Among my neighbours I’ve acquired a reputation as an amateur doctor. I guess as an American, I’m considered effective in administering Western medicine in the same way an Italian might be expected to make a better plate of pasta than a Pole. It’s true that I sometimes translate the information enclosed in people’s prescription medications, a long list of which constitute the only treatment they can hope for from most local (underpaid, overworked) doctors. I always counsel them to ask more questions about their illnesses and about why they should be taking seven kinds of medicine at once. I also administer intramuscular injections, using alcohol and cotton (having noisily washed my hands), and the rumour that I have ‘a light touch’ has gotten around.
Over time I’ve lost some patients, whether to old age or disease beyond pharmaceutical repair. But when winter comes, I think of Anwar (whose name means ‘the most radiant’), my friend and building guardian who died of diabetes-related complications several Novembers ago. I can see him standing at my door, proffering both a loaded hypodermic, and his right foot, which was wrapped in a large ball of gauze.
