Confessions of a GP by Benjamin Daniels

husband, from whom she contracted HIV, left her once she could no longer work and he realised that she wouldn’t be able to produce any healthy children for him. Cynthia was alone and her only means of income was digging in the fields. She was still getting up each day and attempting to work, but her AIDS was advanced and she was too weak to dig. The medications for her AIDS and TB were free and were helping, but what she really needed was something decent to eat. ‘Where are you going to get your next meal?’ I asked via the interpreter. She shrugged her shoulders and then after a long silence looked me in the eye and asked me a question in her native tongue. Waiting for the translation, I assumed that Cynthia would be asking for some money or food. To my surprise, what she actually asked me for was a job. Even in her weak state, Cynthia clearly still felt that she should earn her way and hadn’t even considered a hand-out. One of the previous patients had given me six eggs to say thank you for the mosquito net I gave him, so I gave them to Cynthia and she left with at least some basic sustenance to help her muster the energy for her long walk home.
    As an idealistic sixth-former applying for medical school, I imagined spending many long years working in the poorest and neediest parts of the world. The reality is that apart from my brief experience in Kenya, my only other time practising medicine abroad was three short months in a hospital in Mozambique soon after I qualified. The reality of working in an African hospital was really hard. The facilities were limited, the bureaucracy made me want to tear out my hair and the extent of the corruption was terrifying. The experience was incredible and although it was some years ago, I think of that time often and it helps put both my work and life back in the UK into perspective. I’m a more experienced doctor now and could potentially be much more help back in that hospital in Mozambique, but the question is: do I have the motivation to go back?
    Rob is a GP with a similar amount of experience to me. The week before we arrived in Mozambique, a woman came to the hospital in the middle of the night in labour with an arm presentation. This means that the baby’s arm had been born but the rest of the baby was still inside the womb and basically stuck. Rob, like me, had spent a few weeks on an obstetrics attachment as a medical student but that was pretty much the sum of his experience of delivering babies. Suddenly, as the only doctor around and ten hours from the next nearest hospital, Rob had to do something. The woman needed a Caesarean section, but there simply weren’t the facilities at hand. He tried desperately to push the arm back in and deliver the baby but to no avail and the baby died. The mum was extremely weak from loss of blood and exhaustion. The baby needed to be taken out or the mum would die too. Rob cut off the baby’s arm and managed to deliver the remainder of the dead baby.
    Rob saved that woman’s life and I have the utmost respect for him. If he had decided to stay in England, that woman would have undoubtedly died. Throughout this book I’ve moaned a bit about the fact that I went to medical school to save lives and make a difference but instead I keep lonely old ladies company and dish out sick notes to the work shy. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of returning to Africa to practise some genuine ‘life-saving’ medicine, but right now I’m not sure that I have the emotional strength to hack the arm off a dead baby at three in the morning.

Evidence
    I was being dragged round town on a Sunday morning and, despite the fact that I really fancied a coffee and some cake, my wife wanted us to try out one of the new trendy juice bars that had sprung up. The man behind the counter had a silly pointy goatee and a ponytail. I asked him what a acai berry was given that it was going to make up one-fifth of my five berry smoothie. ‘It’s hand picked