Reciprocal (non-fiction)
The intense heat of the midday sun seemed to prolong the moment of our bus’s arrival, which would take me back to Yangon. Our group of 37 interns was standing with luggage in front of our hostel in Hlegu. My brain neglected my hungry stomach for a while when a friend of mine gave 500kyats to a beggar woman carrying a baby. Charity! My lips curled into a rewarding smile. Her act reminded me of something in the very recent past. . . . .It was at the injection time that my friends and I walked into the paediatric ward of Hlegu township hospital. Our attention was focused on the patients’ list and the injection books while carrying injection trays in our hands. As soon as the patients noticed us, they put away their lunch boxes into the baskets under the allotted beds. The smell of curry in the ward failed to distract us matching the correct patient’s name with the injections prescribed. None of us simply wanted to make a mistake on the very first day of our posting here.
I approached the crying and wriggling 3 year old on his mother’s lap to inject penicillin through the indwelling cannula. As I turned to my left to another 7 year old girl, an unpleasant smell and sight caught my attention.
In the corner behind me was a thin, dark young woman in red longyi spoon-feeding her toddler? The bald skinny boy was munching a spoonful of rice and fish on his khaki-colored bed sheets. Patches of desquamated skin were easily noticeable on the skeletal limbs of both mother and son. My eyes quickly checked the injection book to see their bed number. They were given no injection. I, therefore, moved on to other children, and finished all injections with my colleagues.
Half an hour later, I returned to the corner bed alone. My other colleagues had already retired to the restroom for lunch. The closer I got to the bed, the stronger the stench became. The mother hurriedly stood up as she saw me. Standing at the foot of the bed, I studied the chart and began my questions.
She was a 26-year-old washerwoman, who was abandoned by her husband she had run away with. When her 5 year old son had begun suffering from malnutrition induced gastroenteritis, they had moved to their hospital with the help of the villagers. They had stranded here for almost 5 months since then. Her family had totally neglected her because of her elopement. She wiped away her tears as her son handed her a plastic toy plane, urging her to play with him.
I changed the course of conversation towards her asthma, and checked the drugs she was taking. Then, I let her go as she made the excuse to go and give her son a shower. It was when she picked up the boy tin one arm with a pile of wet clothes in the other that I figured or the source of the foul smell. The clothes were soaked with the boy’s urine. My gaze and the malevolent stare of a few attendants nearby followed them out of the ward.
On the fifth day of our two week trip for community medicine in Hlegu, we visited three small villages around the area. The poor health knowledge of the inhabitants some of the unsanitary water supply and types of housing; children running about and playing with bare feet on dirty ground as well as on ponds; the choking smell of smoke wafting from the kitchen of a number of thatched cottages; these all enlightened us that the number of needy patients we had met in the hospital was just the tip of the iceberg. There were still thousands out there needed to be educated on living a more systematic way of life.
How could we ever help these patients-to-be of the future?
One of our fellows got so close to stepping on a cobra as he walked along the narrow village path with undergrowths on either side. Poor buddy was scared to death. No wonder the incidence of snake bite was high in areas like this. As we walked back to our bus home, the loud traditional music from a village party reminded us of the locals still being happy and contented with the way they were. A nice thing for them. What’s essential in life is being contented with oneself, isn’t it?
This experience persuaded me into donating 20,000 kyats to the paediatric ward the following day. Whenever I got to the ward, the asthmatic woman with her malnourished son acted as, well I thought, the very representatives of those out there in need.
On the morning of the day before the end of our trip, the most memorable lesson for my life was learnt.
An ambulance drove past our group when we arrived at the gate of the hospital. The glimpse of an assistant doctor and a dark grey tank of oxygen indicated that a patient had been transferred out to another place.
Soon afterwards, things were explained to us by the consultant physician. The 26-year-old washerwoman had had an acute severe attack on asthma early that morning around 2 to 3 AM. She had been given high doses of inhaled hydrocortisone 200mg and had been stabilized for the time being. Anyway it would be most reasonable to transfer her to a medical ward in Yangon General Hospital, the tertiary center, in fear of uncontrollable bouts in the near future; like the need for assisted ventilation.
Thanks to the donated 20,000kyats, she declared with a sigh, the expenses for the patient were covered. Expenses like, first of all, filling the empty tank of the ambulance with enough petrol, and to buy bed sheets, and the initial medical supplies once they got to YGH.
What had I done? I was able to help someone effectively for once in my life so far. My hands were cold and trembling with excitement and delight while signing on the attendance book. How would have I felt if I had known this on the very first day I saw the woman? After all, I gave Charity to the needy ones.
On our way back home to Yangon, an abstract appeared in my mind; what happens to you in your life is your destiny. Neither can you change it nor is there anyone to blame on. However, if only we cared more about each other…….who knows things could get a little bit better.
