Saturday, April 26, 2008

Loss

We lost a pediatric patient. He struggled and suffered until finally dying a week after his admission. We did every test we could think of and placed him on appropriate antibiotics. However, the cause of infection remained a mystery and in the end, we were unable to save him.

The family was gathered throughout the week in a silent vigil until one morning when they seemed to just disappear. The bed was empty and they were gone, the battle lost. They collected their things and quietly returned home with their grief. They had been so patient, so wonderfully forbearing in the face of suffering and fear.

They had placed their hope and faith in us, you could see it in their eyes.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

And so it begins...

I started work at the hospital this week. I am enjoying myself, happy to be back in the swing of things after a year of language study. I missed medicine, although I am finding things much different over here!

I never imagined myself working in a clinic where TB, AIDs and Malaria would be some of the most common illnesses, where I would need to wipe my face with my handkerchief during the physical exam to keep from dripping on the patient, and where one of the questions I routinely ask is “how many wives do you have?”

I can't pronounce half the names, let alone read them, so most of the patients waiting in the hall get a real kick out of my attempts and quite often the Arabic has to be translated to Fulfulde to be translated to French before I can understand the response to my question.

So, with God's help, I am making friendships and learning the ropes. It has been great meeting people face to face, they become so much more than “Africans”. It has been a relief to care for their needs, to feel productive in easing their pain.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Culture Shock

I dread walking over to the hospital.

It happens every time, I get up to the gate and begin to open it, I step onto hospital grounds and my heart starts beating faster. I am suddenly very conscious of my clothes, hair, skin and I want to run away.

I begin to walk past the buildings and everyone stares. This is no exaggeration, here, staring is perfectly normal. All heads swivel in my direction and hawk my every move. Children stop what they are doing to stare, women stare with a strange mix of resentment and uncertainty on their faces. It is only when I greet them that I see their smiles. Occasionally I am ignored.

The men stare, I try not to meet their eyes.

I reach the counter to purchase something to drink and wonder to myself, why the women at the registers are kind to me and no one else. People standing next to me stare as I pull money from my purse and push to get ahead of me in line. One time a man got angry at me for socializing with the employees while he was waiting to be served.

I have been told, when I am in need of a prescription for Motrin, malaria prophylaxis etc, that it is perfectly acceptable to walk past the line of sick who are waiting their turn and knock on the examiner's door. He then lets me in ahead of everyone, and helps me within minutes. This goes against my cultural training. I have been taught to wait patiently, but this is how things are done. I know that I receive this preferential treatment because I am an employee of the hospital, but I also know that the Africans waiting in line think otherwise.

When my African friends ask me for my clothing, or the specifics on how much I pay for rent, or send me veiled messages that they want me to help them financially, I am struck by the differences between us, and realize that my definition of “friendship” must stretch and change to fit this culture.

I want to love these people, to be a part of their lives, to hug their children and comfort them when they mourn. I want them to understand who I am, but the wall of culture and race seems impenetrable.