hey. tomorrow night? movie night?” someone asked.
”why not,” the surgeon answered, reclined on a mattress we’ve leaned up against a wall below the razor wire. “i’ve got nothing else on.”
”i can’t. i’ve got tickets to a concert,” our nurse said. “i’ll try to come after.”
we laughed, then more at the laughter.
”yeah, tomorrow i can’t either. i’m having a dinner party.”
”i’m playing someone above me on the squash ladder.”
“swimming lessons.”
”ice capades.”
we faded to smiles, our shadows cast perfectly on the cement behind us by the harsh security light.
it is not easy to write about this place. it is not for a lack of opportunity, for after the work is done, hours of curfew yawn. it’s not a matter of material; so many stories bear repeating. i struggle because of the sudden, severe beauty that passes so quickly in front of me, words won’t do it. you’d have to follow me through the hot yard where people perch under trees, their children beside them on mats, and we’d pass a boy, his striped shirt stretched over an abdomen so swollen by his liver that he looks like a bumblebee, his mother dabbing blood from his nose as he patiently tries on a rubber glove we gave him, and then he sees us, and with a wide smile, he claps, begging for us to blow more bubbles. Next to him, an older sister and we start at her, feint a grab, and she screams and runs behind the tree where she peeks out smiling fist from one side, then the other. A cleaner comes over, takes off his hat, extends a long arm, wishes us a good morning in the only English he knows, and we’re not even halfway to the lab.
a tough morning report today. An infant who I saw before I left last night, seizing and febrile, coughing for days before the mother had the courage to come to hospital, died this morning gasping in twitches. On his heels, a 3 year old girl arrived after a week of diarrhea to have her heart stop on the hard wooden bench outside the emergency.
In Europe, is it the same as it is here, the nurse asked? Some things, yes, i said. Fevers, coughing. But a child dying of diarrhea, he said? No, no. Never.
I wonder what seeps into our subconscious as we move throughout our days, what dramas work there as we look for something certain in a world that can seem careless. does it play out in our dreams, or how we live our days? is it what makes home fit so poorly once i get there? I listened once to a psychologist who supported the notion that we live trying to answer questions we asked ourselves when we were infants, before we could form them into words. as someone once said, be kind to everyone you meet, for he too is fighting a great battle. even if its deep underneath.
no word on the girl who i gave my rhinoceros to, and hers. i was in nairobi last weekend, and tried to find her. i called the national hospital. who? they asked. a girl. from dadaab. she came on wednesday. i gave her name. i stayed on hold for almost half an hour, and finally hung up, visions of teeming wards and a weary nurse reading through stacks of paper charts that dropped from the desk. i’ll find out. she has my rhino, after all.
though i could do it more, i find that in medicine, like in life, its usually best to let yourself go, to hope deeply, even if it means the pain of it being dashed. to release, as much as you can, the tiny elastics those pains have placed around your heart because if you don’t, you can forget what its there for, and with that, what we’re here for, this short time on a rock spinning wild and green around one of a trillion trillion stars.
this work is good exercise. you’re asked to give as much to the 35th patient as the first, pull out the elephant (i bought another in nairobi) with the same shock of amazement as the bed before, counsel the mother as gently, so that she can spread the word, and next time she passes a child feverish on another woman’s back, she might give directions to this place.
It’s drizzling here, in Montreal. green is pushing itself up and out everywhere and my 4 year old son sleeps safely near me. I am so profoundly grateful for our luck and grateful in equal measure that you are helping those graced with so much less of it in our crazy, cruel and wondrous world. I have read your book and continue to read your blog and you inspire me to try and find ways, no matter how small, to close the gap. Thank you for your sharing your experiences and yourself with us all.
it’s drizzling here, in montreal. green is pushing itself up and out everywhere and my 4 year old son sleeps safely near me. i am so profoundly grateful for our luck and grateful in equal measure that you are helping those graced with so much less of it in our crazy, cruel and wondrous world. i have read your book and continue to read your blog and you inspire me to try and find ways, no matter how small, to close the gap. thank you for your sharing your experiences and yourself with us all.
“The flowers risk return.”
– Betsy Warland
Your are truly one of the rare ones….dedicated, compassionate, love what you do. Your writing brings me there. God bless.
Thank you very much for your hard work. And for your words.
They get to where they should go (the heart, and why not, the conscience as well)
I hope people will read them, perhaps not only to understand them, but also for awake in them a solidarity with the situation, the people, and eventually, perhaps, they will begin to form part of the solution too.
My dream (and my goal) is to work for Medics without Borders. It is the reason why I study medicine. I can not imagine not doing it in my future.
I really hope I’ll have the strenght and will to acomplish it.
I study English and French, in order to be hired. I’m from Mexico, although here too we have many problems and we need help (too much in deed), I want to learn to help elsewhere, to also be able to help (as should be) in my country.
Again, and although It’s not for me to say, thank you very much for your work. Not only inspires, but also transforms.
God bless you.
I wish the world leaders would stop the wars, close down the atom centers, forget about capturing the universe, and spend that money to build factories, jobs, hospitals and free medication…
I have to wonder, how you manage not to burn out if you give all you have to all those who need and those who need are an endless stream. You must have a rare kind of strength.
My favorite part:
“though i could do it more, i find that in medicine, like in life, its usually best to let yourself go, to hope deeply, even if it means the pain of it being dashed. to release, as much as you can, the tiny elastics those pains have placed around your heart because if you don’t, you can forget what its there for, and with that, what we’re here for, this short time on a rock spinning wild and green around one of a trillion trillion stars.”
That just sums it all up ; )
I am a Neonatal ICU RN, in Tucson, AZ. I hope to be doing what you are within the next year or so. It goes beyond words…i’ll be reading ; )
That’s great work James. am a medical student in Nairobi and would like to work as a volunteer with msf.how do I go about it?
I have a friend who works as a pediatrician for UNICEF, and I often find myself reminding Geo that the heart is a muscle, and it will only remain strong if he keeps working it…You let some reach it deeply and at other times you only allow the surface to be touched, for there is no other pain like a broken heart, however, with each moment that touches your heart you learn the true inner strength and power it and yourself can bestow upon others…I hope this makes sense to whomever happens to read my thoughts…xox
Thank you. Very moving and beautiful.