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head was engulfed by the pillow she rested it on. Her moaning and debilitated voice caused her words to be-
come indistinguishable. Above her pale face read “diabetica” on a small white board. One of the three medicos
internos reached for the meter to test her blood glucose level. The prick of the needle revealed bright red blood
that viscously seeped onto the edge of the meter.
“75,” said one of the medical interns in a voice of panic at failing to properly watch over his patient. With
just that one number spoken, the other two interns sprinted out of the room to gather the supplies needed to
administer emergency insulin to the woman. They soon were followed by the other. Instantly, I was left alone
with la paciente. Each breath she took became harder than the last. Her black eyes seemed to melt into the hol-
low of her skull.
“Ohhhh Doctora.”
A sudden wave of inadequacy trailed behind her words. No one had ever called me that before. I was not a
doctor, actually; I was very far from it. Although I had been volunteering in the hospital for nearly 5 weeks, I
had no formal medical training, no medical school diploma, and no M.D. following my last name. That title
was all I wanted to be called, yet I had nothing to prove for it. I towered over her hospital bed, but felt as insig-
nificant as a speck of the dust that covered the floor.
Her moaning slowly developed into inaudible movements of her mouth. She smacked her lips seemingly in
an attempt to summon words to the tip of her tongue. Slowly they came. One by one. The next just as indis-
cernible as the last.
Suddenly, it was if she mustered up all of her remaining force to make a final cry. The woman began speak-
ing rapidly, yet faintly. Both her strong Bolivian accent and fragile voice made any attempt to understand her
impossible. In that moment, I felt powerless and inadequate. There’s nothing I can do to help her. I can’t even
understand what she’s saying. I made every attempt to sympathize with her. I was catching words here and
there, “hijo,” “ventana,” “insulina.” Yet, I could not understand enough to make any semblance of a difference.
The more the woman talked, the more distressed she became. Her speech escalated from words to cries. Her
eyes became swollen with tears that slowly ripped across her protruding cheek bones. The rising and falling of
her chest mimicked that of a marathon runner after the completion of a race. She was creating more pain for
herself than I could ever alleviate.
Her wandering eyes became fixed on mine. It was as if she were saying without words, “Help me. Please. Do
anything.” In that moment, I discovered a power than transcended all language barriers: the power of touch.
My hand locked into hers. I glided my fingers across her hand, feeling every rubbery, dis-tended vein and
swollen knuckle.
“Tranquila, señora, tranquila,” My remaining hand accompanied the other until her fingers were engulfed
within mine. I stroked her hand as if to brush away the pain she was feeling.
“Ya, ya, ya, Doctora,” she mustered through her irregular breaths. Her face began to slightly unravel from
her labored crying.
“No se preocupe, señora. Todo está bien. Respire profundo.” (Don’t worry, ma’am. Everything is okay.
Breathe deeply.) I had to be confident in what I was saying. Not in a way to trick the woman, but to make her,
and me, feel at ease.
With pleasant surprise, my words seemed to work. Her eyes slowly dried and her chest contraction returned
to normal. She breathed in deep and exhaled with pursed lips, exactly how I had told her to do. My words did
work. This was proof that they actually had meaning.
After what felt like both an eternity and 3 minutes, the interns returned. An intern drew up the appropri-
ate amount of glucose from a glass vile and injected it into her intravenous line. It was apparent that she felt
immediate relief. Color had returned to her rich, weathered skin. Her cracked lips seeped open to reveal a
decayed, yet joyful smile, full of gratitude to the interns, and me. The three interns walked into the hallway and
once again left me alone with the woman. I reassured her that everything would be okay.
She turned to me and in her crooked smile said, “Gracias, Doctora.”
In that moment, I was filled with the desire to be able to deliver care to the people I came in contact with.
I no longer wanted to stand in the background and watch as a human suffered beneath me. I wanted to be the
one to give relief to a person who so desperately needed it. My passion to serve in the international medical
field became stronger and more tangible than it ever had before. Now, the opportunities to hold the hands of
sick patients, to navigate my way through a foreign operating room, and to make a difference in the life of a
human was right in front of me.
On the 38th day of my international internship, I packed my bags, boarded the plane, and returned home.
The idea of home had never been more clear. I realized home is not a place, but a feeling. Home is the feeling
of holding tight to the ones you love. The feeling that the struggle was worth every painful second. And the
feeling that even 38 days later, love exists right where you left it. I returned home a stronger and braver person,
someone that I never thought I could be. I was stretched as far as I possibly could in order to experience new
things, travel new places, and see the world in a new perspective. One day, I hope I can impact the world like it
impacted me: through every difficult situation, across every language barrier, and beyond every border.