Reflections in a Head Mirror

Whatever begins, also ends.
-Seneca


One final story from our visit to El Salvador …  

Our return trip to Milwaukee included a two-hour layover between flights. Five of us who had made the journey together sat in the waiting area at Houston’s Intercontinental Airport sharing photos and telling stories, anticipating a scheduled arrival back at Mitchell Field about 10:00 pm.  

In some ways, our experiences in El Salvador had differed. A woman from Sheboygan had served as a translator; because she is a native Spanish speaker, she easily befriended many of the Salvadorans and always had a crowd of giggling kids swirling around her. A woman from Milwaukee had led empowerment workshops for the Salvadoran women, developing deep friendships in the process. A woman from West Bend had been involved in the non-traditional and spiritual therapies, finding herself touched by the number of ways people experienced healing. My wife, Kathi, and I had worked as a nurse and a physician, seeing the physical challenges and sensing the joy of the people we met despite the frustrations of the language barrier.  

In other ways, our experiences were shared. Despite the disturbing levels of violence throughout the country, the people we met, from government health ministry officials to San Salvador’s homeless, were friendly and thoughtful. Despite the dust and mud, the people were clean and dressed as nicely as they could afford. Despite the clinic’s long lines and protracted wait times, the Salvadorans were, to a person, patient and grateful.    

As we waited at the airport, two hours turned into four then into six. A major storm on the East Coast had caused a chain-reaction of delayed flights all over the country. Later, after our plane had finally arrived at the gate, there were no flight attendants available. The Houston ground crew worked overtime trying to get us home.  

Our little group continued sharing stories. One of our friends had been outside of the clinic building late in the afternoon on the last day. The local organizers had shut off the line so we could pack up our things and get back to the guest house. Some of the Salvadorans who had been waiting all day to see one of the doctors or dentists were now being told that the clinic was over until next year. Despite this setback, some of the people had hugged and thanked the clinic volunteers. “Thank you for coming,” they told one of the staff. “We will see you when you return.”  

The story seemed almost unbelievable, especially as I watched three American tourists returning from vacations in Cozumel tear into the airline employees about the delays and how important it was for them to get home. They exploded again with each delay announcement storming around and pointedly shouting into their cellular phones.    

Of course, I knew why they were upset and maybe I have been that upset at some point in my life. But, for the moment, the extra time in that airport offered me both the opportunity to hear some more stories and the possibility to be grateful for a bit more of the healing that is best experienced by, sometimes, just living in the present.

The elderly man came to the San Salvador Lutheran Medical Clinic nearly blind and almost completely deaf. Our interpreter helped me figure out what he wanted.  

“How can I help you?”  we shouted. 

"I have a cough and get headaches sometimes. Can I get some medicines?”  

“Sure,” I said. “Let me take a look.” The interpreter moved to another of our physicians while I performed an examination.  

The patient had undergone cataract surgery at some point which had improved his vision a bit. I peered in his nose and focused my headlight in his mouth. His last few teeth were in pretty bad shape. Otherwise things looked pretty good. No obvious infection and nothing worrisome. The neck was okay. His lungs were clear and his heart was steady. His belly was soft and there was no swelling of the ankles.  

I peeked in his ears. Both were full of wax.  

“Would you like me to clean your ears?” I peeked at my cheat sheet with a few Spanish words. “¿Limpio los oídos?”  

I’m not at all certain he understood my question, and I wondered if I had chosen the correct word for “ears.” Nevertheless, he turned his head and let me dig in his ear canal.  

The wax was very adherent to the canal wall. I continued to work and the man was clearly uncomfortable.  

Just as I was about to give up, the plug of wax moved. I reset my instrument and slowly worked the solid mass of wax from deep in the canal to the opening. Suddenly, I triumphantly pulled out one of the biggest plugs of ear wax I had ever seen. Clearly, he had been working on this masterpiece for all of his 85 years. Now it was out.  

He blinked and stared at me with his softened gaze. I suspected he was hearing from that ear for the first time in 20 years.  

“The other?” I attempted in Spanish.  

He grinned and turned his head to present the other side. Soon, despite some discomfort, I had delivered another plug of wax as large as the first. He stared at the plugs of wax on the gauze. He wrung my hand enthusiastically. “¡Muchas gracias!” he said.  

“De nada. You are welcome. Thank you for coming!” Pretty soon, he had received a flu shot and was heading home with his small bags of vitamins, calcium, and acetaminophen.  

I’m not altogether certain how many patients I helped while visiting El Salvador, but I am pretty sure there is one 85-year-old nearly blind man who is very glad that I was there.

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The following is feedback received for this blog: Very nice story. As always, thanks for sharing! - Jen Awww ... that's such a neat story. You made his day. I'm glad I read this. - Leigh Ann Otte http://thedoctorwriter.wordpress.com/ Just the small things can make a world of difference for everyone. Thank you for sharing. - Scot Go figure, all the years of training and skills acquisition and removing ear wax is still one of the most gratifying thing we do. . .enjoyed the story. - Merry Sebelik I *hear* the biggest difference we often make, is often one we don't realise - Jabulani Awww.... I loved this story! I'm so glad you took the risk to visit this memorable place. - Penny Just had to add this. I am a physician, a radiologist, but somehow keeping the wax out of my ears has always been a problem, I mean really, getting somebody to dig around in my ears, nobody seemed interested, maybe the ENT guy's nurse if I was lucky. I didn't see anybody interested in going after that awful stuff. Even the nurses never seemed to get it all. At least in my own clinical days I used to soak that stuff with drops of soap held in with some cotton balls for about 30 minutes which allowed me to blast it out with the little water gun we had in the back office. Yes I really enjoyed doing that!! But good luck when it came to my issues!! Finally I picked up on just soaking that wax with hydrogen peroxide. Only takes about 20-30 minutes per side and after awhile all that bubbling is pretty pleasant and one has to be careful not to fall asleep which might possibly lead to H2O2 burns. When all the wax is gone the bubbling stops, it's that simple. Cheers. - Steve D.

