Forgotten Fluency

A green palm frond slapped at Mira's face as she ducked into the dimly lit hut. The smell of smoke and something medicinal—herbs perhaps—filled her nostrils as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Three days ago, she'd been in an air-conditioned library surrounded by textbooks, cramming for her final clinical rotation. Now she stood in a small village in rural Indonesia, watching a ten-year-old boy slip deeper into unconsciousness.

"No, no," she said, raising her voice over the rhythmic chanting that had started in the corner. "He needs glucose. Sugar. Sweet. Manis?" She searched for the word, mentally cursing herself for not paying more attention to the language app she'd downloaded on the flight.

Kasih, the tour guide who'd been shepherding their group through the island's lesser-known areas, stood with his back pressed against the wall, his usually confident demeanor replaced by a hollow-eyed stare. His son, Budi, lay on a thin mat, his breathing shallow.

"Doctor?" Kasih asked for the fifth time, his voice breaking.

"I'm not—" Mira began, then stopped herself. "Yes. Doctor." The lie stuck in her throat, but she knew this wasn't the time for nuance. Fourth-year medical student, almost-doctor, whatever—the boy needed help now.

The old woman in the corner raised her voice, waving smoke from a small clay pot toward the child. She placed a withered hand on Budi's forehead and spoke rapidly to Kasih, who nodded gravely.

"What is she saying?" Mira asked, kneeling beside the boy and checking his pulse. Too fast, thready. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead—cool and clammy. Classic hypoglycemia, if she had to guess.

"She says evil spirit take him. Must let spirit go." Kasih's broken English seemed to fracture further under stress. "Cover face. Spirit leave through mouth."

"No!" Mira grabbed the cloth the old woman was reaching for. "No cover. No spirit. He needs sugar. Food. Medicine." She fumbled in her backpack, looking for anything—candy, an energy bar, something.

Kasih shook his head. "Nenek Dukun knows. Old wisdom. You not understand."

Mira bit her lip. "I understand medicine. Your son has low blood sugar. Diabetes, maybe? Does he have diabetes?"

The term seemed to register with Kasih. "Diabetes?" His eyes widened slightly. "Doctor say this before, but medicine expensive. We use traditional ways."

The old woman—the dukun—had started to move a small bowl of dark liquid toward Budi's lips.

"What is that?" Mira asked, reaching for the bowl.

"Special herbs. Make spirit afraid."

Outside, the humid air pressed down like a physical weight as the rest of her tour group waited, their hushed voices carrying through the thin walls. Mira had split off from them when Kasih had received the news about his son, insisting on coming along despite the guide's protests.

"Let me help," she had said, remembering her father's words before she left for this trip. You're almost a doctor now, Mira. Start acting like one.

The same father who had nudged her toward medicine when all she'd wanted was to pursue music. Become a doctor first, then you can do whatever you want.

Now, kneeling beside a seizing child in a village without electricity, Mira wondered if she'd ever understand what she truly wanted.

"What happened?" Mira asked, her hands steadying the boy's shoulders as the seizure subsided.

Kasih wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes never leaving his son. "Budi help me today. No school. He not eat breakfast—say not hungry."

The dukun tried to push Mira aside, but she held her ground. Through pantomime and broken language, she managed to ask if there was any honey, sugar, or fruit in the village.

"I don't understand what you need," Kasih said, frustration edging his voice.

Mira pulled out her phone and opened her translation app, typing quickly. The battery was at 12%—just enough, hopefully. She showed the screen to Kasih.

His eyes widened. "Ah! Yes, yes. We have." He spoke rapidly to a woman hovering in the doorway, who disappeared immediately.

The dukun continued her chanting, casting disapproving glances at Mira. When she again tried to cover Budi's face with a cloth, Mira firmly pushed her hand away.

"No," she said, making her voice as authoritative as possible. "He needs air."

