Yesterday… “Mom, I don’t feel well, Dad. I can’t make dinner and don’t want to drive out to eat.” The important person’s voice complained. I placed my hand on her arm and forehead, and it was cold. Oh yes, my wife just drove in. So I slipped my hand to her back, intending to unhook her bra but feared being scolded.
“You’re not hot, Mom,” I acted like a thermometer. “Here’s the deal, tell our daughter you’re sick. Let them handle the food for you.” I suggested. My wife stared at me as if she wanted to say something. “Don’t be confused, tell the kids that Mom is sick,” I concluded and drove to the clinic.
Today was strange; there were a lot of patients. I examined five people, but it was so engaging that I forgot to call back about the food at home. But then, as I remembered, an SMS came in.
“Sister Pang made food for Mom. What will you eat, Dad?”
I opened the picture and saw that Korean-style soup, and I decided to walk to the shop.
“Sister, shiitake mushroom soup,” I requested.
“Bee, bring rice for the doctor,” she immediately ordered her sister, then opened the lid of the large steamer pot. “Shiitake mushroom soup with pork ribs,” the last epic soup of the shop that I had to scoop up and sip. The clear soup with finely chopped green onions sprinkled in, two heaping spoons, just because she knew I liked it.
“Sister, what do the Chinese characters on the side of the soup bowl mean?” I’ve been curious for days.
“I don’t know. They say it means something good,” she couldn’t read it.
“So you bought it just because they said it means good?”
“Yes, doctor, and do you think it’s good?” she asked back.
“Well, if you think it’s good, then it is good, sister,” I concluded, and I used a spoon to stir the soup, intending to chew a big goji berry. They say it’s good for the eyes…………………
I was enjoying the shiitake mushroom soup, rice, and fresh chopped chili.
The mother and daughter walked past my shop to the restaurant where I was eating. The mother was just a woman well past middle age, the kind I would have to call “sister” or “aunt.” She wasn’t particularly striking, but the teenage girl she was holding hands with was special to me.
The skinny girl, with her awkward gait, seemed abnormal to me. When I saw her face, I realized she had Down syndrome. Down syndrome is a condition where there is an extra chromosome.
Here’s the thing:
For a person to be born, a father and mother must have sex, and the father introduces sperm to mix with the mother’s egg. The sperm has 23 chromosomes, and the egg also has 23 chromosomes. When they combine, the chromosomes pair up. They don’t pair randomly; one pairs with one, two with two, and finally, 23 with 23.
It’s amazing to say that each chromosome pair looks like a Chinese cruller. Chromosomes are the foundation of life; every cell in our body must have 23 pairs of chromosomes, except for eggs and sperm, which have 23 strands so they can pair up during reproduction. Confused?
Chromosomes mix the genetics of the father and mother, resulting in us with a basic cell structure of 23 pairs of chromosomes, dividing from one to two, from two to four, to eight, 16, 32, 64, 128, and to billions of cells, which is us now.
Down syndrome has 23 pairs of chromosomes and one extra strand. The extra pair is the 21st pair, which has three strands. People with this condition tend to have similar facial features: wide-set eyes, low ears, a large tongue, a leaky heart valve, some have crossed eyes, and many other similar abnormalities. Most importantly, they have intellectual disabilities.
The real cause of Down syndrome is unknown, but it is often found in mothers who give birth after the age of 35. It’s like getting pregnant when old. Crazy, calling 35 old? Actually, 35 isn’t old because a 35-year-old woman is at her sexiest, but if pregnant, obstetricians call them older mothers. “Remember that.”
Speaking of which, people nowadays like to get pregnant when they’re older. They want to work, travel, get to know each other, and get used to each other for a long time, etc., and then want to get pregnant at 35. Heh, and then they sit and stress about fearing their child will have Down syndrome. That’s one way to get pregnant.
But another group is those who, when they think of getting pregnant, are just a few months away from menopause. Why do they take so long to decide to get pregnant?
It gets me worked up every time.
Alright.
That little one is a Down syndrome child, and the woman past middle age is the mother. They were about to step off the sidewalk. The little one didn’t dare step down, probably scared because the ground level seemed high. She asked her mother to carry her down. The mother carried her down and into the shop where I was sipping shiitake mushroom soup. The soup wasn’t going down smoothly tonight.
Why do I feel sympathy for this mother and daughter? Many questions arose in my mind.
