Sick of Clinics?

We like to help people with medical issues without becoming the local village clinic.  A rather ambiguous line separates the two,  but we ask for wisdom and do what we can.  So when Habi showed me his wrapped up finger on Sunday, saying he got it caught in a bike chain, I just told him that if he needed help with it he could come to my house later.  And he did—four DAYS later, when he took the bandage off and showed me his finger, practically cut off at the top and desperately needing stitches five days ago. L  As I was headed to town the next day, I picked him up at his secondary school on the way and dropped him off at the clinic where they promised to treat him with everything he needed, and I would pay for it when I came back.  “But we have no tetanus,” which is what I really wanted. 

When we arrived back four hours later (don’t feel too sorry—four hours is the typical wait here anyways), Habi had a little piece of guaze wrapped around his finger, and “I haven’t had anything done to my finger because they said you have to pay first.”  The doctor said stitches were impossible at this point, so I ended up cleaning up and dressing his finger back at the house, wondering why I had towed him to the clinic in the first place!  On the way home we stopped by the government clinic, which isn’t exactly the first place you want to step foot, but also had the tetanus shot we needed.  “Oh yes, we have it,” declared the young men at the decrepit desk in the middle of a dirty concrete room surrounded by concrete benches.  “Just a minute,” as he saunters (I am convinced this is the one speed required by the African Hippocratic Oath) to get a needle, which he produces from a back room without its wrapping.  “Is that a new needle,” I inquire, suspicious.  He assures me that it is, and I debate the other equally vague line between pushing the matter in a country with less-than-desirable health care and not wanting to be the bossy American,  an unfavorable occupation.   Either this was a different kind needle, or it was painfully dulled from use, but it pushed his skin all the way down into a crater before it finally broke through. 

After this (me, unimpressed),  Mr. Government Clinic proceeded to collect a rusty pair of scissors, found a little medical box with flaps, cut one flap off, meticulously cut the edges to make a square, then turned it over, wrote Habi’s name on it, with T-1, T-2, all the way to T-5, evidently our desired destination.  “OK, he comes back after four weeks for second shot.”  He needs to come back three more times after that for shots too?  “Not always necessary.  Even if he comes back for next shot only, that’s good.” 

 

Monday the vet came and “fixed” our dog right on our back porch.  Which doesn’t count as people medical needs, but definitely added to our knowledge in the anatomy and physiology department.

 

Dave and I visited our friends the Misungwis the next day.  They had sent sweet potatoes our way, and we had heard that they weren’t feeling well.  “We know you love us because you visit,” he says, “you can’t love someone and just sit in your house, thinking by yourself.”   Little does he know how I crave just sitting in my house, thinking, sometimes.  We come from different cultures, he and I.  He was struggling with asthma and we called dad and picked up something in town.  “My mouth is KILLING me,” says his wife, “my tooth is in SO much pain.”  We encouraged her to go to the dentist.  “No, then they pull my tooth and my whole HEAD hurts.  It will go away soon—it always goes away eventually.”  And as always with this dear mama, “We can trust God!  He knows whether we will be healthy or not!” 

Yesterday Milka and I took eight of her kids and Lauren in to a doctor to get 1. immunizations and 2. a couple of them checked out.  WE stopped at our trusty Bring-Your-Own-Needle Government clinic first and a different lady assured me they had all the immunizations available.  But alas, after we had all entered and prepared ourselves, she wouldn’t give the kids their shots because they were too old.  It doesn’t matter if they haven’t had them, just “wait until they are 15.  That will be good.”  Really?  She was insistent that she could not give them any because of their age.  “What will I write on my paper that I have to fill out?” 

We headed to another clinic where we found, at 9:30 in the morning, 40 people waiting to register and another 150 already waiting.  There was an American team of docs there with an eye specialist, and people were flocking to see him.  After much debate, we decided to head into Hindu Union, a fairly reputable clinic in town.  Thankfully there was only a small wait and we saw an amiable Sri Lankan doctor.  She listened to the lungs of Milka’s three that are coughing (a REALLY good sign), then asked questions about Lauren, who has been having lots of stomach pain  and listened to her lungs as well (which would have been another good sign if she had proceeded on to exam other parts of the body that were hurting).  We trudged to the lab, a sign announcing, “We will not accept matchbox stool samples any longer.”  As far as we knew, they were the instigator of the matchbox stool samples themselves (and if you need more clarification, we might have to talk later, for I digress….).  Our doctor had ordered all kinds of tests for all of them, and when we finally got the results back after lunch, she told us that all four girls had UTI’s and Lauren had malaria and one of Milka’s girls that had a cough really had typhoid.  Sometimes visitors are impressed by these diagnoses, but fail to realize that virtually EVERYONE who enters a clinic here has 1. UTI, 2. Malaria, and 3. Typhoid.  They prescribed all kinds of medicine, including Tylenol for the Coughers, three times a day for five days.  “What is this for?” I ask.  “For pain!”  “They aren’t in any pain,” I protest.  She proceeds, confident: “They have an infection, so they WILL BE in pain.” 

We returned home, called my dad across the ocean, read through the handy medical books, and chalked it up to another reason that we self-medicate all the time. 

I'm getting to a point in here somewhere!

Eliza, who helps Milka in her house, felt sick last week.  She went next door to Alicia’s, sat on her step and was crying as she waited for a ride home.  Neema, a sweet, sweet woman who does a variety of things around here, came out on the porch, asked what was wrong and IMMEDIATELY laid her hands on Eliza, praying for God’s protection and healing, God’s wisdom and care for Eliza.  Alicia told me later and we were both so humbled at Neema’s example to us, reminded to pray.  “Of course you pray!  Always!”  Says Neema, matter-of-factly.  “many times it is all we have!” 

I remembered with Habi, as we dressed his finger, to PRAY for him, recognizing that God is the One who heals.  We pray as we remember Mr. Misungwi at night, that he would be able to sleep.  I remembered yesterday with an interesting diagnosis, and I am remembering today as we pray for the sick, that we don’t trust in medicine or doctors or the newest cure, we trust in Jesus Christ, the Healer of bodies and souls. :)