Hospital Experience

How does one begin when describing things that one would rather not process? My student, Sally Changaya, recently underwent surgery for a ruptured appendix. She complained of an upset stomach in class from nearly the first day of school. Often, children will complain when they are unhappy or want attention so I waited to take action until her problem seemed serious. I gave her Tylenol one day, would often ask her to get a sip of water since dehydration is a distinct possibility here with only two ceiling fans to reduce the effect of the sweltering heat, and even talked to her parents who took her to the hospital on several occasions. I’m not sure how long the appendix had been bothering her or whether it could have caused a stomach ache for several months, but I know the rupture just recently occurred and was diagnosed when she went into the hospital for Malaria. Another teacher poked her head in my class Friday afternoon to let me know of her illness, and I immediately thought of a high school classmate whose appendix ruptured nearly causing her death and that in the States! You must imagine how I felt knowing my cheerful, truly adorable little Sally had just experienced the same with the level of care available here. Unfortunately, I said something to that affect with another Malawian staff member close by. Oh, I feel that I so often stick my foot in my mouth in that regard! If I were that staff member, I’d be indignant to have another person living in my country, constantly criticizing the availability of things. At least they are a forgiving people.

Dan Linsz, the headmaster, popped in my classroom Monday to invite Gratian, my aid, and I to visit Sally before our staff meeting. I agreed without even thinking and even hopped in his car after school without much mental preparation. AND, after a brief shock at seeing the morgue right next to the hospital, I even walked into the hospital, down the corridors of concrete and into Sally’s room without much thought. But somewhere along the line, my mind decided to check back in, and I began to process being in the Lilongwe Central Hospital. The memory does seem as though I experienced things out-of-body, from a bird’s eye though. First, there is seemingly no entrance-as we approached the building, I kept glancing sideways at Dan to see why we were walking straight toward a bright-but-for-the-dust turquoise wall. But just as we approached, you could see a little opening the size of a door to the right and left behind another protruding wall. As we entered, leaving behind the African sun which really does illuminate in such a way as to take a way the cheerfulness and convey the Jack London-ish fear in one from the harsh elements we saw a crowd of people milling around in the distinctly African colored cloths called Chitingis (sp?), most of whom have never seen Azungu or white people. They bring their sick ones from villages far and around but often come too late since they cannot afford care and only come when it is blatantly apparent that the illness is beyond healing without “expert” care.

The corridors were dark and dusty with people everywhere. There was no center desk or direction or anything that looked organized and sanitary. Dan said the hospital often goes without soap. Can you imagine being wheeled into the surgery ward knowing there is no soap with which your surgeon could wash his hands? At least most of the Malawians there don’t know there is such a thing anyway. After we passed a sign saying “Yellow Fever Mondays and Fridays only” which was actually referring to the vaccination but is one of those funny grammar blips that turns up printed in a humorous book somewhere far, far away from Malawi, we found the children’s ward.

The rooms are packed with children, and the glimpses we stole were more horrific for the narrowness of the doorways and the stench of pneumonia and urine mixed together. So many babys, just black arms and legs now in my memory, reached out of their plastic little cribs, wailing for who knows what reasons. One boy’s arm had been severely burned. We passed him as he sat on his mother’s lap with his arm raw, in the middle of the hall completely exposed to everything just described. But as we looked for someone to question in regards to directions, I kept trying to surpress awarness of loud crying and human voices. I remember being focused on asking directions of one man wearing a white-ish shirt which was the closest thing I’d seen to staff apparel and following his direction down a smaller hall into Sally’s room. She looked well, but after I regestered her cheerful face, dolled up dress (a second hand American girl’s party dress), and smile, I remember being unable to ignore the loud wailing. Apparently, a child had just died and the family was in pieces. There was such hollowness and sorrow in the cry. I’m not sure it was a cry but something else entirely: a window into someone’s soul I wish I had never heard. The African voices are pictures and movement. The very sounds seem to convey more than any other language or voice I’ve expereinced and to hear them convey grief was nearly more than I could bear. Sally’s mother then told us that the family grieving was one of five whose child had died that morning-and this, only in one of the three children’s wings. What can I say. I now know why my cousin, Hawkins, truly couldn’t talk about watching people die on September 11, 2001 in New York from his view on the roof of a building. The wailing was so close, just on the other side of Sally’s room, and there we stood rejoicing that her small, oh so tiny frame had not perished as well. But even that was a miracle coupled with the blessing of her family’s wealth. The hospital had no IV fluid available so her parents had to go out of the hospital to purchase some from who knows where.

How does one not become overwhelmed with the discrepancy between lives, peoples, countries? My Nana asked me how I managed to live as I did while having Caroline, a Malawian, clean our house each day, 3 hours a day, for $25 a month. I don’t know, but God gives and He takes away. He gives so that we may be gracious in turn. This afternoon (Caroline left not 30 minutes ago as I write to you), she took the three bananas I gave her which she was thrilled to tell me she would give to her children. She has more available to her as an employee on the ABC campus than most. What I have come to realize is this: I am given much materially and they are given little. This does not free me to be stingy but to be grateful that what we have we are all given (even if we “earn” it) and frees me to share, knowing nothing is mine (Freely you have received, Freely give. Matthew 10:8). And also this-even though I have much, God takes and gives things and life as he pleases regardless of insurance, health care availability, and wealth. Praise Him for life eternal! “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one can snatch them out of my hand.” John 10: 28