Barrett Dorko
17-03-2008, 02:05 PM
It’s been a quiet week in Cuyahoga Falls…
“What season is it?”
I heard this question asked of a patient while I handled her leg last week. A young nurse stood above her, oblivious to my presence. We were in a large and crowded treatment area and I had commandeered a small portion of an elevated exercise mat upon which to work. The nurse had announced that she was going to ask some questions in order to find out how “oriented” my patient might be and, I guess, these questions couldn’t wait for therapy to end.
I drove through a cloud to see my brother Kevin last Saturday; the fog especially thick on the Ohio Turnpike where it crosses the Cuyahoga River Valley. I’ve made this trip countless times and always consider what the view at this point brings to mind. I’ve driven this way in order to celebrate many holidays, to begin hundreds of trips to distant cities and to witness various members of my immediate family as they grew ill and passed away. I usually see something that leads to something else, perhaps from a book, or my life. If I’m lucky, something I might write comes to mind. On Saturday I could only see the white vapor that enveloped my car and slowed my rush to see my family and my old neighborhood. I couldn’t see a thing, and my patient’s answer came to mind.
On the day the question about the season was put to my patient the sun shown brightly through the large windows that overlook Cleveland from the department’s perch on a hillside above it. A heavy snow fall a few days before had largely disappeared - people were shedding their coats and gloves. But it was early in March and more Winter is surely ahead, perhaps a lot more.
The nurse’s face remained perfectly still when she heard my patient say “It’s Spring,” waving her hand toward the windows and using a tone that indicated the questioner wasn’t too bright. I thought, “Today this isn’t a fair question, but I’m pretty sure this woman will be labeled “confused.” But in light of all that’s occurring at the moment I knew I was the confused one.
I said nothing. Despite the fact that I was in the middle of a treatment with this woman it was clear to me that my presence was irrelevant. This is a feeling I need to get used to if I am going to continue working in these places. Oddly, I feel I can do it without much effort, and I wouldn’t have predicted that.
On Saturday I could see nothing until I reached the other side of the valley, but my patient’s answer came to me and I remember looking into her eyes once the nurse had walked away. She shook her head a little and I raised my eyebrows.
We were both thinking about that question.
“What season is it?”
I heard this question asked of a patient while I handled her leg last week. A young nurse stood above her, oblivious to my presence. We were in a large and crowded treatment area and I had commandeered a small portion of an elevated exercise mat upon which to work. The nurse had announced that she was going to ask some questions in order to find out how “oriented” my patient might be and, I guess, these questions couldn’t wait for therapy to end.
I drove through a cloud to see my brother Kevin last Saturday; the fog especially thick on the Ohio Turnpike where it crosses the Cuyahoga River Valley. I’ve made this trip countless times and always consider what the view at this point brings to mind. I’ve driven this way in order to celebrate many holidays, to begin hundreds of trips to distant cities and to witness various members of my immediate family as they grew ill and passed away. I usually see something that leads to something else, perhaps from a book, or my life. If I’m lucky, something I might write comes to mind. On Saturday I could only see the white vapor that enveloped my car and slowed my rush to see my family and my old neighborhood. I couldn’t see a thing, and my patient’s answer came to mind.
On the day the question about the season was put to my patient the sun shown brightly through the large windows that overlook Cleveland from the department’s perch on a hillside above it. A heavy snow fall a few days before had largely disappeared - people were shedding their coats and gloves. But it was early in March and more Winter is surely ahead, perhaps a lot more.
The nurse’s face remained perfectly still when she heard my patient say “It’s Spring,” waving her hand toward the windows and using a tone that indicated the questioner wasn’t too bright. I thought, “Today this isn’t a fair question, but I’m pretty sure this woman will be labeled “confused.” But in light of all that’s occurring at the moment I knew I was the confused one.
I said nothing. Despite the fact that I was in the middle of a treatment with this woman it was clear to me that my presence was irrelevant. This is a feeling I need to get used to if I am going to continue working in these places. Oddly, I feel I can do it without much effort, and I wouldn’t have predicted that.
On Saturday I could see nothing until I reached the other side of the valley, but my patient’s answer came to me and I remember looking into her eyes once the nurse had walked away. She shook her head a little and I raised my eyebrows.
We were both thinking about that question.