Remembering sensory memories

My senses are heightened. I see and smell especially well. Being sick in India, and even spending time being in the hospitals, I remember the sights. But every now and then, I can smell something that has a whiff of the sickness smell. Perhaps because the smells were so unique and I was ill, the odors had a distinct impression. I can't exactly describe them. Except they were very unique. They weren't individual odors, but most probably a combination of odors. Today I was driving here in the US, and something triggered this train of thought, some brief smell that wafted into the car. I remember being sick and smelling the mix of the villager's food (the inexpensive dahl) and the smell of the hospital "spirit" or disinfectant. Actually it was probably isopropyl alcohol. But those smells in the Indian heat were particulary pungent. I think with the higher temperatures, the odors were more volatile and would hit the nose with more impact than in colder climates.

So what was the result of this smell? Well it left me with a disgusted helpless feeling. Just knowing that I was sick. Helpless. In a strange country. No one I could particulary trust. Except for a couple of friends. But I don't feel comfortable being obligated to people. So I kept my distance, at least emotionally. Indian hospitals are cold, simple and plain. Cement floors and walls, sometimes white tiles on the walls. And Indians don't smile. The nurses and the patients don't laugh or greet each other. No flowers anywhere. And dirt finds its way around the hospital. The corners have grime embedded and ignored. The walls show dirt and old yellow or white paint. Add all of this to the smell and then add the sights of the patients. Mostly poor people, with strained faces. Men being sick in India, meant that they could not work. No work meant no food. And if the wife was ill, that meant the men had to cook and clean for themselves. And they villagers would have to travel between the village and the hospital, spending valuable time and even more valuable money. All of that strain showed on their faces. The men wore traditional Indian dress, in wrinkled cotton. Probably washed weekly, maybe less. In all this the only show of emotion would be if someone died. One thing did not fit the picture--the women wore colorful clothes. Yes, they are repressed. But how does color relate to repression? Maybe beauty is allowed to override the repression. Of course, the behavior of the women showed the reality. Their faces down in humility. They would stand and wait on the needs of the males they were with. So yes, the clothing was the only statement they could make. And only with the colors not with fashions, at least not in the villages.

Into this cold neutral world--come the doctors. Status, money and wealth from the most prestigious doctor to the medical student. Some of the students were poor, and some of the doctors were simple. But many flaunted their wealth. They deserved to be who they were, rich powerful doctors. They wore shoes as many of the patients were in sandals, and some barefoot. They were clean and well groomed showing prosperity with their girths. Even the body language of the doctors show the life of leisure, not stress and strain that American doctors show. Because the Indian doctors are relatively untouchable. They can do very little wrong. Well what wrong they do can easily be covered. The patients are ignorant. Everyone in India can be bought.

So the smell in a car in America brings me back to India. And there from the villagers in the hospital at the mercy of the doctors to me, the student doctor taking it all in. And when I was there, learning to heal, I would always wonder. What if I were the villager? Why was I the one fortunate to be the doctor?

My answer came from another physician, "From everyone who has been given much, much will be required; and to whom they entrusted much, of him they will ask all the more." (Luke 12:48 NASB)