As I sat by my grandmother’s hospital bedside this weekend, I found myself wishing that I had become a lawyer or a doctor or another profession that would seem the slightest bit intimidating to the people at the hospital giving me short answers about why my grandmother’s surgery needed to be done again. The simple answer was they had done something incorrect during surgery that caused a severe infection; this needed to be rectified. The complicated answer included how it had happened, which medicines could help to heal the infection, and how much longer she would need to be in the hospital she had been admitted to in August. On many of these issues, multiple doctors could not agree. This was supposed to be a fairly routine procedure. If done correctly, she could have been out of the hospital in a week and then onto rehab. However, this was clearly not the case. So, at 5am on Friday, I found myself catching a train into Philadelphia to be there with my grandmother before her surgery.
As the doctors explained the results of the surgery to me, I listened carefully, trying to remember every detail and medical term to report back to my family. My mother was on her way to the hospital, but since the nursing staff had told my family that the surgery was not going to be until 9pm, everyone thought they had plenty of time to get there. As luck—or scheduling mistakes made by the hospital staff—would have it, the surgery was actually 9am. Thus, I was the family representation since I had taken an early train to avoid rush hour in New York City. I listened; I asked questions and then listened some more. Everything reportedly went well. I felt a sense of relief come over me.
Then, a few hours later, that relief was taken away. My uncle who is a doctor/ surgeon in the Philadelphia area arrived at the hospital a few hours after the surgery to check on my grandmother. She was in a lot of pain, but that was to be expected. What we did not expect was a report from my uncle that the doctors at the hospital where she had the surgery had lied… about a few things. I will not get into details about these lies right now, but I will say that these lies made me wish for power to expose the untruths being told. I instantly wished that I had stuck with my plan in undergraduate school to become a lawyer; a lawyer would be intimidating to surgeons and to one of the top ten hospitals in the country. Medical malpractice suits could certainly ruin their rankings. Then I thought more; if I was a doctor or a nurse, I could fix the problem myself. I have often felt that if I want something done right, I have to do it myself. This is not to say that delegation of responsibilities should be avoided, but many times taking on a responsibility and carrying it through alone is necessary.
After wishing for a new degree, or additional degrees, I realized that in light of all of this injustice at the hospital, I became a teacher and a writer for a reason. I love being a teacher. I love working with people who have committed their lives to helping others through education. I love working with children who are eager to learn, and even those that are not. It is rewarding to see a student succeed in my class and then again to see them succeed years after they have graduated. Education is the grassroots of all change efforts, I believe. If we can educate students both morally and academically, then our reach is far greater than many others’ in other professions.
As an English teacher, I am also a writer, and I realize that my words have power. Sitting there in the hospital, I realized this weekend that I don’t have to be a lawyer or a doctor to have people hear me. I am a writer. I have my words to fight injustice, and I certainly plan to use them. Determined to take on the role of a muckraking journalist, I jotted down some notes in my notebook about all that I had seen and heard, and I got to work drafting a letter to the editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer. I may not have a medical degree or a law degree—not yet anyway—but I do have a teaching/research (half doctorate) degree and a writing degree. I will use my chosen profession to power my fight against injustice, and I will make an impact. Of that I am certain, and I give my word. This is just one of the many examples of how I choose to mind my voice and speak my mind.