We have to believe that even the briefest of human connections can heal. Otherwise, life is unbearable.
-Agate Nesaule    


The patient arrived at the rural clinic near Guazapa, El Salvador, in his mother’s arms with a mouth gag tied in place and his hands wrapped in bandages. As his mother put him gently onto the examination table, his muscles twitched hard, tearing the paper bed cover and forcing the gag out of his mouth. “Be calm,” his mother whispered to him in Spanish. He remained contorted but visibly quieted as our pediatrician, Dr. Mike, held him.    

Oh, oh, I thought. We are miles from a hospital and a three-hour plane flight from anything familiar. We have a very sick kid on our hands. How will we handle this?    

While I watched from my exam station across the room, the mother shared her story. What I initially assumed was an emergency turned out to be just another day in the life of this family. The patient had been born in the final years of the Salvadoran civil war in a poor, rural community with no functioning infrastructure. Severe oxygen deprivation during his birth caused significant brain damage. It is safe to assume that he received almost no medical care as an infant; only the love and care of his family had allowed him to survive at all. Now, 21 years later, his mother was bringing him to a medical mission clinic staffed by volunteer North American physicians, nurses, pharmacists and healers.    

During his childhood, his family had found that cloth gags and hand wraps could keep him from inadvertently biting and scratching himself. The mother calmly related the joys and challenges of his life. Dr. Mike had helped care for patients with this same diagnosis back home and I am certain that he was mentally cataloguing all of the potential treatments and support options that would be offered to this family back in the States. What did we have to offer here that would make a difference?    

Julia interpreted. Nurses Kathi and Jean helped. Nurse Practitioner Gail brought her experience. Dr. Mike supported the patient while performing a gentle, thorough examination. He peered in the ears and throat, listened to his heart and felt his abdomen. He pressed the muscles of the arms and legs. He warmly complimented the mother on the exceptional care she had provided for her son.    

The mother smiled. Despite the challenges, this child was the biggest joy in her life. But, she wanted to know, can you help him? His biggest problem is sleep. Can you help him to sleep?    

We had arrived in El Salvador with only the most basic medications; we had things like vitamins, calcium, iron, anti-parasite pills, mild pain medications, and basic treatment for coughs and colds. Well, Dr. Mike said, we could try giving him one of the cold medications at bedtime to make him a bit drowsy. That might help.    

Thank you, the mother said. Suddenly, the patient’s arm flew up around Dr. Mike’s neck, surprising everyone. What was wrong?    

He is giving you a hug, his mother told Julia. He wants to thank all of you, too. Dr. Mike held the young man in his arms for several seconds before passing him to my wife, Kathi.    

Most of the patients we saw during our days in El Salvador came to us with routine concerns: coughs, headaches, and sore throats. Watching this family, though, reminded me powerfully that, no matter how severe the problem, there is power in touch and value in just being there. As the examination wrapped up, the mother repositioned the mouth gag. After hugs, good wishes and thanks to everyone in the room, the mother and her son were soon on their way back home.

 A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable but more useful than a life spent in doing nothing.
-GB Shaw


After over twenty years working as a head and neck cancer surgeon, much of what I do has become routine. Even the operations that once kept me awake at night or the procedures that required a trip to the library are just part of a day’s work.    

I am certain that most vocations have the same experience. The commercial airliner pilot plans her weekend while she is constantly scanning the displays and switches arrayed around her. The construction engineer carries on unrelated conversations while aligning girders that will support giant buildings. The bus driver listens to the radio as he guides his vehicle for the hundredth time through the switchbacks and the mountain passes. Things that used to command every bit of attention no longer require that degree of intensity.    

Every once in a while, though, something comes along that brings everything back into a sharp-edged focus:    

I had  performed dozens of procedures on patients with voice box cancer over the years. My experience told me that this operation would be difficult because of this particular patient’s previous radiation, but otherwise should be straightforward.    

What I found, though, was anything but routine. Nests of cancer cells were scattered throughout the tissues and a new separate cancer was identified. The original plan was quickly abandoned, and, while the patient lay on the table, I went to the family center to have a detailed discussion with her husband and children. I returned to the operating room and continued to work. Over the course of the day, there was another change of plans, another trip to the family center, and phone consultations with colleagues. I ended up performing a procedure about which I had only read. I re-checked everything. Several hours later than originally anticipated, we were finally finished.    

Sitting in the recovery room waiting for her to wake up, I realized that I was in need of some recovery as well. I had spent much of the day outside of my “comfort zone” in a place requiring my full attention, all of the insight I could muster, a bit of creativity, and reliance on others. Now, I could return to the routine of postoperative care and paperwork. Although drained, I was energized and alert. I felt alive.    

Happily, she did just fine, thanks to the good advice I received from my colleagues. I slept very soundly that evening.  

The following is feedback received for this blog: Wish I could work with you. I know I'd learn so much. - rlbates http://rlbatesmd.blogspot.com/ I work in Law Enforcement and I read your post, nodding yep....yep...yep... Mostly, after 21 years, I am comfortable where I am. Due to a tragedy at another station in our troop, I volunteered to work the desk for them on a Sunday, midnight shift. I was brought way out of my comfort zone, not knowing the area, not knowing the troopers I would be working with and not used to that shift. At the end of a quiet night, I was glad I had done it. It not only helped the members of that station, but it also helped me to realize, and appreciate, how comfortable I am at the job I do at my home station. - Holly Wood