Just a Life

When I left the hospital on Friday, she was screaming.  I arrived on Monday morning to find her screaming all the same.  Her pain had again, been unattended to as a newly diagnosed tumour was taking over her leg.  Her husband held her, both days, with tears streaming down her face. “No one has given her anything for pain.”  I scramble around, trying to find something, anything that can ease her pain. I’m still fumbling with the equipment, never quite sure of the dosing or drugs because it’s all so different.  I have to ask for help, again. Meanwhile, she has been waiting now over 7 days for the surgical doctors to see her. Trapped in a system where paperwork gets lost and hand-written call schedules are a cover for people not picking up their phone, she waits in pain.

I have been unable to locate a single soul willing to come see her.  You see, she is a medical patient, not a surgical one. I have called, I have shown up in surgical departments, I have tried random WhatsApp phone numbers all to no avail. It continues today, which should be as no surprise. The husband’s face is filled with hope when he sees me and I am determined, all the more, to fight today.  I run up and downstairs, I pound on doors and carry her chart around in my sweaty hands. I will not let it go until I find someone to see her. I wait for doctors outside their offices for their lunch breaks to end. I ask switchboard operators and different surgical specialities, no one takes responsibility.

All dead ends.

I show up in endoscopy suites and call visiting interns from America, without luck.  The husband gives me a desperate look and in hurried whispers, I grasp at the meaning behind the Chichewa I am not fluent in. I believe he tells me he can put her on his bike and bring her face to face with the surgical team that seems to be neglecting her. I hit the stairs again. This time I find the one, the someone on whose shoulders this all will fall.  I put the chart in front of his face, I plead her case, I demand he does his job. He leads me on for a minute but shrugs and says, “It doesn’t matter.” 

I feel the inside of me deflate.  Does he mean that her life doesn’t matter?  That she is not worth seeing? That there is no treatment anyways, or surgery will just delay the inevitable? “But there are things they can do,” I think, “they haven’t even seen the patient, they haven’t heard her case, they haven’t reviewed her scans, they just won’t see her because it’s not an acute emergency.”  Yet, what do I know. I slowly climb back up the stairs to face her husband. What can I say? I say what I shouldn’t say but what I only know how to say, “they might come soon.” I cannot tell him, the mother of his children, the wife of his youth, that her life doesn’t matter.  I cannot tell him that no one cares. I cannot tell him that no one is coming to help. I cannot tell him there is no hope. I end my day reluctantly. I am angry and devastated and hot from stair climbing, despondent that all my efforts are for nought. But I have to go home, and cook dinner, with her screams still in my ears.

She is 45 years old.

One comment

  1. Shannon – your words bring us into the situation and we feel her pain and your amazing efforts to bring attention to this case (1 of many that I am sure feel just as frustrating)
    May your light and efforts be a part of some getting the attention they need and deeper yet may some of those you interact with be inspired to care and be a catalyst for change.
    For now, hugs as you journey this difficult situation.

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