my first patient
“what do you want to be when you grow up?”
an age old question
who ever knows?
apparently i did ever since i was 4 (according to mami)
a doctor, i say
flash forward » 26 years
almost to the imaginary [finish] starting line
of the dots interweaved between the m . d .
i guess i knew all along
the end informs the beginning
my first patient
knew well before me
tired, kind eyes
a face full of knowing
leathery brown skin from a life spent under a mexican-american sun
salt and pepper hair cutting through wind
leaving seeds
everywhere he went
my father, el jardinero
and
my first patient
trembling to learn
the terms of his disease
i was a newly born teenager
his body had endured its time
words like
diagnosis
treatment
cerebellum
ataxia
balance
life
death
had to be translated, mulled over into something
unrecognizable
my first patient was scared
voice unfound
body shackled
hurling towards the uncertain
undeniably brave
this
is an immigrant story
how was he my patient, you ask?
i was simply…
there.
with him.
present.
in the in between.
in the during.
i held his hand.
we cried
we laughed.
i held his hand
in the tragically beautiful
last breath.
we were
throughout time.
i was his first patient
he, witnessing
my first breath
he, counting all my fingers and toes
he, listening to my heart beat
he, giving me life,
watching me grow,
letting me go
he. healed me. heals me now. even in the after.
my father was my first patient.
but not
“a patient”
a lesson inscribed deep in my bones
my father [was] is cherished. celebrated. deeply loved.
whole.
my patients after him, are cherished. celebrated. deeply loved.
whole.
and may they always be.
- para mi papi
jessica valdez, january 23rd, 2022