Born of War by Anderson Harp Page A

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    â€œNothing more?” Karen asked.
    â€œNothing else need be said.” Mataa said.
    Acceptance was a mandate to survival. Another child would be born and another child would die.
    It was the eyes that Karen could not forget.
    She taped the wound on the foot of the woman in front of her.
    â€œMataa, tell her to keep it clean.”
    â€œYa, lady doc.” Mataa had started to call her that.
    It didn’t really matter. The woman would not keep it clean but her body had built up such a resistance to every possible type of infection that the tape would wear off, the wound would heal, and life would go on.
    Karen walked out to the old man and the boy.
    â€œ Al-salamu alaykum .” She pulled the scarf around her head. It was taking some time for her to remember to do so, but every time she forgot, the looks were a quick reminder.
    â€œ Wa alaykum s-salam .” The old man pushed the boy forward towards the doctor.
    â€œOh, my. Hello.”
    He had brown eyes that followed her with the occasional blink. His head was on a slight tilt, as if he was protecting his neck. She felt his head and it was burning up with fever. She tried to move his head and the child whimpered. Other doctors may not have known what to suspect. Karen was, however, the daughter of the number-one expert in the world on this disease.
    â€œMataa?” she called for the helper. “Please ask how long the child has been sick.”
    â€œHe says two days. He doesn’t sound very sure.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThe child is from another village just to the east.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œShould I give this child a cot?”
    â€œYes, but not in the tent. Take one out of the last tent and put it there, between the rocks.” It was the best that could be done for an isolation ward.
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    â€œSo, what do you think it is?”
    Karen was perched on top of the highest rock with the satellite phone. Peter was standing nearby. She wanted to cry when she heard her father’s voice.
    â€œMeningitis. No doubt.” Karen plugged her finger into her ear so as to hear his voice clearly. “Which strain, I don’t know.”
    â€œCan’t be a surprise. You’re in the middle of the meningitis belt.” Paul Stewart used his clinical voice when he talked of medical cases.
    â€œWe have put him on the strongest antibiotic we have, but we don’t have vancomycin.”
    â€œI understand. Just make him comfortable.”
    It was clear that the child might not survive. He could be in admissions at an emergency room in a major medical facility and still not make it to sundown.
    â€œYes.” She didn’t like what was being said, but she knew the truth well before she’d made the call.
    â€œCan you get me a sample of his blood?”
    She knew he was right. It may help others to know what strain was involved.
    â€œWe have a satellite link. I think we can send a picture to you.”
    They had a remote location link and a generator that could be powered up when needed. She would have a picture of the slide to him before the end of work the next day in Atlanta.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œIs everything going well?” It was the father’s voice that was now kicking in.
    â€œYes, I am learning so much.”
    â€œWell, you will be finished before you know it.”
    â€œI know. Dr. DuBose has been a great help.”
    â€œLove you. Bye.”
    The link cut off.
    â€œMataa, ask the old man how we get to the boy’s village.”
    The nurse hesitated. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWe need to see if we can stop the spread of this disease before it goes farther.”
    Stewart had been fully inoculated to include the meningitis vaccination. It may have not been the right one, but her risk of getting sick was fairly low. However, the disease could spread quickly. Neisseria meningitidis could infect an entire village within hours. Others would get