Thread by @TheRealDoctorT

“Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t cry.”

Her voice is quiet, as always, but something’s different. Perhaps it’s the burden she’s carrying.

I say nothing, and she continues.

“I am haunted by them. I think about them, and I cry. Does it ever get easier?” 1/

She’s a young physician who learned the practice of medicine in the Philippines.

We sit across from each other at the table, in the lounge.

Our discussion revolves around the differences in healthcare where she trained, and in America.

We share thoughts, wrapped in stories. 2/

She tells me about the patients she used to see back home, and the depths of their despair.

Of the lack of ventilators leading to families having to bag-ventilate their loved ones in shifts.

Of the stories that linger with her.

Of the ghosts that haunt her troubled dreams. 3/

He was ten years old, the child of indigenous peoples who lived in a mountainous region, on one of the over 7600 islands that make up the Philippines.

His symptoms began with the typical flu-like pattern.

This was years before COVID.

He grew feverish and listless. 4/

At first his family tried local herbs and medicine men.

He was getting worse.

Weaker.

Growing increasingly worried, his parents decided to bring him down from the mountains where they lived.

Barefoot they carried their son down the trails, lashed by torrential rains. 5/

She was a young doctor staffing a poorly equipped outlying clinic.

As soon as she saw the child she realized the terrible truth; she couldn’t help him.

The parents spoke an indigenous dialect she couldn’t understand, and desperately they found ways to communicate. 6/

She did her best for the child, giving him precious concentrated oxygen.

But the harsh reality was this: there were no ventilators in this clinic, no critical care, no equipment beyond the basics.

The only treatment was a long boat ride away, unaffordable, and too late. 7/

The parents said they understood. And she steeled herself to be there for them, and her patient.

To face the inevitable, and to bear witness, and not turn her face away.

Now, years later, her voice is quiet as she tells me the story.

“I cried. It was all I could do.” 8/

“Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t cry.”

Her voice is quiet, as always, but something’s different. Perhaps it’s the burden she’s carrying.

I say nothing, and she continues.

“I am haunted by them. I think about them, and I cry. Does it ever get easier?” 9/

I still say nothing. I could lie.

I could reassure her and tell her that grief is a flame that dwindles.

Instead of a wildfire that rages on and on, until all that lingers is ash.

She has born witness to truths I couldn’t bear.

I speak my truth.

“It doesn’t get easier.” 10/

She nods, quiet as always, “I know. I think I am better some days, and then I remember that they were barefoot. And I remember how they cried. And I want to cry.”

I listen.

She murmurs, “It was all I could do. Just be there, and cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, uselessly. 11/

Both of us look up to the TV, as if to let the bright images cleanse the darkness hanging in the air between us.

Jeff Bezos is talking about something. He wears a cowboy hat, and a blue flight suit emblazoned with his name.

And I think of worlds falling away beneath bare feet.