It Does Matter.

Beautiful India...I left a part of my heart there.  I do each and every time, to every place I travel to. 

     One last story from Silchar, Assam.... I was working in post-op one day, discharging the kiddos from the day before and getting ready for the first ones to come out of surgery. I heard loud screaming coming from the ward next to us. It was a large ward of men. The room was filled with men recovering from surgery, sick, healing or dying, a sea of beds and mats on the floor. I walked by the ward each time I went down the long hall and would peek in and wave to the patients sitting up or walking in the halls. I saw chest tubes draining into old, used saline bottle or water bottles, rusty IV poles, and children playing between and under the beds while visiting their families. I continued to hear the screaming for hours. The screaming continued. 10/10 pain screaming. I sometimes tell my own patients as they are eating McDonalds and laughing that that 10 out of 10 is like being caught on fire and having your arm ripped off and then drug by a car at highways speed and that perhaps they could reconsider their 10/10 pain number they just gave me. This sound was that, 10/10. 

     At some point, I came to the conclusion that I could not listen to this man suffering any longer. I was torn. A part of me was worried that I shouldnt get involved, scared of what I would find. But, I realized that all of that didn't matter. I didnt care. I was a person and I knew that I could help and he was a man that needed help. I asked my favorite translator to join me. And we went. All eyes were on me as I walked in and asked, well...sort of demanded to know what was going on. I walked up to the man and placed my hand on his chest and for a moment,the screaming quieted. I asked the translator to talk to him and she walked up to the head of his bed and turned her face away, saying "I cant do this." I told her she could and she did. I looked up at his face and saw. He had been struck by lightning the night before. The left side of his face had been completely burned, his left eye burned and looked as if it had been ruptured. It was draining clear/yellowish fluid down his face, part of the fluid dripping, partially dried, leaving a white trail down his cheek. He had burns to his legs. All exposed, not cleaned or wrapped and weeping fluid. 

     Through translation, I discovered that the patients families are the ones that go to get the patients medications filled. This man had no one, he had been dropped off. I glanced at the chart and saw only mild pain meds ordered only twice a day. I asked the translator why the other families with their small children playing in the room and around the screaming man allowed this to continue. I asked why they didn't help. I was told that they all had their own patients to attend to. I felt anger. I told her to go get the nurse or the doctor and that I wanted to speak with them. I then told her to find someone to go get the medicine and that I would pay for it. The nurse arrived and I ended up not having to pay for the meds. Someone went to get them. The nurse medicated him and then cleaned and bandaged the burns. I had to return to post-op to take care of the kiddos coming off the OR table but I went back that day, and everyday the rest of the time I was there to check in on him. I would walk up to him, put my hand on his chest and comfort him for just a minute, say a silent prayer. I would stop by another man in the ward that had been burned and visit him and say hi to the man on the bed by the door with his chest tube draining in the plastic, used water bottle. 

     If not me or you, then who. One person, one tiny seed of hope. It does matter. 

The Wee-ist Ones

33 tiny ones with room for 50 and 2 nurses. This is what I saw when we entered the NICU in the hospital in Silchar.  Little tiny ones...with sticky, transparent skin. So thin that I could see their blue veins and their little hearts beating in their chests.  Many were so sick that I knew they wouldn't be there the next day.  A few, I was certain, were taking their last breaths right there in front of us, irregular respirations and unable to cry, their mouths open in an weak attempt with tearless eyes.  The NICU was a far cry from what we would see in the US. There was only one ventilator, a lack of equipment and not many Mothers.  A group of Mothers sat in a small room right in front of the entry door.  Holding their babies and feeding them.  To enter, we had to remove our shoes and the nurses or Moms would give us some sandals, sometimes their very own, that were allowed in the ward, "for infection." I met a young Doctor that chose to work there. I asked him if he was a resident and had to work there in the government hospital and he answered "No. I want to work here."

The great Dr. that keeps an eye on all the babies in the NICU

 And so, we added a trip by the NICU to our daily rounds that included the men and women in the burn unit and other wards.  Bed by bed, we walked with him as he told us their stories. There were sets of twins, septic workups, malnourished, and "brain injuries during birth."  They had handwritten tags attached to them and were doubled up in the beds.  Many, many times, he would get to a baby and say that they were abandoned and almost all of the abandoned were baby girls. I started to ask questions. The ones with a Mother, why weren't the mothers there to hold them as they died?  He explained that the mothers came every 2 hours and were allowed to breast feed but that they didn't understand due to their lack of education. I asked, talking about the ones that were near death, "Im sure they want to be here, Im sure they care." Then he said something that I cannot get out of my mind or heart. He said to me, "Its not that they don't care. They cant care."  As he explained the differences in a government hospital and a private one, I started to think of the situation there.  What it means to have a girl baby.  For the most part, girls cant grow up and and make money, and in fact, a girl costs the family money in the form of a large dowery once it is time for her to marry.  Add this to the stress of daily life without shelter, money, health care, or enough food to feed the mouths that are already starving and one can see why abandoning a tiny girl is a choice for many parents in the area.

Double bunked with handwritten tag

      I grew fond of a chunky little girl, she was healthy and was going to be discharged to a state orphanage in the following days. Abandoned. I would hover a bit longer by her bed, touching her arms and fat legs, praying, racking my brain and for a split second trying to think if it would be possible for me or a friend to adopt her.  Just this one.  What future would she have if she had a family. Would she grow up in Assam and be adopted, would she change the world? And then one morning, I was searching for her and I asked him, "Where is my baby?" He said, "She expired last night, she had convulsions." On that same morning, I looked around the room and saw more then one "expired" baby still in their beds or moved to a metal shelf, ones that did not survive the night. I think of her and them often.

     We were lucky enough to also visit the L & D ward and even met a brand new baby, minutes old. Women are not allowed to have anyone with her during birth except for the doctor.  They deliver alone, on a cold metal bed of sorts.  I hope one day this will change.  We also checked in on the mothers with babies that were not sick enough for the NICU but were not able to go home. Full of smiles, they would proudly unwrap their wee ones for us to see each and every morning.  Growing them up, hopeful for discharge home. 

I will never forget the alone, beautiful, abandoned, precious girl babies.  They DID leave their mark in this world.  As small as they were and as short of a life many of them lived, they changed someone. Me. The translators. The nurses. The doctors. Their Mothers. I think about how, simply because of where they were born, they will never have the chance to become what they could have been.  I am grateful that I can do and become whatever I would like. This, I will not take for granted.

Happy Birthday, today is your day!