on patient histories: family info, nationality, alcohol and tobacco usage etc.

And of course Juanes is running in the background of all this while I write and do last minute packing. Tonight I teach my last Princeton class, meet up with friends for dinner and tomorrow its off to Florida for the week I promised my folks before leaving. I'm already so stir crazy! I can't wait to get there!

Prologue

Mercy was my crucible and Argentina the spurs in my side. The path to medicine, for me, was not a pre-determined fate, but a prolonged process of self exploration that took almost the entirety of my undergraduate degree.

I came to the University of Georgia an obvious Biology major – a choice I’ve never questioned. But what to do with that major, ah, what a conundrum. That question was so vexing that by the time I reached my fourth year I called it my screen-saver – if there wasn’t anything else going on upstairs that was what I thought about.

In the space of just my freshman year I spent a six month stint in a research lab, quickly jumped to the student newspaper to try my hand at science writing and then just as rapidly moved on to an internship with the American Red Cross Blood Donor Services. Research was too solitary, science writing too political, and the Red Cross to easy and repetitive. I settled for a time on the idea of being a Physician’s Assistant. And though I added the Anatomy, Abnormal Psychology and such classes required for the degree, I never could bring myself to drop the pre-medical classes that I wouldn’t need, like Physics, Biochemistry, and Cellular Biology.

But it was the Mercy Healthcare Clinic in Athens that finally gave my subconscious room to speak. I had initially rebelled from medicine; the only female doctor I knew in my hometown was decidedly unpleasant, and the overbearing mother of a former boyfriend to boot. Having been raised in a decidedly anthropological family with a German mother and a linguist-by-hobby father, I had developed a taste for languages and their ability to allow one to think in a completely different frame of mind. At the end of my junior year I began translating for Hispanic patients before a whirlwind summer that would bring me almost a year of indecisive nervousness. With a few of the leaders from Mercy, I spent a few days in Tennessee at a conference for medical professionals serving the poor, uninsured, and marginalized – Mercy’s mission. Meeting so many women that shared my delight and wonder for the complexity of the human body, understood my personal values and were excited by their lives and professions cracked my confidence that being a physician’s assistant would be enough for me.

Shortly thereafter I had the opportunity to study in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I really must laud our in country contact, Marcela, for her amazing treatment of all of the students during our stint there – especially her political maneuvering that allowed three of us to obtain internships at Hospital Garrahan – what is considered the premier children’s hospital in the country. Moreover, the system is socialist, so not only did we have the opportunity to shadow doctors treating such diverse diseases as elephantiasis but we also encountered patients from virtually every country that Argentina boarders – to say that free healthcare encourages travel is to put it mildly.

I came back to finish my final year feeling uneasy about my road to Physicians Assistant school. I started the first semester a ball of nerves; should I drop organic chemistry II or anatomy? In other words, how strong was my commitment? Again and again, I would convince myself that being a Physician’s Assistant was the most rational thing for a woman and then a week later wonder about medical school again. After a week of trying to do both, I realized that I could not manage both classes and finally dropped the organic class. But I was never satisfied in my anatomy class. Though we went into greater depth than I’d ever experienced before, it obvious that were being told but half the story and that the other students did not share my love for the material. Having the opportunity to work with cadavers seemed a weighty and important responsibility to me. I was finally living the dry run for actual practice! Everything about them was so different from the models sitting just to the side of the bench. And yet, at the end of each lab discussion when we were allowed two precious hours to study with the cadavers, I found myself alone with the Teaching Assistant. Quickly it became a joke, and an shortly thereafter a tutoring session. I loved my work; I thirsted for more, and I wondered.

Going into what should have been my last semester, my internal debates escalated. Even if being a PA was rational for a woman, was it rational for me? Could it satisfy me, when my anatomy class, a class I wouldn’t repeat in PA school but would already be expected to know, did not?

I met with my advisor and he smiled as he looked at my schedule. I had a semester left with my HOPE grant and Charter scholarships footing the bill while all I needed to graduate was PE. Given free rein to study whatever I wanted I promptly filled my schedule. Medical Spanish, anthropology of health care, epidemiology in the school of public health, and anatomy II were to fill out my last days at the University. My schedule both excited and worried me. My teachers were all well recommended, the topics were the most interesting that I had ever been given the opportunity to study, and yet, I was uneasy. What did my selections say about my career path?

Though I did not have any single revelation, many moments stick out as road signs leading to my final choice. Translating at Mercy gave me ample opportunities to shadow both doctors and PAs side by side in the same night. Moreover, I was enchanted by the process. I had long ago fallen for my time at Mercy, and now one of my main points to the thirty some-odd volunteers I manage each week is “know when to make yourself go home!” The longer I spent at Mercy, the more the idea of knowing only half of what I would need to run a practice grated at me. Of course there are many pathologies that are not understood by science, but if I could know, wouldn’t I want to? As my studies in anatomy deepened I was able to identify reasons behind the procedures: he’s checking for Trouseau’s sign, he’s ruling out aplastic anemia, she’s concerned about a calcium deficiency; my yes grew in intensity until it was a mental scream.

The nail in the coffin for PA school came about over Christmas break. Being a self starter has lead me down what may appear to be tangential side-roads that have actually been a large part in forming my character. If I want something, I figure out how to get it. That tendency has lead me to learn ballroom dance, become a ropes course facilitator, ride an elephant, walk over hot coals, and hike 18 miles of the Grand Canyon in one night. I take advantage of every opportunity offered to me. I’ve met Dr. Bruce Aimes and been invited to hang out backstage with Cirque du Soleil performers. So when I had a month off for Christmas and didn’t bother to follow up on any of three leads I had with PA’s in the area who were amiable to students shadowing but instead went looking for books on the MCAT, I realized that I had already made my decision.

Remembering with irony that Cortez also burned his ships, I dropped the last class I would have needed for PA school and set about the anxiety-ridden task of rearranging my schedule during drop-add. Then I walked over to my closet and once again put on the long white lab coat I had been so fond of in Buenos Aires. I walked to the mirror and looked at myself with a goofy grin – the kind of grin its hard to get out of me.

I looked short.

At five foot eight, what is today’s standard run-way height for models, and living in a society where heels are easier to find than flats, I have seldom felt short. But medicine continues to give me that impression. It is something much larger than me; it’s a marathon, a Mount Everest, an impossibility without an iron will and an almost desperate vision.

Though I don’t yet know if I’ll be able to claim Everest, I have accepted a place in the Medical College of Georgia Class of 2014. Finally the goal has crossed the horizon, and there is no ship to flee in.

But then, what else would I use a ship for but firewood?