Notes from May 9: A Good Day...

If you’ve ever kept going after you’ve made a wrong turn hoping that somehow your mistake would turn serendipitously into something good you know how I feel about ‘Accurate Motor Garage’.  Once again I went only for an oil change.  It was running fine on the way in but it now travels with a rattle that could wake the dead and the engine has cut out on me once.  But we’ve been through so much together that it would be a betrayal to go anywhere else.

Today was an exceptional day in that it started at the Rippon Medical Clinic where we are helping three children with operations.  Sharon, who you know, we are thrilled about.  Her operation is finished and the results of the biopsy are negative for cancer.  Dr. Philip thinks she’ll make a full recovery and the remaining scar tissue will eventually dissipate so that she won’t have any abnormality.  When I entered the clinic she and her dad were there both smiling like two suns.  Her dad hugged me on one side and then the other with each of them lasting for as long as was comfortable.  For a man who didn’t speak and was without expression of any kind he has become the epitome of warmth and gratitude.  Today he handed me a lined piece of paper with a letter that he had someone write for him thanking us for the operation for Sharon.  I’ve had lots of thank you’s in the work we’ve been doing but nothing has felt quite like the joy of Sharon and her Dad.    

Sharon, Brian, and George (don't be fooled by the pink shirt and skirt)

The next boy is Brian who was mistreated by a step father when he was about 2 years old and suffered a dislocated hip which was never corrected so that he walks with a severe limp and even his growth seems to be stunted.  He has come for an X ray and requires reconstructive surgery which will likely be followed by fairly lengthy treatment of being in traction.  Brian is a tender little boy who greets you with deference and the softest of manners.  However, he has the same look of fear that Sharon had when she first came for the initial tests for her operation. 

The baby is George who is just 2 years old and has an intestinal hernia which has sunk down into his scrotal sack which is now the size of a mango.  His mom seemed scared and doesn’t speak any English.  Being in the city seems to draw out the look of the village in her.  I think of how our parents at home would be googling everything that a doctor says, educating themselves on their child’s condition, asking questions, getting second opinions, and following every decision that is made.  Here there is an unquestioning faith in the mystery of medical treatment.  No one knows what medication they’re taking but they simply refer to it as taking their ‘tabs’.  I can’t think of a better place to utilize the power of placebo.  It seems to be inherent in the mindset that as long as I am taking something it is going to heal me.  There is the ubiquitous use of ‘Panadol’ which is like our Ibuprofen but it is remarkable what ailments people seem to overcome with only one dose. 

family of four kids: not yet sporting their new outfits

The rest of the day was just as satisfying as it was spent helping children with school fees.  There is a family of four children (4, 6, 9, 12) at the Railways who are exceptionally poor.  They don’t live in one of the block units but stay in a make shift bamboo structure in between the barracks.  The whole family (6 in total) live in this 10x10 hut which contains all their earthly possessions.  The best part of the morning with them was going to the market to get their school uniforms, shoes, socks, notebooks and pencils.  If you ever need an infusion of perspective and wonder I suggest taking a child who has rarely been to school and register him in his class, shop for his school clothes, buy him shoes, and let pure joy have its way with you.  I kept wanting the children’s shoes to fit properly but the father and James (my helper/translator) kept pushing for shoes that were several sizes too big for each of the four kids.  It was made very clear to me, as if I needed careful instruction, that there is no sense in buying shoes that fit because you’ve got to anticipate that the kids feet are going to grow.  Eventually, I gave up and accepted that we were now walking through the market with four kids wearing shoes like waterskis.  As we passed by certain shops the shopkeepers would be laughing, calling out ‘well done’, and clapping knowing that something good was happening for children that have one set of tired clothes and rarely, if ever, have gone to school or worn shoes. 

The market is a place that unwittingly reminds me that I’m blindingly white.  I being the odd one out enter into everyone’s radar as misplaced, unexpected, or simply different.  No one means any harm by it in fact I get a thrill playing with the curious onlookers by holding a somewhat stern glance which builds a dramatic tension until a breaking moment in which I slip out a grin to the amusement of the audience.  The sewing ladies seem to love this the most.  When I do something like hit my head on the iron sheets that hang down way too low it is as if I am a traveling circus that just arrived to perform for them.  In those moments I feel like I’ve just been pushed out from behind the curtain and I’m now on stage with a rapt attentive crowd keen on knowing that the strange mzungu is going to do next. 

I’ve said this before but some days are really good.  Today was another one of those.  It felt like the best of my culture and Ugandan culture could meet, embrace, and just find each other amusing.