Life in Routine

It is getting familiar.

The morning alarm beep of my MTN Ugandan cellphone. A painted sunrise over the veranda with God. Breakfast cooking over the gas stove. The power turning on just after 8am. Rwenzori loose leaf tea with masala spice and sugar. Grabbing my bag with a laptop, camera, tourniquets, pens and scissors. The red, dirt road walk to the clinic. Ugandans in the field to my right, hard at work. Children on holiday, waving on the left, as I walk past.

“I will see you later at the clinic!” Kyra. Migraines these days.

Another security guard on duty.

“Goodmorning!”

Crickets chirping. Morning sun. Another sip of tea.

The clinic doors stand open. I greet Dr. Irene and Job. Stella is already studying for her doctors exam. Sissy is still on her way. I place my bag on the counter of the pharmacy. I walk to the treatment room. It is mess. I clean the counter to the best I can. I check the sink for dirty kidney basins. Dirty scissors. Dirty clamps. Drops of blood still on the work counter. I don't know when the sheet covers on the patient examination tables have last been washed. No soap left in the dispenser by the sink. It's the only sink with soap. The cart containing expired equipment is still there. A tattered book with names and diagnosis is open on the counter. Method of recording in the treatment room. I put on gloves to write in it.

A child enters with his mom. He is reluctant. I check him in the book. Day two of treatment. Another gram of Ceftriaxone. He cringes. I press on his vein and tell him to hold up his arm. The blood does not come out when I take off the cap The syringe with medicine attaches and it flows easily in. It burns, but we are glad the vein is still open.

A mother enters. So does not look well. I read her diagnosis. Malaria. She is in pain. Diclofenac 75mg intramuscular. She lies on her stomach. The needle takes it's course. I never want a needle that size in me. She lies on the table a long time after. I remember and check on her. The drug is working.

A group of boys run towards the door. A girl is limp in their arms.

“She is having her hysteria again,” I am told.

It does not look like hysteria. She does not respond. Job takes vital signs. I insert an intravenous cannula. Dextrose 5% does the trick. We hang an IV line with normal saline. An hour later, she is chatting to the congregation of village ladies in the room.

Lunchtime. A line up. I scoop the usual
“I thought you said you were hungry?”

“Take some more!”

“More beans?”

“Here in Uganda, fat is beautiful!”

“You need to go back to your country with more weight so they know you ate well!”

A Jerry can of cold water. I look for a clear glass and down a cup. They talk. We all talk. Life. Medicine. God. Wars. My country. Their country. I like them.

Lunchtime is done. Back to the pharmacy. More prescriptions  More sick parents. More sick children. Rhinitis. Upper respiratory tract infections. Lower respiratory tract infections. Malaria. T. Coporis. Hepatitis B. More Fungal infections. Parasites. Diabetes. Hypertension. Epilepsy. Sports injury.

Kyra is at the window.

“You almost done.”

I don't know. It is 5:30pm. The clinic has been full.

Power is out. Another intravenous to insert. It is too dark to see clearly. I bring the young girl to the back door. There is light there from the setting sun. I can see her veins better. Another nurse gives the drug, but she is getting tired. The medicine is given to fast. The girl throws up in the sink. I wipe her blood off the floor near the back entry.

Almost 7pm. Kyra is still waiting. We walk back together. She talks about her first mom. She wants real family. She wants to be home for Christmas. Her village sisters think she should not be here. They say she has a mom. Her village mom says the same. Her first mom does not want her.

“I think I will call her.” she says.

“When is the last time she picked you up?”

It was 2009.

The power is out when in the apartment. The sunset disappears over the valley. I make supper in the dark. Bible Study already ended. I turn on my headlamp and read before the girls come back. We laugh and share. We live life together.

Days have developed their own routine. Life has set in. Beauty is present. Frustrations are too. But with every sunrise and sunset, I know that what has become everyday living, will all too soon see an end.

I pull down my mosquito net, set the alarm, and fall asleep.

Suubi Babies Home. I live upstairs.