“Why does she have to raise a child with Down syndrome?” ??
“How many children does she have?” ??
“Did she know during pregnancy that her child had Down syndrome?” ??
“Who will take care of her when the mother is gone?” ?? etc. I kept thinking but let it go.
“Would you like the doctor to perform an abortion?” It’s a question I regularly use when the chromosome test results come out, and it shows her child has Down syndrome………………
Yesterday, I visited sixth-year medical students doing internships at a hospital outside. Many familiar students were there, and we talked about their comfort during their studies.
“What have you done?” I asked about the tasks they had to perform, such as normal deliveries, uterine cavity suction, or even assisting in surgeries.
“I inserted medication too,” she said, and I was puzzled.
“What medication?” I thought it was medication to ease delivery.
“Abortion medication,” Oh, abortion medication. I was excited.
“Does that mean you took care of the patient until they had an abortion?” I was eager.
“Yes,” she didn’t seem worried. “And how do you feel about it?” That was the teacher’s assessment of abortion.
“It’s normal, professor. It’s work, it’s a duty,” she said calmly and smiled. I felt happy.
Until we had to meet with the supervising professor.
“We still follow the agreement, which is that students don’t have to deal with abortions,” the professor said in the meeting.
“Wait, what?” I was confused.
“Students don’t have to get involved,” the professor explained.
“Why don’t students have to get involved? This is learning,” I was still confused, and my heart started racing.
“I don’t know what agreement the professors made,” I started speaking slowly. Those who knew me would understand it wasn’t normal.
“Every student in this batch, I taught them about abortion firsthand.” Yes, I taught them firsthand. They were the first batch to learn about abortion from Thanaphan, in Thanaphan’s style.
“They were taught by me to care for those seeking abortions as people, not to see patients as worms. My students are a new generation.” I could say this because I still had the attitude assessment forms from that day in my hand, so I dared to speak.
“This kind of thing can’t be forced. Even doctors and professors don’t all agree to perform abortions,” someone in the meeting suggested.
“Yes, I’m not saying anything, but my students, I taught them firsthand. We let them intern, they have to learn to think, to find joy in caring for patients. This is real practice after trying to think. Some things have to be left for them to do, not prohibited beforehand.” I couldn’t agree to this.
The meeting laughed because everyone knew how serious I was about this. The issue of abortion, which some people understand, of course, most of them are the new generation, and there are some who, even if they die and are reborn, still don’t understand its true necessity.
“Why don’t you perform abortions anymore, professor?” a second-year medical student asked during the afternoon discussion.
Heh, this kind of thing can’t be told yet. Let it mature in my mind more, and maybe I’ll tell you. I once thought of a sentence that suddenly came to mind.
The issue of abortion is both a science and an art. I’m a doctor. I work in the medical arts. Teachers teach to use science along with understanding humanity simultaneously.
“Treating diseases requires science.
Treating people with diseases requires science first, then a lot of care. But harming a patient doesn’t require any science, just pure hatred can harm them.” The above sentence applies to patients who genuinely need an abortion and are treated by some of us in the healthcare profession…………………………
“Sister, what do the Chinese characters on the side of the soup bowl mean?” I’ve been curious for days.
“I don’t know. They say it means something good.”
The issue of abortion is like this.
The characters with good meaning are on the side of the soup bowl that must be simmered in the steamer until hot. The ceramic bowl stays hot for a long time, intensely hot, touching it with bare hands can cause burns, but the soup is delicious, really delicious. The characters that hide the meaning of goodness and value are on a container that withstands high heat, holding delicious and healthy soup. Complex and contradictory, but actually very simple. That was yesterday, confusion was placed………………….
Today
“Mom, run with Dad tonight,” I called on the phone.
“Sure,” Huh, I didn’t expect to hear that answer. She’s a once-a-week tennis player. She doesn’t like running. She likes playing tennis, and it’s really once a week. Running a kilometer makes her cramp, so she runs and walks, with her husband running nearby. I like this, watching my wife’s butt move up and down with each step, so cute.
She is the life partner who willingly got pregnant with me. We both never felt what it’s like to be unprepared for pregnancy, but we both choose to understand what kind of help those who are unprepared need.
My little wife ran and walked for 3.5 kilometers and then asked to stop. Well, just this makes me happy.
Oops… did I write something wrong?
Thanaphan Chuboon finished the soup at the shop.
January 15, 2019