We woke up today to an eerily beautiful Sunday morning. It was, in fact, the prettiest morning I had seen in quite a while. The sun hadn't yet come up completely as I walked out on the hospital balcony, feeling at peace amongst the subtle gradient of blues, purples, and reds that caressed the sky. A faint breeze rustled the tents below--a refreshing change from the strong winds that frequently blew sand into our eyes in the heat of the afternoon.
Ana and I were joined by Adam and our new attending, Dr. Fowler, last night. We had decided before going to bed that we would float around the next day and go wherever help was needed. As it turns out, there was finally enough help at the pharmacy for all of us to be assigned to the tents or to the ICU for the entire day. And so, Adam was sent to the Brown tent to help Rhianna (the resident), Ana went to help out Dr. Fowler in the ICU, and I sauntered off alone to the White tent.
My mind flashed back to some of the experiences I had had during my afternoon in the Brown tent the afternoon before. As much as I wanted to go in and help the patients, a part of me hesitated at the thought of subjecting the patients to their daily routine of painful wound dressing changes and physical therapy. It was heartbreaking to see them cry and wince as I ripped off bandages and rinsed their large, open wounds with saline. And it was equally hard to watch as the physical therapists came in, fully ready to give their "tough love" as they pushed, pulled, and tugged at the patients' arms and legs--desperate to infuse function back into those injured limbs amidst their screams.
So it was with somewhat mixed emotions that I entered the White tent to meet the patients for the first time. But to my surprise, many of the patients were gone. When I asked the nurse where everyone was, she answered, "Why, they're at church, silly! It's Sunday..."
Directly to the right of the White Tent sat an old Chapel, which had since been transformed into a "makeshift pediatric ward" for the interim. There were crowds of people spilling out of the entrance. To my amazement, I saw row upon row of patients in wheelchairs and crutches, singing and clapping happily in rhythm as their pastor led them in song. Many of them were people I had just seen the day before, laying weakly in bed and moaning in pain as they did their daily physical therapy. But there they were, transformed right before my eyes, smiling and rocking gently from side to side to the music.
I couldn't help but marvel at the healing power of religion.
The church service lasted for the entire morning, creating a major hiccup for nurses wanting to administer meds and for surgeons who needed to take their patients to the operating room. Thankfully, the patients' high spirits were contageous enough that no one overreacted. For me, it truly was the perfect day to become acquainted with the White tent. I took my time helping the nurse with vitals, dressing changes, and medicine administration, pausing numerous times to talk to patients in my limited Creole.
There was one patient, in particular, who took great sympathy to my attempts to learn her language. Her name was Katherine. She was a thin, spunky 19-year old who had sustained a fairly extensive crush injury to her left leg, as well as a nasty gash to her thigh that had since become badly infected. As I carefully cleaned her wound--a task that caused her great pain--she would divert her attention to improving my pitiful Creole. It got to the point that she refused to acknowledge me when I spoke in English, preferring to speak to me slowly in her language until I got the gist of what she was saying.
"Ede m ede ou," Katherine pronounced gravely to me, as I finished wrapping her bandage. (Help me and I'll help you). I simply smiled to show my gratefulness, to which in response, she smiled back.
I would eventually work for twelve hours that day before heading back to the pharmacy to help inventory the medications. Leaving the tent, I felt a strong feeling of awe at the sense of community that was so present among the patients. Indeed, this communal respect had always been there to some extent. But somehow, it had been amplified in an unforgettable manner by the intimate sharing of faith that had taken place during that morning's church service.
I, for one, was glad to have been included...no matter how briefly. For the first time during my time in Jimani, I went to bed feeling strangely refreshed by the day's work.
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