| |
Eric
I grin down at the young girl. “You’re going to be A-OK, little miss.”
She beams up at me and smiles. “Tank-you, Dak!” She scurries off the table and heads back outside to play.
A lot of the children who play in the village will come to our tent for minor scrapes and cuts. It’s adorable and we don’t mind putting on some antiseptic and a Band-Aid for them. Heck, you never know what can get infected these days.
“I’m gonna go make rounds, I’ll be back,” I tell Dr. Alsworth and Clive, who stand about three feet away discussing something. They both nod and go back to their conversation.
“How are you doing today?” I ask Kwame.
“Hi, Dak. I’m tired,” he answers honestly.
And he looks it. It’s been a week with no email from Declan, so I started doing my own research. Jack told me they can get shipments and he’s already ordered a lot of medication, including cancer drugs, but it’s slow-going.
Well, I’m not that patient. I refuse to sit here and watch this kid die.
I pull my scrubs pants up a bit so I can crouch down and get to the boy’s eye level. “I want you to hang in there for me, okay? I’m trying to get some medicine sent so we can help you with the leukemia.”
“Thank you, Dak.”
I want to sob at the hope and gratefulness in his eyes. I squeeze his bony shoulder. “Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Well, you should still eat something.”
“Okay, Dak.”
I move on to the next patient, a little girl waiting for surgery. We’re in a small village outside of the main city so when the kids here need more medical attention than we can provide, we keep them here until a spot opens up. In her case, she needs a heart murmur fixed, so she’s going to have to be sent to a hospital that can do that sort of advanced surgery. Until then, we keep her away from the public in general. An infection could harm her heart.
“How are you today, Eshe?” I ask.
“I’m A-OK, Dak!” She gives me a thumbs up and I laugh. The kids heard me say it a few times and now they love to repeat it back to me. “You feeling okay, though?”
“I just tired,” she replies.
I reach into my bag and pull out a brand-new coloring book and box of crayons. “Do you want to color?”
Her eyes brighten. “Yes!”
I set the items down in front of her and squeeze her hand before going to the next patient.
After I’m done with rounds, I go back to the main part of the tent.
“Hey, we’re doing a vaccine clinic tomorrow, I’d like for you to be here,” Dr. Alsworth tells me.
I grin. “Where else would I be?”
He chuckles. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Have you ever given a vaccine before?” Clive asks.
I shake my head. “A shot, yes. Not an actual vaccine.”
“Good, it’ll be easy,” he assures me.
I’m not too worried about it. I’ve given cortisone injections into major large joints, I can handle a little stick to the arm. “I’m sure.”
“A little tougher on kids because they’re scared of needles and cry.”
“So do adults,” I quip.
They both chuckle. “That’s true.”
Though, seeing a kid cry and making them hold still will be a lot harder.
I look at my watch and see it’s almost 7 p.m. Except for the inpatient people, the clinic is quiet. The 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. doctors and nurses have already arrived for the night, so I walk the dirt road back to my tent.
I open my laptop and am happy to see an email from Declan from about an hour ago.
From: Declan.Kelley@cuhealth.org
To: EricAndrews@pmail.com
Subject: Sources
Hey – sorry it took me so long to get back to you, I had to ask quite a few people around here if they knew how this worked, and finally got an answer. I had my secretary compile a list of sources at the major pharmaceutical companies. I hope these will help. These aren’t public record so keep the phone numbers and email addresses to yourself, please. I practically had to bribe someone for them.
Let me know if any of these help. If not, I’ll keep digging.
Hope you’re doing well. I know everyone misses you around here.
Best,
Declan
I shoot off a quick reply thanking him and am excited to go to work. There’s obviously no printer here, so I pull up the list and keep it on the screen, knowing making these phone calls is going to eat up all my minutes, but I don’t care. I’ll just add more. It’s not like I spend money on anything else. The organization provides me with food and shelter. Occasionally, if I’m just tired of the food, I’ll catch a ride into the main city and hit the little grocery store for snacks or meat I’m craving.
Workouts have been near nonexistent and I miss them dearly. My bulk is gone, but thankfully I haven’t added much fat, mainly due to the diet here. It’s been an adjustment, but I’m mentally more focused and don’t ever feel sluggish after a meal. There is no alcohol or any sort of recreational drugs here either, so my mind’s been clear.
Almost too clear sometimes. There are nights I long to drown my sorrows in some liquor, and quickly realize I don’t need it. Even at home, I’m not supposed to drink being on parole. I’m honestly shocked my P.O. signed off on letting me come here. I keep expecting to get a phone call that I’m needed back home and that my parole has been revoked.
But that hasn’t happened yet. She just required that I check in with her by phone once a week and by email as well, detailing what I did that week. At first, I was annoyed, but after the first couple of weeks, I realized it was almost therapeutic, and that by sending her these detailed emails, it was like journaling. I type them in a word processing program titling each one with a date, and send them to her that way so I can keep a copy for myself, should I ever accidentally delete my emails. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. I am not like my sister. Computers hate me.
I pull up the first contact, Anco Pharmaceuticals, and dial the number. It rings three times.
