bright and full of sounds, per person. That’s what is lost.
I attended to the woman I left in the emergency room. She was miscarrying, but not hemorrhaging too much. If she continued to bleed, we would do a D&C on her tomorrow.
I checked on Aweil. She was sleeping on the floor beside another child. One of the mothers was watching them both.
In the nursing room, the boy’s saturation was still 100%. I went to the gate.
“Driver?” the guard asked.
“No, I’ll walk,” I said, and mimed legs with my fingers.
The night was thick, moonless. I made my way slowly back to the compound, trying not to trip into someone coming the other way. It was late by the time I arrived, and everyone was in their tukuls. There was some food left on the stove, and I ate a few spoonfuls standing over the sink. I crawled into my sweaty bed and called the hospital. The child was still alive, saturation 100%. I told the hospital to call me if anything changed, and left the handset crackling beside my head.
This morning, when I got to the hospital, Muriel was still pushing the bag. She had not taken a break all night. The mother was lying down on the bed, her hand resting on her child’s chest, feeling its rise and fall.
I relieved Muriel, and she stumbled from the nursing room towards the waiting Land Cruiser. I explained to the mother that weneeded to take the tube out, to see if her child would breathe on his own. I suctioned his small mouth, removed the tape from around it and from the tube. I stopped bagging.
He was breathing. A little. More than a flicker, more than last night. I pulled the tube.
On my way home for lunch today, I got a call from the hospital. His breathing was getting worse.
“Put him on oxygen,” I said. We couldn’t intubate him again. We didn’t have the resources or the trained staff. Fifteen minutes later, they called again. He was dead. I sat down to lunch.
And now I am looking at this dull goddamn knife. Useless. Better for cutting boxes than tomatoes, that’s for sure.
I am not going to intubate anyone else.
08/03: bounce.
so far, at this point in the day, twelve noon, i am having my first day off. well, i went to the hospital, but only to check on a baby i admitted yesterday who was so dehydrated that you could see his fontanelle from 20 meters. he was sleeping soundly, his mother beside him. she has two oblique scars on either cheek. like this:
last night the “abyei jazz band” (and i use the already loose term “jazz” so loosely that one of the z’s just fell off) played all night at volumes that greatly exceeded my 32 dB-rated earplugs. one of the rewards i had hoped to find this far from somewhere was a night full of quiet stars. no.
it is day two of the measles vaccination campaign. we are hoping for some bounce from the undetermined electorate, particularly the hard to reach 5-year-olds.
passed some of the queues on my way to the hospital yesterday, families standing outside in the hot sun, voting measle. we had some late-night drama the night before with our newly trained local vaccinating team. they demanded more money. our field coordinator had played this game before. “those who want to leave can. we’ll pause the campaign, tell the community you don’t want to do it, and train others. no problem.” yesterday morning, they were all sweating with the patients, jabbing thin arms.
there are so many children, it is sure we are missing a few. yesterday i admitted only three for feeding. today might tell a different story. on the brighter side, we have the necessary y-shaped sticks.
i told the team, as far as i was concerned it was already a success. hundreds of kids will never, ever get measles. some of my enthusiasm is altruistic, but most of it is selfish. we need another 100 measles cases in the hospital like we need someone to crank up the heat. so whether it happens in an orderly way, people in rod-straight lines with smiles and sleeves rolled up, or if we have to run
I attended to the woman I left in the emergency room. She was miscarrying, but not hemorrhaging too much. If she continued to bleed, we would do a D&C on her tomorrow.
I checked on Aweil. She was sleeping on the floor beside another child. One of the mothers was watching them both.
In the nursing room, the boy’s saturation was still 100%. I went to the gate.
“Driver?” the guard asked.
“No, I’ll walk,” I said, and mimed legs with my fingers.
The night was thick, moonless. I made my way slowly back to the compound, trying not to trip into someone coming the other way. It was late by the time I arrived, and everyone was in their tukuls. There was some food left on the stove, and I ate a few spoonfuls standing over the sink. I crawled into my sweaty bed and called the hospital. The child was still alive, saturation 100%. I told the hospital to call me if anything changed, and left the handset crackling beside my head.
This morning, when I got to the hospital, Muriel was still pushing the bag. She had not taken a break all night. The mother was lying down on the bed, her hand resting on her child’s chest, feeling its rise and fall.
I relieved Muriel, and she stumbled from the nursing room towards the waiting Land Cruiser. I explained to the mother that weneeded to take the tube out, to see if her child would breathe on his own. I suctioned his small mouth, removed the tape from around it and from the tube. I stopped bagging.
He was breathing. A little. More than a flicker, more than last night. I pulled the tube.
On my way home for lunch today, I got a call from the hospital. His breathing was getting worse.
“Put him on oxygen,” I said. We couldn’t intubate him again. We didn’t have the resources or the trained staff. Fifteen minutes later, they called again. He was dead. I sat down to lunch.
And now I am looking at this dull goddamn knife. Useless. Better for cutting boxes than tomatoes, that’s for sure.
I am not going to intubate anyone else.
08/03: bounce.
so far, at this point in the day, twelve noon, i am having my first day off. well, i went to the hospital, but only to check on a baby i admitted yesterday who was so dehydrated that you could see his fontanelle from 20 meters. he was sleeping soundly, his mother beside him. she has two oblique scars on either cheek. like this:
last night the “abyei jazz band” (and i use the already loose term “jazz” so loosely that one of the z’s just fell off) played all night at volumes that greatly exceeded my 32 dB-rated earplugs. one of the rewards i had hoped to find this far from somewhere was a night full of quiet stars. no.
it is day two of the measles vaccination campaign. we are hoping for some bounce from the undetermined electorate, particularly the hard to reach 5-year-olds.
passed some of the queues on my way to the hospital yesterday, families standing outside in the hot sun, voting measle. we had some late-night drama the night before with our newly trained local vaccinating team. they demanded more money. our field coordinator had played this game before. “those who want to leave can. we’ll pause the campaign, tell the community you don’t want to do it, and train others. no problem.” yesterday morning, they were all sweating with the patients, jabbing thin arms.
there are so many children, it is sure we are missing a few. yesterday i admitted only three for feeding. today might tell a different story. on the brighter side, we have the necessary y-shaped sticks.
i told the team, as far as i was concerned it was already a success. hundreds of kids will never, ever get measles. some of my enthusiasm is altruistic, but most of it is selfish. we need another 100 measles cases in the hospital like we need someone to crank up the heat. so whether it happens in an orderly way, people in rod-straight lines with smiles and sleeves rolled up, or if we have to run
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