I saw Aissa in the market today. She was walking toward me, her bottom lip sticking out, her chin lowered just a little. She tends to pout when she doesn’t get her own way, she has become a bit spoiled during her time with us, perhaps someone didn’t give her something she wanted?
She had sand on the side of her face, and I brushed it away and stood with her for a moment. Were the other kids unkind to her? Did they push her down? She doesn’t understand my Fulfulde and I don’t understand her Mufu so actually verbalizing my thoughts was not possible. I simply took her hand and led her with me into the market. I stroked her now wooly head of hair, growing back after it was last shaved, and bought a sprite for me and a cookie for her.
We then walked to my office, she knows the way well. As I followed her down the crowded hallway to the door with my name on it, I wondered how much of this she would remember when she grew up? Would she remember the nice white woman who smiled at her and stroked her neck and bought her a treat? Would she remember calling out my name “Sadatou!” and cheerfully skipping up to me? Would she remember how we loved her? I hope so.
We entered my office, she slipped off her Mickey Mouse sandals and I lifted her onto the table. Hefted is more like it, this girl is solid! She has had no trouble packing on the pounds since arriving! I checked her ears and she watched my face, gauging my reaction. She has a habit of doing this, reading faces when she is being examined or having her dressing changed. She peeks at you out of the corner of her eye with a slightly worried expression, at least until you look straight at her and smile, then her face lights up, she knows all is well.
My exam finished, she hops off the table, mon petit oiseau (my little bird) as I have nicknamed her. Always chirping and singing the visit seems to have lifted her spirits and she walks to the door, smiling.
And I close it after her, with a smile.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Child of my own womb
Jacqueline and I went to visit Mama Bello this afternoon.
Recently her sister Didja was hospitalized. Didja’s chest xray shows severe disease, with an ominous shadow taking over her entire left lung. Our diagnostic capabilities exhausted, we aren’t sure what to do but pray.
I helped to care for Mama's daughter Djanatou during Djanatou's hysterectomy in 2008. Mama refers to me as a “bingel jey reedu am” or child of her own womb. So in her time of need, fearful that her sister would die, she came to me.
Didja has since been sent home, and Jacqueline and I made a visit to Mama’s house today. Mama is a widow who lives with her three co-wives, their husband dead now for the past 6 years. They have a combined total of more than 30 children and their compound is a whirlwind of activity. Half-naked babies, wearing only t-shirts, their little bottoms hanging out, run amongst mothers putting laundry on the line, washing their faces with water from the big clay jug in the garden or preparing food on mats in the courtyard. A flock of preteen girls, all dressed in their finest on their way home from Koranic school, greeted us in turn.
We waded through the crowd while calling out a chorus of hellos and found our way to Mama’s room. We sat with her and Jacqueline who speaks flawless Fulfulde, asked questions about Didja. The situation has worsened, Mama is quite worried, and keeps asking us what can be done. We both know the answer, so Jacqueline turns the conversation back to God, reminding Mama that ultimately, He is in control.
After deciding that Mama would bring Didja to the hospital to see us the following week, I shared with Mama that I will be leaving soon. She hid her face in her hands for a few moments, and when she emerged, asked if I would be back to work again. I told her I would like to return to visit friends, but I was still praying to know God’s will.
She then took my hand and thanked me. I wondered at that moment why I would ever leave this place, leave the people I care for and have cared for during their times of pain and illness. I have been so blessed by their kindness and friendship. My time here has been precious.
I would do it all over again.
Samuel
Samuel has AIDS.
He was hospitalized from November of 2009 to January of 2010 with a collapsed lung due to TB. Despite continuous efforts to drain the fluid that fills up his chest, it collects again, the lung will not reinflate and the TB meds don’t seem to be helping.
In addition, he has a connective tissue cancer common to patients with AIDS that has started to cause his face and lips to swell. He is growing large tumors on his tongue and soon swallowing could become quite difficult.
Here in Cameroon, where your family is your health insurance, savings and retirement plan, he spent his entire hospitalization completely alone. Not one single visitor came.
He had a friend or “patron” who paid for his care during his time with us, and a work acquaintance in the village who brought him food occasionally, but otherwise he was on his own.
Despite his protests that he was not yet “healed” we had to send him home. I believe he is still coming to terms with his illness and came in to see me last week for a follow-up visit.
A new doctor who recently started working in Meskine examined Samuel’s mouth and suggested immediately that he go to Yaounde, the capital city in the south. But as we discussed this option the weight of poverty, fatigue and hopelessness settled over Samuel’s countenance and his face simply fell.
Treatment in the capital city is an unrealistic option for many of our patients. The cost of transport alone exceeds their meager means and for a man like Samuel, estranged from his family and already a burden to his patron, there was little hope of travelling south.
