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All the
pharmacists had advised that immediately after my Board Exam, I should
take a vacation. Because, they urged, the two and a half months
waiting for the results will be the most agonizing period of my life.
And after four years of much stress and prayers and six months of
“no-life,” I deserved a break. Either that or get married, they
concluded.
They were right.
Studying for the Board Exam tested my will and discipline (not to
mention faith) to the max, only to�ultimately�rob the best of me. I
will spare Đồng Hành readers the details of the exam’s effect on my
self-esteem. Let’s just say that after the exam, I started praying
for a miracle, something I had prayed for only once.
So I appreciated
the pharmacists’ good intentions, except I neither took a vacation nor
got married. Instead, I volunteered at Nhân Hoà Comprehensive Health
Clinic in Garden Grove, California.
Nhân Hoà, which
literally means “harmony among the people,” is a non-profit
organization funded by the State and County to provide health care
services to the indigent population in Orange County. Nhân Hoà was
founded in 1992 by a group of Vietnamese professionals, as a response
to the needs of the under-served population. Most of the patients
were Vietnamese but sometimes we had non-Vietnamese patients too.
The
150-square-feet pharmacy was located inside the clinic. The pharmacy
employed one part-time pharmacist and two licensed technicians. Both
technicians had been professional health care providers in Vietnam:
Bác Cường was a medical doctor and Cô Liên was a licensed pharmacist.
Bác Cường and Cô Liên were knowledgeable and invaluable...like a
thesaurus.
I spent half a
day in the pharmacy about once or twice each week. I helped process,
dispense, and counsel patients on their prescriptions. Geez, sounds
just like working in any pharmacy, no?
Perhaps, but Nhân
Hoà was unique. The morale at Nhân Hoà was unlike all other places I
worked at before. The humble doctors treated the medical assistants
and the ancillary staff well. They did not order; they asked
politely. They did not strut down the hall; they trod gently. They
did not frown or grumble when they were tired; they merely rubbed
their eyes and said they needed an extra cup of coffee at lunch. The
medical assistants were consistently kind, amiable, and patient. One
adorned our front office and pharmacy with fresh roses from her garden
weekly. The co-director and accountant even brought us donuts, beef
jerky, and pastries to rejuvenate us.
At my previous
jobs with the big retail pharmacies, when I made a mistake, everyone
knew because I had interrupted the dispensing process. Patients now
got their medications in 16 minutes instead of 15 as we had told
them. At Nhân Hoà, when I typed a mistake, I was patted on the back
and was reassured that it was okay to just edit the file. Every time
I selected the correct drug manufacturer (my weakness) when typing the
prescriptions, Bác Cường congratulated me. Every time I was stuck, I
called out, “Bác Cường, I need you!” And Bác Cường appeared instantly
with a resounding, “Yes ma’am!”
But, argh, the
patients at Nhân Hoà. Alas, I know what they all meant when, in
school, they harped at us, “It’s the patients who matter.”
At the big chain
retail pharmacies, patients accused me of overcharging them, of
conspiring with the insurance companies when a medication was not
covered. Or, after waiting 10 minutes and despite seeing us scurrying
like headless chickens in the pharmacy, they still demanded to know
why their prescriptions were not ready yet. Their countenances and
tone were rarely pleasant. Every phone call and every “I want to see
the pharmacist” became an unwanted distraction. Once a patient loudly
accused me of causing his high blood pressure, and in response to my
suppressed chuckle (my odd way of responding to crisis), he threatened
to report me to the manager. Despite my silent chant, “Be kind, Giang.
Look for Jesus in this person. Be kind, Giang. Look for Jesus...,”
Cải Dễ Sợ! emerged from the abyss of UCI days, and I shamefully
thought, “You can have a stroke now, and I wouldn’t care.” Patients
were so demanding, so ungrateful, and so quick to blame. And, I,
regretfully, often responded according to their temperaments.
The patients at
Nhân Hoà, though scanty in health, were generous with compliments and
smiles. Every patient left the clinic with gratitude. I selfishly
desired their compliments and smiles so I put my rickety Vietnamese to
practice (of course, I relied more on gestures and facial
expressions). When time permitted, I insisted that a patient showed
me how she used her inhaler. I discussed dietary recommendations with
a diabetic patient. I reminded patients with high blood pressure to
walk 30 minutes each day for most days of the week and to cut back on
fried and salty foods. And that was how I slowly retrieved and
implemented my training. I had yet to get a Vietnamese male patient
to quit smoking though...
Despite our big
sign on the window, “XIN MIỄN TẶNG QUÀ,” patients still wanted to give
us gifts. Once, we dispensed medications to a well-known Vietnamese
folklore singer, and she thanked us by giving us free CDs. I didn’t
know about the other workers, but I quickly slipped the CD into my bag
to take home for my mother. Another time, we had to plead to a
patient to refrain from bringing us gifts after she revealed her
intention of doing so.
I didn’t know if
we could heal them all, but the momentary twinkling in their eyes,
deepening of wrinkles, and toothless smiles of mấy cụ già as they
thanked us whispered in my ear that perhaps, we were...in some
immeasurable degree.
For the majority
of my week, I was working at the hospital or from home for a
consulting firm. No matter how wearisome work was during the week, I
still rewarded myself by spending a few mornings at Nhân Hoà.
The days I hung
out at Nhân Hoà were the happiest days of my week. I was more
energetic when I was at Nhân Hoà. I learned to value my clinical
knowledge and skills, something I had deemed meaningless after taking
the Board Exam. I could feel that my presence and efforts were
appreciated. Most importantly, whenever I looked up, I was reminded
that health care was still a noble profession.
I suppose Nhân
Hoà Clinic was not just for the sick, but for the healthy as well.
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