December was another month littered with travel. From Mumbai to Delhi, Delhi to Mumbai, Mumbai to Varanasi, Varanasi to Delhi, and finally from Delhi to Singapore, I can only hope that my refusal to eat meat will continue to counterbalance my existential distress over my carbon footprint.
I’ve delayed writing this post for a while. It’s not been for lack of activity nor lack of stimulation. In the time since I penned the last update, I’ve shadowed a pediatric palliative care unit in Mumbai for a few weeks, attended a conference about the future of public health, travelled to Varanasi, and celebrated the holidays.
There are actually numerous drafts of this post saved to my computer, each of which I scrapped for one reason or another—too much focus on the work, too much focus on my personal experience; too meandering, too pedantic; too much, too little.
Writing has always been an outlet for me, a means for creation when comprehension fails. There’s a lot about India that didn’t make sense to me (many things that, in three months, would’ve been unrealistic for me to completely understand), so I wrote. A lot. However, regardless of how many words I spilled into Microsoft Word, each was spurned for its inability to cohere with the others and accurately convey my experience.
It wasn’t until late last night as I replayed my memories in the liminal space between wake and sleep, did I realize that my time resists synthesis because it largely existed in fragments.
India was a place that completely upended my understanding of palliative care.
India was a place whose chaos and cacophony often left me enervated.
India was a place that I stayed a month longer than I originally intended.
India was a place whose current political situation is equally heartbreaking and terrifying.
India was a place where I made friends that continue to inspire me.
India was a place that pushed my boundaries, that forced me to be more open and understanding.
India was all of those things, but it also still is. It is a place that is nuanced, layered, and difficult to make sense of; it is a place I that miss.
I spoke with an American physician who has worked extensively in India a few days after my arrival in September. He offered advice and suggestions for things to do near where I was staying, he also cautioned that the country could be extremely frustrating. Naïve (and nervous), I laughed at that, a reaction which lead him to explain that he’d once read a book about an Australian couple who lived in India for years yet, when boarding the flight back home, flipped the country the bird out of exasperation.
He assured me that he did not flip India the bird, though he’d come close.
And so, I’ve had trouble writing because as I boarded my plane, I had the simultaneous urge to give India the middle finger and to run off the air bridge, out of the airport, and back to all that I’d started there.
When comparing palliative care in the UK to Greece I wrote, “If my project in Greece was a matter of trying to locate disparate puzzle pieces to put together a cohesive image, my project in the UK is a matter of looking at a mostly completed puzzle and trying to understand how it was pieced together.” Continuing with the analogy, my project in India was largely a matter forsaking my fluency in puzzles to learn instead how to solve a rubix cube. A rubix cube is not inherently more difficult to solve than a puzzle, though it certainly is if you’ve only ever solved puzzles and have the cube thrusted into your hand with minimal explanation.
The rules that govern are just different.
To understand how palliative care is provided to individuals in India, I had to struggle to understand, among many many others things, why palliative care services take such a different shape than elsewhere that I’ve seen, how communal culture impacts medical decision making, why intersections of identity (which dictate, even if only subtlety, how care is provided in most places) really dictate how it is provided in India.
To be entirely honest, as I write this, I’m still not sure where all of these experiences leave me. I have thought a lot about something a psychologist I shadowed for a while said to me when chatting about the importance of palliative care, “There is not always a cure, but there is always an opportunity to heal.”
As readers of this blog will know, the last two posts have struggled with the realizations that: (1) we all generally want the same things—to love, to be loved, to feel valued, to be free of pain and (2) that experiences, particularly unfamiliar or overwhelming ones, can be made manageable, easy even, when we are met with kindness and compassion. I’ve wondered out loud if I really needed a trip around the world to realize those things; to conclude at the halfway mark of the most immense opportunity of my life that we just need to do a better job being beings felt a little unsatisfactory.
In my last few days in India, as I allowed a bit of time for rest over the holidays, I began to think differently. Rather than accusatorially asking myself ‘did I really need a trip around the world to realize those things,’ I began to question ‘why has a trip around the world spurred those realizations?’
I now wonder if this trip around the world has spurred these realizations because it’s the first time there’s been no pressure for an answer or a cure, no pressure to immediately understand all that is in front of me. Instead, it’s the first time I’ve been able to think deeply about curing’s elusive and enduring cousin, healing.
In some ways I’ve always been aware of the omnipresent opportunity for healing—intellectually, theoretically—but now I know it differently, know it as a part of my constitution rather than my consciousness. India, I believe, is largely to thank for that.
I am spending a few days in Singapore for a short vacation before heading onward to New Zealand where I will be based through March.