Tanzania: Waiting For Sunrise (cont.)

“Please lie down; I’m going to do a quick check.”  I hurled myself onto the leather slab, rolled up my shirt, and tucked my pants below my abdomen.  He began probing his sharp fingers into the dough of my belly.  I winced with each slight movement, pushing out slow “yeses” each time he asked me if it hurt.  I then sat up, and he began to write down some notes in his charts. 

“OK.  We’re going to put you on IV because you have lost so much fluid, and we need to administer medications to you.  We’ll take some samples from you and run a few tests.  You will have to stay at the least overnight to make sure…”  His accent was thick, and it was difficult to understand him.  But I understood, and tears welled up in my dry red eyes.

“I have to stay in the hospital tonight?”  I asked meekly.  He saw the tears in my eyes and began to dismiss my fear with an air of contempt.

“Yes.  You must be put on the intravenous.  I will go tell your caretaker that you will be staying here.  You can share a room, or you can pay for an executive room, which is private.  The executive room is $27 every night that you are here.”  I thought about my options and the twenty-seven dollar fee; nominal to a westerner but less than what fifty percent of Tanzanians make in a month. 

The doctor picked up his charts and left the room.  My fear began to overwhelm me.  The prospect of a night in an African hospital created in me a panic I was unaware I had the ability to produce.  My breathing became quick and heavy.  Gasping for breath, attempting to absorb all the oxygen I could like a floundering goldfish, my panic hit a crescendo.  I began wheezing.

 “Shhhh, shhhhhhhhhhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, calm down.  You have to calm down,  It’s gonna be alright.  Shhhh, shhhhh.”  Melissa grabbed my sweaty, shaking body and pulled it into her breast wrapping her arm around me as my chest convulsed trying to catch its breath. 

Mama Esther and her minister walked in and grabbed my hand. “You will be OK Dada; it’s alright.”  She muttered to the minister in Swahili.  He lowered his eyes to meet mine and nodded sympathetically.  He and Esther continued to speak to each other in Swahili.  Mama Esther giggled, interrupting the frantic pace of my breathing.  Two large women in white nurse’s outfits escorted me down another dark corridor to Ward 18, the last door before the emergency exit.  The nurses sat me down on the bed.  My crying and panting was unrelenting.

“What is wrong?  Why are you so sad?”  The minister asked me, with a smile.  Still unable to speak, I just shook my head vigorously from side to side.

“Dada don’t cry.”  One of the nurses began to rap her pink palms against my cheek in quick furious motions.  “Shhhhh, don’t cry Sister.”  A second nurse sat me against the iron back of the hospital bed and began to affix the intravenous to my clenched fist.  Realizing that my crying and breathing were not slowing down, they began to slap my face harder and harder, making a crack each time pink met red.  Gasping for breath I cried out.

“I’m having a panic attack!” 

Melissa moved her way into the circle of faces that had crowded around me.  “Stop hitting her!  She’s having a panic attack,”  She yelled.

 It appeared these nurses and doctors were unfamiliar with privileged, western mental dysfunction.  There was no psych ward here, and it made sense.  When you have to struggle to fight off HIV and malaria, and support a family on a dollar a day, you don't really have time for anxiety and depression.

By the time the fluids made most of their rounds, my breath began to rest.  My battered, beat, red face cooled off, and my tired, worn out, legs sat elevated on top of the rough, hospital linens.  I felt weak and emaciated; my taxed body lay limp beneath my exhausted head.

*  *  *

I was awoken two hours later when a nurse burst through the door.  Through half open eyes it was hard to tell whether or not we had crossed paths earlier in the evening.

“You’re not crying anymore.  You’re a silly girl to cry.  Why you cry Dada?”  I knew.  I pursed my lips and turned the corners of my mouth up ever so slightly.  She ran her fingers up and down the IV catheter forcing more fluid into my veins.

“You almost out.”  She opened the door to leave just as Melissa’s face appeared; her mouth smiled though her eyes were serious.

“I think she’s going to change my IV,” I said.  The nurse walked back through the door with a new glass IV.  It was hung on a metal hook above my head.  The glass clanked against the metal bed frame while the IV was being replaced.  The empty bottle was placed delicately on the night stand next to the bed.  Suddenly I felt a shot of pain burst inside my arm.  It was so powerful that tears at once welled in my eyes, and I yelped in pain.

“It’s OK sister.  Shhhhhhh.”  The nurse laughed and gently hit my shoulder with her open palm.  My vein had collapsed when the IV was changed.  It needed to be forced open in order for fluids to flow back into me.  My weakened arms hung like anchors from my shoulders throbbing in pain.

“Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.”  The nurse pinched my cheek, smiled, and walked out of the room.  I looked woefully over at Melissa seated across the room.  There were no words left to speak between us.  The look in her eyes was enough, filled with an understanding and a longing for home that was reflected in mine.

*  *  *

The night was quiet as I watched my intravenous slowly drip into my body.  The hospital, the city, and the country, grew quieter with each passing hour.  Without the usual city din it was peaceful.  The only noise came sporadically from down the corridor where the nurses had gathered. 

I stayed awake throughout the night, moving very little except the twelve feet from the hospital bed to the bathroom.  IV stands with casters were an American luxury we lived without.  Every time I had to go, Melissa had to follow me holding the glass bottle above her head so the IV could flow without interruption.  My intestines continued to make holy war with my weakened body.  The pain continued to intensify with each passing hour.  In silence I wondered how bleak my situation was, wishing for sunrise, a diagnosis, and the ability to move beyond this moment.  To once again reconnect with the reasons I came to Africa in the first place.  

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