The old woman spat words at her that needed no translation. Kasih stepped between them, speaking in quick, hushed tones to the dukun, who eventually retreated to the corner, muttering.

"She say you outsider. Not respect our ways. Not understand our beliefs."

"I understand that your son is dying," Mira said bluntly. She pointed at Budi, then drew a finger across her throat in the universal gesture. "Dying. Understand?"

The woman returned with a clay pot of honey. Mira scooped some up with her finger and smeared it inside the boy's cheek, carefully maintaining his airway. His lips were blue-tinged, his breathing increasingly labored.

"More," she urged, repeating the process. "We need to get sugar into his bloodstream."

Kasih watched, his hands clenched into fists. "Will this work?" he asked, the question barely audible.

"I hope so," Mira answered honestly. "But he needs proper medical attention. Glucagon. IV glucose." She saw the blank look on Kasih's face and shook her head. "Never mind. Let's focus on what we can do now."

The dukun had begun a new chant, softer this time, almost a lullaby. Despite herself, Mira found the sound soothing as she continued administering honey, checking Budi's pulse, and monitoring his breathing.

Her mind raced back to a similar case during her pediatric rotation—a seven-year-old with undiagnosed Type 1 diabetes, brought in unconscious with severe hypoglycemia. That child had had the benefit of a fully equipped emergency department, a team of specialists, and immediate intervention.

Here, in this hut with nothing but honey and her half-remembered medical training, Mira felt the weight of her inadequacy pressing down harder than the tropical heat.

"Please," she whispered to the unconscious boy. "Please fight."

Minutes stretched like hours as Mira maintained her vigil. The honey seemed to be helping; Budi's color was improving slightly, his breathing less labored. But he still hadn't regained consciousness.

"We should take him to a hospital," she said to Kasih. "How far is the nearest clinic?"

"Two hours by motorbike," he replied, defeat in his voice. "Road very bad. No ambulance come here."

Two hours. Too long for a child in Budi's condition.

Mira's phone battery died with an apologetic beep, cutting off her connection to the translation app. The hut fell silent except for the boy's breathing and the dukun's occasional murmurs.

"Has this happened before?" Mira asked, miming fainting.

Kasih nodded. "Two times. Once doctor in city say diabetes. Give medicine, but..." He gestured helplessly at the surroundings. "Life here different. Hard to keep medicine cold. Hard to check blood everyday."

Mira felt a wave of shame wash over her. Here she was, taking a "gap year" to "find herself" while people like Kasih struggled with basic medical access. Her "crisis" of deciding between neurology and gastroenterology seemed absurdly trivial in comparison.

Yet wasn't that what her cello teacher had always told her? "Every note matters, Mira. The soft ones as much as the loud." She had argued that a wrong note in a concerto hardly compared to real problems in the world. "That's where you're mistaken," he'd replied. "Music is connection. And what could matter more than that?"

Connection. Understanding.

Mira looked at Budi's pale face, then at Kasih's worried eyes, then at the dukun's distrustful stare. Three people speaking different languages—medical, paternal, spiritual—all trying to save one child.

Suddenly, Mira removed her backpack and unzipped the small outer pocket. She pulled out a harmonica—a gift from her grandfather that she'd carried since childhood but rarely played.

Both Kasih and the dukun stared in confusion as she lifted it to her lips and began to play. The simple melody filled the hut—not a medical intervention, not a traditional treatment, just pure human expression.

The dukun stopped chanting. Kasih's rigid posture softened slightly. And, incredibly, Budi's eyelids fluttered.

Mira stopped playing immediately, leaning over the boy. "Budi? Can you hear me?"

His eyes opened, confused and unfocused. Kasih cried out, dropping to his knees beside his son. The dukun moved closer, her skepticism momentarily forgotten.

"More honey," Mira said urgently. "He's waking up, but he needs more sugar."

As Kasih fed his son small spoonfuls of honey, Mira checked his pulse again. Stronger now, more regular. His skin felt warmer.

