She quietly hobbled into the clinic when her number was called, clearly in excruciating pain. When asked what was troubling her, she lifted her left leg to reveal the sole of her foot. The entire medical team froze in shock. A cut on her left foot had become so infected that we could almost see the bones. It was incredible to think that anyone could stand, never mind walk, on such an injury.
We treated her foot, pouring ethyl alcohol on the wound, applying salves, and bandaging it to ensure that this basic, temporary treatment would provide a little comfort. The girl sat silently all the while, and despite her pain, smiled and thanked us when the last bandage was in place.
One of the nurses enquired what had caused such a terrible injury, and she simply replied, “Mis padres no tienen dinero” (My parents don’t have any money), which is to say, they couldn’t afford shoes and socks for her. Moved by her sad plight, I took off my sock, put it on her bare foot, and told her to be careful. After thanking the medical staff one more time, she slowly limped away. That night, I cried myself to sleep. This is the story of a six-year-old girl I met during a medical mission trip in 2006.
Knowledge can indeed be a curse. Every member of the medical team realized that the girl had a slim chance of surviving such an injury, especially with her financial difficulties and the infection that had set in. Nevertheless, we were forced to pretend that she would be okay. We found little solace in the small comfort we provided her. In all likelihood, she is now dead, since her parents probably would not forgo essential needs, such as food and fuel, to pay for the medical treatment she needed. This is not a unique story in third-world nations, where poverty is the norm and the economic oppression of oligarchic rule cripples the lower classes.
As the son of Christian missionaries, service has defined my life. I have lived in England, where we worked with the marginalized Middle Eastern and Asian minorities. I have lived in Guatemala, where we encountered political oppression, inhumane poverty, and broken lives every time we turned around. I am now in America, where I have directed my service to my local hospital, food drives, and church music ministries. Furthermore, I have thrown myself into the newly available academic opportunities – AP courses, college summer programs, and scholarship societies. But I cannot forget the poor, the oppressed, and the needy all over the world. Their cries to be treated with dignity haunt me and inspire me to pursue my dreams ever faster.
As such, I have decided to apply to the very best colleges, in hopes of receiving an education that will direct me to medical school and eventually to the World Health Organization. There, I will fight for the welfare of the ignored, impoverished indigents for whom medical care is a distant dream. Some people have told me to tone down my dreams and to lower my goals. But when I remember holding a dying baby in my arms, when I remember how the little girl hobbled out of sight, when I remember hearing that a missionary was shot dead by a paramilitary group, I cannot. I must go on, in the hope that after many years, I might quote to my grandchildren:
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
We treated her foot, pouring ethyl alcohol on the wound, applying salves, and bandaging it to ensure that this basic, temporary treatment would provide a little comfort. The girl sat silently all the while, and despite her pain, smiled and thanked us when the last bandage was in place.
One of the nurses enquired what had caused such a terrible injury, and she simply replied, “Mis padres no tienen dinero” (My parents don’t have any money), which is to say, they couldn’t afford shoes and socks for her. Moved by her sad plight, I took off my sock, put it on her bare foot, and told her to be careful. After thanking the medical staff one more time, she slowly limped away. That night, I cried myself to sleep. This is the story of a six-year-old girl I met during a medical mission trip in 2006.
Knowledge can indeed be a curse. Every member of the medical team realized that the girl had a slim chance of surviving such an injury, especially with her financial difficulties and the infection that had set in. Nevertheless, we were forced to pretend that she would be okay. We found little solace in the small comfort we provided her. In all likelihood, she is now dead, since her parents probably would not forgo essential needs, such as food and fuel, to pay for the medical treatment she needed. This is not a unique story in third-world nations, where poverty is the norm and the economic oppression of oligarchic rule cripples the lower classes.
As the son of Christian missionaries, service has defined my life. I have lived in England, where we worked with the marginalized Middle Eastern and Asian minorities. I have lived in Guatemala, where we encountered political oppression, inhumane poverty, and broken lives every time we turned around. I am now in America, where I have directed my service to my local hospital, food drives, and church music ministries. Furthermore, I have thrown myself into the newly available academic opportunities – AP courses, college summer programs, and scholarship societies. But I cannot forget the poor, the oppressed, and the needy all over the world. Their cries to be treated with dignity haunt me and inspire me to pursue my dreams ever faster.
As such, I have decided to apply to the very best colleges, in hopes of receiving an education that will direct me to medical school and eventually to the World Health Organization. There, I will fight for the welfare of the ignored, impoverished indigents for whom medical care is a distant dream. Some people have told me to tone down my dreams and to lower my goals. But when I remember holding a dying baby in my arms, when I remember how the little girl hobbled out of sight, when I remember hearing that a missionary was shot dead by a paramilitary group, I cannot. I must go on, in the hope that after many years, I might quote to my grandchildren:
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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