“Mr. Anco’s office, how can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Eric Andrews with Doctors Around the World. Can I speak to Mr. Anco?”
“He’s in a meeting, but I can have him call you back.”
Shit.
“Well, I’m actually in Africa at the moment if he doesn’t mind calling international.”
“That’s fine, sir. Go ahead with the number when you’re ready.”
I prattle it off to her and we hang up with a promise that he’ll call me when he’s done.
Two more phone calls go about the same way, and I pray at least one calls me back. The third one I let them know that we have some urgent patients here in need of life-saving medicines, hoping to appeal to their human side.
We’ll see.
I close the laptop and head to the mess hall, excited to see they have chicken, pasta, and corn. Sometimes we don’t get a really good solid protein. I take the plate the attendant dishes up, and sit at one of the many tables.
I see Clive headed toward me with his plate and a glass of milk.
“How’s it going, mate?” he asks in his strong accent.
“I’m good. It was a good day. How about you, man?” I ask, cutting into my chicken breast when I’d rather pick it up and devour it like a caveman.
“I almost lost a patient, it was dreadful,” he replies, looking sad.
“Wow, I’m really sorry to hear that, but it sounds like they’re gonna live, huh?”
He nods. “Yes, but it’s touch and go, you see. Just like the kid from a few weeks ago, this one also fell off his motorbike but this was an adult. Head injury and broken clavicle, and as you know, nothing can be done for it, so he’s going to be in quite a bit of pain.”
“Did you give him morphine?” I ask.
He nods. “A bit, but we’re running low, so we got to ration it some.”
I cringe. A broken clavicle is very painful and aside from a sling to keep the arm from jostling it, there’s no real treatment but painkillers. I feel a little angry we’re low on meds again. What the hell is taking so long to get this shit here?
“How’s the head injury?” I ask.
“Hard to say, I saw brain swelling on the X-ray but of course, I’d rather an MRI be done. Not going to happen, I know,” he replies, spooning some corn into his mouth.
“Maybe he should be transported to the main city,” I suggest. Of course, if I had my way, I’d have them all sent to the big city for better care. Kwame first.
“I tried, they said the hospital’s full and to just monitor him here. Sucks, mate.”
“I agree. I’ve got a leukemia patient getting no treatment in the kids’ ward,” I mutter, taking another bite of chicken.
“Kwame, I’ve heard. Nice kid. It’s too bad, really. Horrible, actually.”
After a few minutes of eating in silence, I ask, “How long have you been here, Clive?”
“About five months,” he answers.
“Yeah? How long are you gonna stay?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder and I notice even he looks thinner than when I first met him a couple of months ago. He’s already a thin fella, too-long light blond hair and blue eyes, and a slight build. “Not sure. When I feel like I can go home again, I guess.”
This interests me. “Why wouldn’t you be able to go home?”
He looks up into my eyes and there’s true, horrific pain in his. “Lost me wife and child a few months back. She stroked out while givin’ birth. Baby suffocated before we could get ’im out. Did CPR on ’im until they had to pull me away. I’m a fucking doctor. This shouldn’t have happened on my watch.”
I want to cry for the guy.
“Damn, I’m so sorry, man.” I put my hand on his in a comforting gesture and watch as tears splash his food. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I shouldn’t have pried—”
He swipes his face. “No, it’s okay. I haven’t talked about it since... and I need to. It’s not healthy to keep it in.”
“You are right about that. It’s hard to talk about pain, especially for us big, tough strapping men.” I make a muscle man pose.
He laughs, his eyes glistening. “You got that right, mate.”
I take a drink of my water.
“What about you? What brought you here?” he asks.
I knew it was coming so I decide to be upfront. “Since you shared, I will too. Seven years ago, I was out drinking with some friends. Left the bar to drive home and dropped my phone into the floorboards. While I was fumbling around for it, I went around a bend on the wrong side of the road, and there was a car. I corrected at the last minute and ended up ramming the driver’s side. The woman was thrown from the car and died in my arms. Left behind a husband and small daughter, about five.”
“Bloody hell,” he says. “That’s awful. I don’t blame you for coming here.”
“Oh, no... that’s not what made me snap. I served six years in prison for that. About three months ago, the husband was found dead from a gunshot wound. I don’t know if he offed himself or what, but I couldn’t handle it. Even if it was someone else who killed him, there’s now a little girl who’s orphaned because of me. If I hadn’t killed her mom, she’d at least still have her...” I trail off and clear my throat as I look down at my food, no longer hungry. I swipe my hand along the back of my neck.
“Bollocks,” he mutters. “You’ve sure been through it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, it seems.”
“You know the dad dying isn’t your fault, though. Right?” he asks, his brow raised.
“You know your wife and baby dying isn’t your fault either, right?” I counter.
He nods.
“We’ll be forever paying for sins we feel responsible for,” he murmurs.
“That’s right. We can come here and help the less fortunate, then go back home and do the same, but the guilt will never go away. This is our prison. Though, I deserve mine. You don’t.”
He shoves his food away. “You don’t either. You paid for your crime, and nothing will bring them back. Maybe you can find a way to help the little girl.”
I had that thought before, and had already vowed I’d try to do something for her once I got back Stateside.