Thursday and Friday were medical clinic days. I was greatly anticipating these days, because it was
something very different than anything I had done on my previous trip. I also expected it to be greatly rewarding because of the physical help we were going to be able to provide these people. I was initially listed for help in triage, but changes in the team left gaps in the pharmacy so I was moved there. I felt like this would be a good place for me considering my ability for organization and my shortcomings in the area of compassion in personal communication. My over-confidence should have alerted me to those red flashing lights early on, but it didn’t take long to figure out this job wasn’t going to be the shruggingly easy and oh-so-fulfilling task I had envisioned.
First of all, we had a huge box of medicines to unload and sort out on a tabletop. Some things, like Ibuprofin and Robitussin, were easy to identify. Other things, like Flagyl and Panado, took a bit of education. Working quickly, we arranged things as best as we could, fired off some quick questions to the doctors when they came in to “see the stash”, and were given a quick crash-course in the prescription shorthand we would be seeing on the paper tickets the patients would bring to us from the doctors. Before we were really prepared, the gates were opened and a long line of people came in 10 at a time to work their way through the various stations.Old and young, aching and tired, diseased and sick, the people made their way through a hand-washing station, the chapel where they heard the Bible in
their own language, and then to a waiting area on the grass. From the grass they moved to chairs on a porch, taking their turn at the triage table where they were asked their primary complaint. The people waited patiently, paper slips in hand, for their turn with one of the three doctors in the nearby building. After seeing the doctor, the people came out and stopped at our pharmacy table. They handed the slips to us, and we took the papers inside to fix their prescription. And that is where the idyllic scenario ended.We took those papers and stared. The words might have well been written in Chichewa for all I understood them. There were medications I had never heard of. Some papers had 3 different medications…take ½ a pill now, another half tonight, another half in the morning and another half at lunch…take one pill 3 times a day…take 2 pills up to 4 times a day. (I won’t even mention the steroid packs we had to put together where you take a decreasing number of pills over a certain number of days--I left that job to Steve Culpepper). I filled up a paper cone with pills and half of them fell out the hole in the bottom. My translator was sticking his head in the door with 3 more slips and people were piling up outside. My fellow pharmacy workers were faring no better, too absorbed in trying to figure out how to place their own orders to help much with filling mine. In a complete panic, I felt myself shutting down and found myself thinking of that scene in Pearl Harbor where the nurses are scrambling to help all of the massively wounded people after the huge bombing scene. Jennifer Garner’s character completely freezes and stands in the center of the chaos crying “I don’t know what to do!” At that moment, I knew exactly how she felt.
Of course it got better. I became quite good at deciphering the shorthand. I figured out that Loratadine just meant Claritin, and wrote that on the box. I watched one of the translators twist the bottom of the cones so the pills didn’t spill out and I wondered briefly who had come to teach who here. Using a Sharpie to mark the cones, Stacy devised a method to “draw” a picture of how many pills to take how many times a day to help the people remember once they left. We got into a groove. We measured out pills, wrapped them in the paper cones and marked them with the Sharpie. We picked up a vitamin and worm pill, and took the medicine back out to the patients, still waiting patiently at the table outside. We gave each person their vitamin, worm pill and initial dose of medication on the spot. The people drank out of shared cups using tepid water from a large bucket. Through our translators, we explained what medication they had been prescribed, and how and when to take it. We showed them the pictures we had drawn and made sure they understood. No matter how long they had waited or what meager supply of medicine we were able to provide them, not a single person failed to thank us genuinely, clutching their precious cone of pills in their hand as they walked out of the gates. However, their response only fueled the sick feeling growing in my heart. God, how are we helping here? They are bleeding out, and I’m handing them a Band-Aid. I’m giving people dying of thirst in the desert my water bottle…and then I head home to the oasis.We stopped the flow of people for a late lunch, but I was too consumed with my feelings to leave the pharmacy room. I had a snack from my backpack and stared out the window with glazed eyes and a heavy heart. Cindy, who is an RN and was serving as one of our doctors for the clinic, came in to see how it was going. When I expressed my feelings, she reminded me that we were helping. The widows with chronic back and leg pain as a result of daily heavy labor…the Ibuprofin would give some relief for a time. The babies and children with infections…the antibiotics would cure this round of illness. The men, women and children with worms as a result of unsanitary water and living conditions…the pills would fix that problem and make them better for now. And she was right...but so was I. The medicine would help, but it was still all so temporary. The people were so grateful for any kind of medical care, but compared with what our culture is accustomed to, what we were doing was such a little thing.
Toward the end of the second day, the best of the medicine ran out. Just when I thought my burdens could get no greater, the inevitable family came through with a couple of young children who desperately needed antibiotics. All we had left to offer were a few children’s Tylenol and some vitamins. I am a very practical person. I believe miracles are possible…but in the Bible, in times of tribulation, or for other people…people who have more faith than me. Yet I found myself gripping that paper cone full of vitamins and uttering a plea that I’ve never had to utter on behalf of my own children. God, with You all things are possible. Please do a miracle with these vitamins. Use these pills to heal their little bodies. I know these are simply vitamins, but turn them into healing antibiotics. Please, God. Use me, use these vitamins. Heal these children. Thank you, Lord.I have no way of knowing how those children are doing today. I don’t even know if that family knew they were simply getting vitamins instead of healing medicine. I imagine they probably didn’t know the difference in vitamins and antibiotics. Perhaps God used my request and their faith in the medicine I handed them and worked a miracle. I am trusting to believe that He did.
I can only speak firsthand for myself and on behalf of the others in the pharmacy, but I feel like I speak for everyone on the team when I say we worked
joyfully but to the point of exhaustion over those two days. I love those people, and I love that place. When I see their little babies ravaged with fevers, battling coughs and mucus and obvious infections, my heart hurts because I think of all the times I have sighed with the “inconvenience” of “having” to take my own children to the doctor. Oh, how I am blessed with that inconvenience! What must it feel like to hold their hot little shaking bodies, listen to their labored breathing, and pray they live through the night with no hope of medical intervention save the Great Physician? God is the ultimate Healer, make no mistake. But He has blessed us with doctors and medicine to heal the physical brokenness in our land. I am determined to do my part in sharing with people here the great need to share our blessings with those in Malawi and other places.I will write in the coming weeks about a very specific way you can help give these people the medical care that we take for granted. I pray if you are interested enough to read about my journey, you will help me help those in need. Please pray about sharing my story with other people in your circle. Together we can make a difference. We can do more than share our water bottles…we can build these people a well. A living well that will never run dry for their souls…and medical care for their bodies. All in the name of Jesus, I ask for your support.
http://puremission.org/get/get-involved/medical-training-center/
No comments:
Post a Comment