The Metal Room

I press my right big toe at the lowest point of the silver metal cabinet, next to the ground and the cool water starts to flow through the faucet,  running between my fingers and goes directly to the sink drain.

I begin to rub the palms of my hands and my short nails with a brush with very thin plastic bristles. The orange soap has a funny smell and viscous texture that I never got used to, even after using it for years.  In a back and forth motion, I invert the brush side and a soft yellow sponge appears with which I begin to slowly rub the spaces between each finger, rising up to my elbows. Time to rinse, the water has to flow from the fingertips to the elbows, not in the sense that it would be logical, to prevent dirt from returning to my hands.

I pull on  my white lab coat, covering everything but my face, a cap holding my hair and large glasses to protect my eyes. I put on my gloves without touching the outsides; it takes some time for me to do this precisely.  I finally finish my preparation, that means I'm now shielded from the outside world.

My assistant on the surgical theatrer, a nurse endowed with enormous wisdom and simplicity, brings my first patient of the day. I look at the clock above the sink on the sterile white wall and I know that the morning will be busy.

In the high-tech hospital bed in the center of the room, I see a 70-years-old, lean and short japonese woman, holding hands with her daughter. For a few seconds, I notice the discreet trembling in her left hand as she tries to straighten a lock of her short gray hair and the apprehensive exchange of glances with her daughter, as she leaves the room.

I ask the old lady if she remembers what we're going to do. She understands what I say, but she can’t answer because she didn’t speak  Portuguese, even though she lived in Brazil for many years. Looking at me with the same anxious eyes, she points her left forefinger to the right arm, cringing (shrinking ?) in the cold room.

I keep the headboard high with a thin pillow, maybe it will make her feel more comfortable, if that's even possible. I take her cold hand, feeling the accelerated radial pulse. Blood pressure ok, blood tests ok, the colorful lines and waves on the monitor screen ok. It’s time to start the surgery. With her hands still between mine, I gently tell her that everything will work well, that she would feel a little pain at the beginning of the anesthesia and then nothing more.

Elisabeth picks up the surgical instruments that I will use during surgery. From the cabinet with glass doors and shelves and metal frame, there is a plethora of small packages wrapped in green paper and a crepe ribbon with black stripes. It’s amazing how she already knows beforehand what I'm going to need without having to ask her.

I look at the lady's arm, where she showed me a dark spot. I would consider the drawing beautiful if I didn’t know that that mole was so life threatening. Two inches, raised edges, shades of brown, black and red. The milky white in the center is not a good sign.

I look at Elis, who already opens two packages of yarn, she knows it will be a big surgery. To break the silence, she asks me “4.0 or 5.0”? Trying to get used to the glare of the spotlight above my head, I smile: "5.0, this is going to be the best suture of her life," while I wonder how to fix the hole after the skin cancer is removed.

My scalpel slides smoothly over the pale skin due to anesthesia. Little blood comes out of the wound. Everything is under control, now, I can hear the music that is playing softly on the radio. Time is running out, says the clock. Tic Tac.The edges of the wound slide into a hug, the 32 stitches have the same size, depth and length. Bandage done, I take my gloves off, reminding myself how I hate that white powder that is left on my hands.

The lady's eyes brighten as her daughter returns and they exchange quick words in japanese, which I don’t understand.

I give the instructions to the daughter about the necessary care after the surgery. Meanwhile, the elderly woman embraces me with affection and hands me a cloth embroidered by herself, but she doesn’t say anything, again.

I get lost in my thoughts in the two minutes left before I call the next patient. I think how lonely she must feel in that surgery room. I wish she did not have time to have metastases.

I go back to the washbasin and I start washing my hands again.… It will start all over again. This morning will be frenetic and exciting, definitivily.

I wrote this memoir as a final assignment for my Reading and Writing Skills Class at Yale University, remembering that day.  More than ever, I feel empathy for that foreign patient, every day I have difficulty (frustration) in joining the words in a way that I can be understood by others.

It was six weeks of intense study and dedication to improve my skills, and I’m proud of myself for pursuing my dream. I know that when I go back to see Ms. Yoko in her next appointment with me, my english communication skills will be better than now and my friends all around the world will be able to understand the message I want to leave.