The dukun said something to Kasih, who translated: "She asks if music is western medicine."

Despite everything, Mira laughed. "No. Just music. Just... human."

The old woman nodded, then said something else, her tone less hostile.

"She says music spirits kinder than needle spirits," Kasih explained with a small smile.

Budi was fully conscious now, disoriented but responsive. He murmured something to his father.

"He asks who you are," Kasih said.

"I'm Mira. I'm a—" She hesitated, then continued, "I'm a doctor in training. And a musician. Both."

As she said the words aloud, something shifted inside her. For years, she'd kept these parts of herself separate, believing one had to be sacrificed for the other. Her father's voice echoed in her mind: Become a doctor first, then you can do whatever you want.

But sitting in this hut, having just used both medicine and music to save a child, the artificial division seemed absurd. She was both. She had always been both.

"Thank you for save my son," Kasih said, breaking into her thoughts.

"You're welcome," Mira replied, watching as color returned to Budi's cheeks. "But he needs proper care. Regular monitoring. Education about his condition."

"I know," Kasih sighed. "But how? Doctor far away. No money for machine to check blood."

The dukun said something, gesturing at the harmonica in Mira's hand.

"She asks if you play for tourist money," Kasih translated.

Mira smiled, shaking her head. "No. I play because..." She paused, searching for the right words, simple enough to translate yet true enough to matter. "I play because it helps me understand."

"Understand what?" Kasih asked.

"Everything," Mira replied. "And nothing. Music is its own language."

As Budi sat up, accepting a cup of water from his father, Mira watched the family interaction with new eyes. The terror on Kasih's face had been no different than what she'd seen on the faces of parents in London's top pediatric hospital. The love and concern universal, the desperate need to help one's child transcending cultural and economic differences.

First World problems are no less problems. An infected splinter requires no less attention than a heart attack. The dignity and respect we give patients means we care for them, regardless of what's bothering them.

Outside, she could hear her tour group growing restless. Her scheduled flight back to London was in two days. Her final rotation would start next week. The neat, ordered path laid out before her—finish medical school, start foundation training, specialize, become the doctor her father had always wanted her to be.

But the same hands that had just administered honey to an unconscious child had also once played Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 at the Royal Academy of Music's student showcase. The same mind that could diagnose hypoglycemia could also interpret a musical score. The same heart that felt compassion for a stranger's child still ached when she thought about the cello gathering dust under her bed.

"Budi need eat now," Kasih said. "Real food."

Mira nodded, helping the boy to sit up straighter. "Yes. Rice, bread—carbohydrates. And he'll need to eat regularly. No skipping meals."

As she explained basic diabetes management to Kasih, Mira felt a clarity she hadn't experienced in years. Not since she'd put away her cello before starting university, following her father's well-intentioned but constraining advice.

She'd come on this trip hoping to understand who she was outside of medicine. Instead, she'd discovered that medicine wasn't separate from who she was—it was part of her, just as music was part of her.

Understanding didn't always mean choosing between two things. Sometimes it meant embracing both.

As the immediate crisis passed and Budi began to eat, Mira found herself playing the harmonica again, its melancholy notes filling the hut as the afternoon shadows lengthened. The dukun had resumed her chanting, but softly now, almost in harmony with Mira's playing.

Different languages, different beliefs, different methods—all focused on the same goal.

Tomorrow she would return to her tour group, then to London, then to medical school. But something fundamental had shifted. She would call her old cello teacher. She would find a way to bring both passions together.

Kasih watched her, his expression curious. "You play sad song," he observed.

"Not sad," Mira corrected him. "Hopeful."

Because for the first time in years, she didn't feel torn between two worlds. She felt whole.

Outside, the sound of birds filled the tropical air as the day began to cool. Inside the hut, a boy who had been at death's door an hour ago was now eating rice and sipping water. And a young woman who had crossed the world to find herself was finally beginning to understand what she'd always known.

Some fluencies are never truly forgotten.