The scurrying and thumping continued
just above me, and the darkness surrounded my eyes. I reached over
and peeked at my phone- checking the time. It was 4 AM: not time to
wake up yet. I rolled back over and closed my eyes, trying to will
the time to pass until morning when I knew the rats in the ceiling
would either leave or be quiet. I heard a distant rooster cry through
the dim dawn pushing its way through my window. The sound seemed to
echo off every edge of the community as other roosters called back to
the one, setting off a chorus of sounds.
'Not a great nights sleep for my first
night back,' I thought to myself as eventually woke up almost three
hours later. I tried to rouse myself from the deep indent of my body
in my 6 inch foam mattress on the floor. The carpenter in town, whom
I gave money to 6 weeks ago for materials, still hasn't finished my
bed frame which will get me off the floor and out of the way of
curious rats who might make rounds around my house as I'm sleeping.
I go about the semblance of a morning
routine that I have—making coffee and breakfast, washing the
previous night's dishes, tying up my mosquito net for the day,
placing my mattress upright against the wall, setting my solar lights
on my roof to charge, and getting dressed to go down to the
clinic—before pulling my bag over my shoulder and heading out the
door.
On my way to work, I pass many homes
with inhabitants sitting outside in communal kitchens. Greetings in
Bassa are thrown from either side of the road, usually following a
squeal of my bassa name, 'Amucheeeeeeee' to get my attention. The hot
morning sun beats down on me as I journey down the road, burning away
the morning coolness and fog. The crunch of dirt and small rocks
underfoot as I take each step accompanies me down the stretch of
orange, dusty road.
The staff at the health clinic
excitedly respond to the sight of me with a smile and a 'happy new
year!' I make my rounds with each worker, throwing my right hand out
for a slick handshake that ends with a friendly and simultaneous snap
of the middle and thumb fingers as the fingers pull away from each
other. I hardly remember how to do a normal handshake anymore as this
form of greeting has become so second nature to me.
We have a larger-than-normal crowd at
the clinic this morning, so I greet them all with a group
'mwe-o,' used to say 'Good Morning' in
Bassa.
As my colleagues go about their
individual jobs, I observe the cases we have for the day by watching
which door they go to (which tells me which health worker they are
visiting). In the surveillance room: a circumcision, weighing babies
and sitting outside the antenatal room: a bunch of pregnant or new
moms, and in the epi room: a boy with a swollen hand in a makeshift
sling.
Later, a motorbike pulls up at the gate
and lets off two women and a baby. I notice that the one can barely
stand on her own as the older woman supports her body and carries the
baby on her back. After that, two men walk up with some background
story to tell, but which I don't catch as they're sharing it in the
local language.
The boy with the swollen hand, a result
of an infected and deep cut on his finger, is seen first and his
wound is cleaned before he's given antibiotics and medicine.
The circumcision was next and,
Surprise!, I was pulled into the room to see it. The 2 week old was
injected with three shots of Liteocaine (a numbling liquid) The
foreskin on his penis was stretched widthwise with a pair of surgical
tong things. It was then pulled away from his body, clipped together
with another pair of surgical tongs, and a pair of surgical scissors
was used to slice off the loosened skin. The doctor then went closely
around the remaining incision and clipped off additional skin using
the same method and even by using string to tie skin extra tight
before cutting. The baby screamed blood-curdling screams the entire
time. Then the doctor dribbled some iodine solution on it and wrapped
the penis in gauze before handing the infant back to his aunt who had
brought him into the room.
As we walked out of the room, I
realized that I was sweating and feeling lightheaded and nauseous
from just the sight of the mini surgical procedure. A future in
medicine or hospital work is probably not in the cards for me. Regardless, I'm appreciative of all of the rare experiences that I'm able to have simply by being here and working with a rural health clinic.
The woman who could barely walk was
immediately taken into the 'inpatient' or 'dressing' room, laid down
on a bed after she arrived.They gave her a fluid IV after it was
determined that she was severely dehydrated.
Of the two men coming from a
neighboring town, one of them had beat up his pregnant sister the
previous night (she is ok as far as I know seeing as how she did not
come to our hospital for assistance) and had been locked up by the
local police overnight. This morning, he'd complained of being sick
and had thrown up, so they'd allowed him to go to the hospital before
continuing with this trial. He didn't show any signs of sickness, but
when they took his blood pressure, one clinic worker promptly
reminded the other to put on gloves. When I asked why later, he
reminded me that it was a residual precaution from ebola times:
anytime someone had come in saying they'd thrown up recently, they
would treat that patient with extreme caution, suspecting ebola.
The thick afternoon heat and humidity
began to set in, even in the shade-soaked and covered open-air space
where we do patient registration. Tiring of sitting and observing the
happenings around the clinic and with a stomach beginning to growl in
hunger, I bid farewell to my colleagues and headed home under the
dense sun splaying across the cloudless, blue sky.