Conventional medicine, natural medicine, alternative medicine and holistic medicine.
All are approaches designed to help individuals, whether static or dynamic, endure existence with less suffering.
Here is the story of one of my successes outside of my professional field, an achievement that seems to encroach on medical science, just like my book on autism, but which I personally consider complementary.
For long before the advent of science, men may have lived and died with more enlightened assistance today, but a single common denominator in all these approaches and which would make a great difference is love of neighbor, for one fact is certain:
We are all moving towards an end.
I will not go so far as to pretend or assert that one cannot take away or add a single iota to a person’s life, or that our breaths are numbered, because I observe that, far from complementing each other, these various approaches are fragmenting and dispersed, to the detriment of human beings who have to spend a quota to accomplish certain tasks.
And that’s why, among other things, I’m telling you this story today.
It was a rather daring undertaking, like many other projects I have carried out throughout my life, projects that I can proudly claim to have completed, although, certainly, not without the support of collaborators from other disciplines.
That’s why I describe myself as a voice that cries out in the desert, a voice that yearns to resonate melodiously when perceived by discerning ears.
There are three words I like to hear: “problem,” “difficult,” and “impossible.”
As soon as I hear them, something awakens in me and pushes me to transcend myself. This is what the back cover of my book proposes to everyone to do. For this, no sacrifice is too great when it is for the well-being of humanity.
Is that also why, every time I find myself in a situation where someone tries to push me to do like everyone else, I gently slip away. I don’t like formalism so as not to fall into injustice.
The story of this nonagenarian who was impatiently waiting to celebrate his 100th birthday, at the age of 98, he had his first tooth extracted. He himself was a dentist by profession, which he had not practiced for a long time, since he had accepted a diplomatic post in Italy, and did not practice again after his return.
Apparently, as soon as you enter this arena, you don’t leave it, but he, with his communist head, has not continued on this path.
Since he did not have the suicidal instinct like the majority of them.
It must be said that he had other means of living comfortably, being the wealthy heir to a renowned hotel establishment, from which he lived on income.
A handsome black man with white teeth, which made him even more charming than he already was by his unparalleled education as the grandson of a former president of the republic.
Apart from French, which he spoke perfectly, but, having lived in Italy for a while, he also spoke this beautiful language and English.
You get the picture!
Healthy and lucid, someone who knew how to behave in society and who you would like to have at your table to have healthy and pleasant entertainment.
His only weakness was women, and the fact that he was, perhaps, a little too sentimental.
Since I had become his chaperone, first because he had officiated as the first witness at my wedding, then, by a kind of acquired right, as his adopted son after the loss of his only biological son, and given his old age, his main social activity consisted of an endless succession of funerals. This involved my participation in these events, which allowed me to meet a large number of people, in addition to those I met in my professional work. It had become a tacit obligation to always be available to take him to these gatherings.
He frequently fainted at specific moments during these ceremonies. Although he claimed to be an atheist, during these services, I always had to bring sugared almonds that he could suck in order to raise his blood sugar levels each time he lost consciousness.
Former classmate of the owner of the hotel where I ended my fifty-year career, the last twenty of which as general manager. He was a regular guest at the weekly balls held every Thursday night. These evenings featured a Creole buffet that foreign customers loved and that attracted the cream of local society.
An accomplished dancer, he invited the wives of tourists to take a lap of the dance floor and very often at their request, thus encouraging their husbands to follow suit.
He joined the family in the late 1970s, following the death of their son — a loss that left a deep void, especially for the father, who later asked him to move into the hotel in a room he had occupied for a while, and then the family home adjoining the hotel to return to the room he had occupied for some time that would fit into the inventory rooms and the capacity of the hotel.
A proposal which he accepted without hesitation, for he lived alone with his servant whom his mother had entrusted to him before her death, with instructions to watch over each other until my friend, godfather and adoptive father would get married; A marriage that did take place, although it was short-lived. I myself only knew him as a bachelor.
This commentary serves as a sequel to the story—a series of events that had, until then, eluded me.
On this Easter Sunday,
after savoring a hearty dinner—a meal he had enlivened with his customary zest—my patient and I settled in together. It was a choice feast, though the guest list was most exclusive: it consisted solely of him, my wife, and myself. We had deliberately chosen not to invite anyone else, wishing to put him further at ease so that we might continue his therapy.
To ensure his comfort even more fully—particularly at dessert time, a moment he cherished and for which we had prepared a special treat—I suggested we retire to the living room.
This seemed a timely move, for our conversation was beginning to take a political turn—a subject on which he was absolutely adamant about remaining perfectly informed.
As if guided by an invisible force, I felt inspired to hand him a book detailing the major achievements of the Magloire presidency. To our utter astonishment, he proved unable to read; when I pressed him to try—going so far as to help him decipher a single sentence—his head suddenly slumped to the side, and he began to snore.
My wife, accompanied by Chantale—my nurse, who had just finished her own meal in the pantry—then joined me in a small adjoining room that served as our family living area.
Together, we strove to make sense of the revelation we had just witnessed.
For while our patient had, until that moment, shown himself incapable of walking—requiring the combined aid of a cane and an attendant to support his weight—
another great surprise now awaited us. We watched him approach us—completely unassisted and without the slightest hesitation—simply asking where he might find a restroom.
I rushed to his side to offer my assistance, for he had already traversed a considerable distance, from the living room to the spot where we stood.
Once he reached the restroom, he managed to undress completely without any help; I then discreetly withdrew to afford him his privacy.
I waited for him in my bedroom, which happened to be the room adjacent to the restroom he was using. I then heard him call out to me jovially: “Rim”—the nickname he typically used when addressing me. He said, “Hand me some underwear so I can take off this baby getup.” I complied, for I could see that he had regained control of the situation.
When he reappeared, he came to sit with us and asked me to give him a full report—from start to finish—regarding his condition, step by step. I provided him with a comprehensive summary and recounted how he had lost the ability to read—adding, however, that we would make another attempt once we were back at his home later that day.
Fortunately, after a few attempts, his memory returned; he then read an entire page of a book without the slightest sign of fatigue.
I left that day at eleven o’clock that night.
Some time later, Professor Wesner Désir—representing the National Radio and Television network—approached him. Wishing to produce a program dedicated to the writer Jacques Roumain (author of *Gouverneurs de la Rosée*) in order to commemorate a special anniversary, he asked him to grant a televised interview, pointing out that he had known Jacques personally and had remained close to his family.
And there it was: a resounding success.