On the way, echoing softly around the corner and down the hallway, I hear it. Maybe I’m imagining it – I’ve only slept four hours in the last two days – but I swear I heard a soft K and delicate L wrap around a guttural H. I could recognize these sounds anywhere.
I have to see someone. Nothing urgent, just a quick check. For the anxious or tired patients, especially those so soon out of surgery, I like to tuck them in at night. It’s a miracle move, probably the greatest secret in medicine, more tangibly impactful than the flowcharts and electronic doctoring that dominate much of my training.
I am a building away. I can take the second floor shortcut and be there in a few, but I can’t escape the sound of my mother tongue. I take a right instead, my focus now at odds with my curiosity. I realize I have been homesick this whole time and I wonder what or who I will see.
For years I have lived far from home, away from family and community. Short of a phone call, my connection to home is distant and tired. My patients are my best friends, I am afraid, and my thorough notes a reflection of our time together, fleeting conversations I am known to take too seriously. Continue reading “Mother Tongue”