In that moment I understood that while treatment for Samuel’s body was important, care of his soul was critical.
So I locked the doors to my office, sat down and asked Samuel if he knew God. He told me yes, obediently reciting what he had probably been taught as a child. When I told him that Jesus came to die for him, because he, Samuel, was loved by God, he began to cry.
We talked briefly about the hope God gives for a future in heaven, the assurance we have of His presence in the midst of our pain, and His forgiveness of our sins. We then prayed together.
My prayer this week is that God, in His faithfulness and mercy would pursue Samuel.
I pray that God would set him free.
He was hospitalized from November of 2009 to January of 2010 with a collapsed lung due to TB. Despite continuous efforts to drain the fluid that fills up his chest, it collects again, the lung will not reinflate and the TB meds don’t seem to be helping.
In addition, he has a connective tissue cancer common to patients with AIDS that has started to cause his face and lips to swell. He is growing large tumors on his tongue and soon swallowing could become quite difficult.
Here in Cameroon, where your family is your health insurance, savings and retirement plan, he spent his entire hospitalization completely alone. Not one single visitor came.
He had a friend or “patron” who paid for his care during his time with us, and a work acquaintance in the village who brought him food occasionally, but otherwise he was on his own.
Despite his protests that he was not yet “healed” we had to send him home. I believe he is still coming to terms with his illness and came in to see me last week for a follow-up visit.
A new doctor who recently started working in Meskine examined Samuel’s mouth and suggested immediately that he go to Yaounde, the capital city in the south. But as we discussed this option the weight of poverty, fatigue and hopelessness settled over Samuel’s countenance and his face simply fell.
Treatment in the capital city is an unrealistic option for many of our patients. The cost of transport alone exceeds their meager means and for a man like Samuel, estranged from his family and already a burden to his patron, there was little hope of travelling south.
In that moment I understood that while treatment for Samuel’s body was important, care of his soul was critical.
So I locked the doors to my office, sat down and asked Samuel if he knew God. He told me yes, obediently reciting what he had probably been taught as a child. When I told him that Jesus came to die for him, because he, Samuel, was loved by God, he began to cry.
We talked briefly about the hope God gives for a future in heaven, the assurance we have of His presence in the midst of our pain, and His forgiveness of our sins. We then prayed together.
My prayer this week is that God, in His faithfulness and mercy would pursue Samuel.
I pray that God would set him free.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Ousmane
I’m doing research tonight.
One of my patients Ousmane, a tired teenage boy who is hospitalized for the second time since the beginning of the year has had to undergo approximately 7 blood transfusions. Apparently his bone marrow is tired too, and has stopped making red and white blood cells and platelets. The result is profound anemia, fevers due to the attack on his immune system, and regular nosebleeds due to his inability to clot.
He’s dangling on the edge, and so I’m reading about his condition.
He and his father have put their faith in us, and we are truly the end of the road. No hematology consult here, specialists are simply not available in our part of Cameroon, and travelling down south and paying to see a hematologist is out of their reach. We have conducted a bone marrow biopsy, but it will take 2 months to receive the results and having a diagnosis doesn’t guarantee that we will be able to treat him.
The prognosis isn’t good. Yet they look at me with hope in their eyes each morning as I enter the room.
As I read an article on his illness, the gardener outside my window sings a song while watering the plants and I am struck by the needs of the people who place their trust in us. We are the end of the road, if we can’t heal them, there is no other option. They rely on us.
The hopelessness is overwhelming, our impotence frustrating. I know that God is in control, but truth is not always felt and I am struggling this evening. I want this boy to be well, and I cannot make it so.
One of my patients Ousmane, a tired teenage boy who is hospitalized for the second time since the beginning of the year has had to undergo approximately 7 blood transfusions. Apparently his bone marrow is tired too, and has stopped making red and white blood cells and platelets. The result is profound anemia, fevers due to the attack on his immune system, and regular nosebleeds due to his inability to clot.
He’s dangling on the edge, and so I’m reading about his condition.
He and his father have put their faith in us, and we are truly the end of the road. No hematology consult here, specialists are simply not available in our part of Cameroon, and travelling down south and paying to see a hematologist is out of their reach. We have conducted a bone marrow biopsy, but it will take 2 months to receive the results and having a diagnosis doesn’t guarantee that we will be able to treat him.
The prognosis isn’t good. Yet they look at me with hope in their eyes each morning as I enter the room.
As I read an article on his illness, the gardener outside my window sings a song while watering the plants and I am struck by the needs of the people who place their trust in us. We are the end of the road, if we can’t heal them, there is no other option. They rely on us.
The hopelessness is overwhelming, our impotence frustrating. I know that God is in control, but truth is not always felt and I am struggling this evening. I want this boy to be well, and I cannot make it so.
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