A Morning in the Life

My alarm goes off and I hit the snooze button (several times). I am thankful the power has stayed on all night, allowing a fan to emit a cool breeze over me and block out the night time noises of goats bleating and neighbors talking. Roll out of bed, enjoy a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal. Read Streams in the Desert and muddle my way through an Old Testament reading for my chronological-read-the-Bible-in-a-year study (genealogies get old fast but I am enjoying stories that I’m not as familiar with too).

My schedule suddenly clears as a meeting is canceled so I SMS my friend, Mbabazi*, who volunteers at the health center in Nyahuka. She is willing to let me tag along today and tells me she’ll arrive at 9:30. I look over some language study materials as I hope to begin again with a new helper this week. I leave the house at 9:30, knowing that it’s usually best to be late here. I am in Africa, right?

I still beat Mbabazi to the health center but she is right behind me. I greet Rose, a nurse friend, as she is back from a training in Kampala. I hope to spend time with her at the pediatric ward, learning more, soon. Today she is scheduled for the night shift so I decide to go with Mbabazi instead. We end up at the antenatal HIV/AIDS clinic.

The room is overflowing with pregnant women and several husbands that agreed to come along and be tested as well. At first, I feel my white skin as I sit down and hundreds of beautiful, brown faces stare back. But unlike children, they don’t stare for minute upon minute, seemingly without blinking. They return their attention to the health worker that is giving an educational message.

I learn how to do the recordkeeping while Mbabazi interviews each client, asking them their name, age, village, etc. When the pile of kitabos (personal notebooks containing each woman’s medical history) lessens, I stop and take in the room. Over a hundred women, all pregnant, wearing one of three maternity dress styles that must be selling in the market these days. A cluster of men in the back of the room. Benches lined up with a system of “waiting in line” that I don’t understand but everyone else seems to. Sweat dripping off everyone’s face as the sun beats down on the tin roof. A man walks around selling handfuls of peanuts. The occasional group chuckle when the health instructor makes a joke.

Mbabazi and I work together to fill out each woman’s kitabo and record the information in another gigantic book, presumably for government statistics, accountability, and the health center’s records. After a while, I’m amazed at how you can tell a woman’s age by the number of children she has had and vice versa. It seems the average age for a first pregnancy is 16. By the time girls reach my age (21), they’re having their 3rd child. And if a woman in her 30’s comes in, she likely has had 6-8 pregnancies. I also realize the child mortality rate, as many have had a certain number of children but have also lost 1-2 as well.

After each woman is registered, she is examined and tested for HIV, given iron and folic acid supplements, de-worming medicine , and any other treatment needed. As I go back to record the HIV test results, I am encouraged that most come back negative. But I am hit hard by the 21 year-old who tests positive, is pregnant, and the father tests positive as well. Nonetheless, it is good that they have come and the many negative results show that these HIV/AIDS clinics are doing their job in educating the public.

After a while, the kitabos start coming back with no test results written in them. I hear that the lab tech got tired and decided to stop. The women will have to come back and be tested another day. I remember then that Rose was concerned because no one had shown up this morning to work in the pediatric ward. And Mbabazi told me that many of the medicines have run out in the store room. I am discouraged by the lack of life-sustaining resources and committed staff. I wish I could do more.

But, I am encouraged by the staff that are faithful in showing up and their desire to help patients, even with severely limited resources. And I am encouraged by the fathers who have come to be tested for HIV. And I am encouraged by the many negative test results. And I am encouraged by hard-working volunteers like Mbabazi, who are so devoted and are not even paid for their time.

I leave around 2 pm, sweaty and hungry but realizing that most of the women will still be waiting for several more hours before leaving. At which point, they will have an even longer walk home. Access to medical care is hard to come by here and is usually an all day commitment filled with waiting.

I walk home with the equatorial sun blazing, burning my skin. It is a true dry-season kind of day with dust billowing up on the road and everyone moving slowly in the heat. I come home and appreciate a cup of cold water in a whole new way.

*I've changed some names in this post, just in case :)