Finding Solace. by Dr. Willy Roque

Finding Solace.

I don’t have a home.

Don’t misunderstand me; I am fortunate enough to have somewhere to rest my head every night, a place with electricity and running water. Many people, I’ve discovered, don’t even have that. I know that I am lucky. But whenever, in polite conversation, a colleague or acquaintance asks me where my home is, I pause for a few seconds. They mean, “Where are you from, originally?” or “Where did you grow up?”, which would be easy enough to answer. It’s that word – home – that stops me in my tracks.

If you asked me where I grew up, I’d tell you Venezuela. But the Venezuela that I grew up in, the country filled with friends and family, has crumbled into dust. One by one, the people that I know and love have scattered into the distance to find new places to live. I was one of them. I made the decision, like my grandfather, to become a physician. I knew that if I wanted to fulfill this dream, I had to go outside of Venezuela’s borders. So I left, too.

Newark, USA. Located on the East Coast. Every morning, as I walk to the bustling inner-city hospital where I am a resident, I see a hundred faces like mine. People who are new and curious about the city, people who are a million miles from the land they grew up on. Even within the walls of the hospital, I have discovered a rich array of cultural backgrounds when I talk to the staff. They are from India, China, the Philippines, South Korea, South Africa, South America. Yet we have all ended up in this one place, working together to make the world a better one, while an invisible string is tied between our hearts and the distant countries we once lived in, connecting us to our origins, and to each other.

No matter how stressed or exhausted I am, I always choose to spend an extra minute to walk through the medical school on the way to the hospital. I did this yesterday morning, and this morning, and I can imagine that I will do it even when I am old and grey. Each time I look at the university logo, I feel a tug on that internal string. I represent the medical school, whenever I am in my white coat, but I also represent Venezuela.

I have talked about this to several of the international residents and staff here at the hospital, and found that while they may not walk through the medical school every morning like me, they feel the same way. They choose to honor this feeling in other ways, each specific to their culture and personality. Each time I have a conversation like this, where I am able to learn a new snippet of information about a different culture, I feel myself get lighter.

Several weeks ago, I asked one of the ultrasound technicians, Mrs. R, for her story.

“I moved from India twenty years ago,” she answered. “I was a radiologist, in a busy hospital. I haven’t been back since.” I didn’t ask if she meant that she hadn’t been back to India, or that she hadn’t been back to radiology – I had a feeling that both were true.

“And why did you leave?”

“We knew we had to move to the USA,” she said, looking into the distance as if she was seeing something in her memories. “We wanted our sons to have more opportunities than we did.”

Like me, Mrs. R made a sacrifice to achieve her dreams. But her dream was different than mine; raising her sons in America, allowing them to have a better life than she had, while working part-time jobs to pay the bills. I could see in her eyes that this change had taken a toll on her, even if she didn’t regret it. I wondered if she preferred being a radiologist to being an ultrasound technician.

My grandfather, too, was a physician in Venezuela. One of my warmest childhood memories is being taken to his home office, where he had a flourishing collection of books about history and art. This is how he had always whittled away at the stress of being a medical student, then a resident, and finally a doctor. I discovered that each person must have an outlet for stress, or a way to reduce it, or else it can consume you. This is what leads to the high rates of anxiety and depression in the medical world. I watched and absorbed the way he got this comfort and reassurance from art, so when it was my turn to enter the medical profession, it seemed natural that I would get my comfort from art, too. I often walk to the MoMa or the Met, and slowly let my mind travel through my favorite paintings.

The Harvesters, by Bruegel, with its golden sheathes of wheat and rolling paddocks into the distance. Degas’ dancers, delicate and whimsical, and Rosseau’s gypsy sleeping under the desert moon. Each of these paintings transports me into a world that is far away from my own, but I see a part of myself in all of them, just like each colleague I work with, and each person whose culture I learn about. A facial expression, a delicate brush stroke or a piece of scenery that I can imagine driving past. Any of these things allow me to connect the art to my own life, my own soul. There is something about making connections that combats loneliness like nothing else.

After I walk through the medical school each morning, I pass by Mr. B, the security guard. Even though he is still on his night shift, he is always quick to greet me and wish me a good morning, as happy as if he is on vacation.

“Good morning, Doctor,” he says each time, and I feel a burst of pride to be referred to in this way. It adds a spring to my step as I shift into intern-robot mode, ready to get things done.

One day, I decided to come in early, so that I could stay and talk to him. I wanted to find out more about this kind-hearted man, and connect with him in the same way that I did with each of the staff at the hospital. Unlike many of my colleagues, I found that Mr B grew up in Newark. Like me, and my grandfather, he cultivated a passion for art that carried him through tough times. Mr. B’s art form of choice is jazz music; especially John Coltrane. On a Friday, when he gets home after a long week, he listens to Miles Davis instead.

When I got back to my apartment, I searched up Miles Davis, and listened to an album with my eyes closed. I imagined what Mr B felt when he heard this music; if he thought about his childhood in Newark, his family, or the night he had had at work. As I listened, just like when I looked at paintings or the university logo, I began to feel the weight of the day melting off my shoulders. With every minute that went by, I felt lighter.

I felt like I was home.