Note: This post is long but it’s incredibly important to me
so I ask you read it in its entirety.
This past week I started interning full time, which means I
am dropped at the Makina Clinic in the morning and picked in the afternoon.
Spending the day either at the Clinic, or more common moving around Kibera
participating in campaigns, or meeting with partner organizations. Nonetheless,
I have spent much more time at the clinic than I have in this semester. Last
week was nothing crazy in terms of the patients: cuts, burns, etc. This week
was much different.
Before I dive into the real meat of this blog post I want to
provide some context to the ‘clinic’. The clinic is a tiny space, with a small
waiting room, a consultation room, a storage room, and a pharmacy. The floor is
uneven, the walls are half-painted, and the doors hang crooked. It is in
Makina, which is a part of Kibera. The power frequently goes out, and the few
lights can be run off of a generator. The doctor’s office features a small
table for examination and procedure, and another small table for consultations.
The supplies are stored in cabinets barely hanging on the wall. The clinic
operates 24 hours, with a doctor always on call. Overnight and early morning,
the lab and storage rooms are locked tight but the lobby is always ‘open’ and
the consultation room is always open. It is a clinic, but is not what we
imagine a clinic to be.
This week started off interesting with a scenario I am still
grappling with, and may or may not blog about. In essence, I witnessed a pure
clash between culture and medicine, in a clinic setting, which tore me apart.
While culture is important, in a ‘clinic’ medicine should come first. I fully
support cultural sensitivity in medicine, but there is a time and place and
there was an incident Monday where the lines were too blurred.
Tuesday (today) is what this post is about. I ask that you
bear with me, and read what follows.
We arrived at the clinic our normal time, but when we walked
into the waiting room I noticed the other doors locked. I also noticed that neither
the doctor, nor anyone else was around. Except for about six people gathered in
the room. When my colleague and I stepped in they cleared a path to a woman
sitting on the bench holding a girl who I estimate to be about 9 years of age.
It became clear to me that when we stepped in one of the people was performing
some form of CPR. As they cleared a path and stared at us, I looked at the
girl.
She was gasping for air, her eyes were rolling back in her
head, she was limp, and there was a clear gurgling noise and a visible liquid
in her mouth. My first thought was she was having a seizure, but I quickly
realized this was not the case.
The others in the clinic (family members and a motorcycle
driver who transported her) looked at me. They pointed at the sick girl. Then
pointed at me. Then widened their eyes as if they were saying “do something”.
It became clear to me they thought we were medical professionals, which is not
the case.
I had my colleague locate our supervisor and guide Eric, who
would find the doctor, as I looked for newspaper to put down on the examination
table (the only paper they have to cover the table).
Even after we stated we were finding the doctor, they wanted
us to do something.
I didn’t know what was happening, I only knew this young
girl was unable to breathe. Liquid was coming up and we needed to make sure
that she did not choke.
Hearing the gurgling sound, I knew she was not only unable
to breathe but that liquid was coming up from her lungs and was already filling
her throat.
Just as we were about to bring the girl to the exam room (I
couldn’t find anything to put down, but it didn’t matter. This girl needed to
lie on her side, not be held), the doctor walked in.
He put her in the table, and lifted her shirt.
It was clear she was malnourished, and her lungs were
working harder than I have ever seen lungs work.
Her body was fighting to keep her breathing. She was
unresponsive, her eyes rolling, and her lungs filled with fluid.
The mother reported the girl has a history of asthma. The
doctor immediately referred this girl to Kenyatta National Hospital, the
highest hospital in all of Nairobi.
His quick examination made him realize we didn’t have the equipment
to do anything. He instructed the family to take her there immediately. He also
provided the phone number of a doctor there who knows the Makina clinic. The
family was to call the doctor as soon as they arrived, to ensure this girl
could get the treatment she needed.
They left quickly.
That’s when I began talking to the doctor about possible
causes. He had no idea, but it is clear that indoor air pollution and her
asthma played a significant role in the severity of the situation.
This is when the heartbreaking news came from him: he said
if she didn’t get help soon she would not make it. He estimated that if they
could not get there within an hour, and have her lungs cleared within two hours
(closer to an hour and half) she would not survive.
Her body was working on overdrive to get the little air
through. He didn’t think it could keep that up much longer, especially given
her young age.
We didn’t hear anything throughout the day, but we have
placed a few calls and anticipate hearing either tonight or tomorrow if she
made it.
I can’t help but think of the possibility she did not make
it. To have that happen would be devastating. Knowing that I was one of the
last individuals to see her in her last moments.
I knew this would be something I would encounter in public
health and medicine; I just didn’t anticipate it coming when I was 19 years old,
on a typical Tuesday morning, in a clinic in Kenya, with a 9 year-old girl, and
most shocking of all the family right there and thinking I could be one to save
her.
I can only pray that she makes it through.
Today was the most helpless I have ever felt.
Watching this girl struggle to breath.
Watching this girl struggle to live.
Seeing the hope in the family’s eyes when I walked in,
thinking that I would be able to save her.
They were helpless, I was their hope, and I was helpless.
I did what was within my knowledge and means, but it didn’t
feel like enough.
I am not giving up my dream of being a doctor, and this just
proved to me that I will not let anyone or anything stand in the way of that
dream.
I never want to feel as helpless as I did today.
This is one of the hardest days of my life. I can’t help but
think of this girl and the look the family gave me. I am praying, and I ask you
to pray as well, that this girl makes it. I will not give up working to find
the result of her case. I will let you know as soon as I hear.
Prayers for all Wyatt, never give up on your dream!
ReplyDeleteAlso just think if you did not arrive when you did the
doctor would of not got to her as early as he did, diagnose
and send her to the right place for the right treatment.
God is Hope, Hope is God!
Thank you very much for the support, prayers, and kind words Mr. Snead! I truly believe that we are all put in situations, good and bad, for a reason. These situations are what shape and mold us as people, and as soldiers in God's army and I am incredibly blessed to have even had the opportunity to reinforce my passion and dream here in Kenya.
DeleteOh Wyatt, Wyatt, Wyatt. I can't begin to imagine what you must feel like. I also can't imagine anyone more suited to the line of work you have chosen. I know you will find the strength you need to continue along this path. You are 19 going on 40 - in the best possible way.
ReplyDeleteFrances,
DeleteThank you for the kind words, and support! While this was an incredibly hard moment for me, it has just reaffirmed that I have chosen the line of work I was meant for.
Hope all is well,
Wyatt