Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

The Past Is How We Live the Future

2017; Wiley; Volume: 65; Issue: 10 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1111/jgs.14992

1532-5415

Paul Rousseau,

Palliative Care and End-of-Life Issues

… after all these years, there still ain't nothin' a whole lot different when you take the cream off the top … —Miss Francine Francine was a sprightly 96-year-old African-American woman who I followed in the Palliative Care Clinic for diabetes mellitus, heart failure, and emphysema. She lived independently in the home where she was born, thanks in part to the tenacity of parental genetics and in part to a collection of committed caregivers. Her house, a modest one-room structure that teetered on the edge of a listless swamp, was made of wood hewn from the earliest trees on her family's homestead, and although old and roughshod, it was a home nevertheless, beautiful in its simplicity. I visited Francine on a regular basis, because taxicabs were expensive in the rural province where she lived, and she hated imposing on her neighbors. When I arrived for my quarterly visit in the fever of a southern summer, she was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch, fanning herself with a piece of folded cardboard. The air was heavy with mosquitoes, and the heat and humidity hung like thick wool. A large oak tree, draped with Spanish moss, gave a welcome respite of spotted shade. The land was quiet and undisturbed; the world seemed slow, like time laid quiet in Francine's hands. “How you doin' Dr. Paul?” Her voice was worn and gravelly, a testament to decades of life and the ravages of tobacco. “I'm fine Miss Francine.” “How's your daughters?” “They're fine Miss Francine, thank you for asking. How are you doing?” “I be fine, jus' tryin' to keep myself cool, and swattin' them darn skeeters. These skeeters are enough to bring a dead man back alive.” “The mosquitoes are bad all right, and yes ma'am, it's a hot one. You using that electric fan the nurse brought you?” “When I got ‘lectricity I do.” I knew Francine's house had old wiring; her son was always repairing the threadbare wires. “Then let's get you a battery-operated fan, and we'll be sure you always have batteries.” She nodded. “How's your sugar diabetes and breathing?” “I be feelin' jus' fine Dr. Paul. My blood sugars' been good, and so's my breathin.' I ain't got nothin' to complain about.” “That's wonderful Miss Francine, you're doing a great job. Do you mind if I listen to your heart and lungs?” “You go ahead Dr. Paul, you got your job to do.” “It's not a job Miss Francine, you and me, we got respect and love.” She gave a smile. “Yes sir, we do.” I checked her blood pressure, listened to her heart and lungs, examined a wound on her leg, pricked her finger to test her blood sugar, reviewed her medications, and filled her pill box. After I was done, Francine, as usual, wanted to talk about racial inequality. Social issues were her life, for she lived sitting in the back of the bus, using “Black Only” bathrooms and water fountains, and fearing the Ku Klux Klan. “Our land was bloodied for the black man's freedom—spilled both black and white blood mind you. But Dr. Paul, after all these years, there still ain't nothin' a whole lot different when you take the cream off the top, at least ‘round here.” She sat back in her chair, lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a puff, and said, “The races been poisoned by slavery and the separatin' of whites and coloreds. God didn't intend for it to be that way—He don't see no color. And ain't no man better than another, no matter their color. But I don't see it changin', at least not while I'm breathin' the Lord's air.” She swatted a mosquito and then pinched her eyes narrow. “The times are troubled Dr. Paul. The boy who killed those people at that church in Charleston…” Her voice trailed off. She gave a long and throaty cough, bent forward to catch her breath, and with neck veins bulging, spit a glob of thickened phlegm onto the dusty ground. She wiped her mouth with a bandana hung around her neck, and pulled me close. “You know somethin' I've learned Dr. Paul…” She paused. “The past is how we live the future.” She closed her eyes, as if calling up memories of the bygone. “I have trouble rememberin' 1965 and Reverend King and Selma and the marches—it's like a light bulb that's almost burnt out, it seems so long ago—but here in the south, the Civil War, that was yesterday.” Conflict of Interest: None. Author Contribution: I am the sole author, and responsible for the contents. Sponsor's Role: There was no sponsor.