It's the eve of the boys grand departure- their first flight solo- and Mohamed has been sick for nearly a week. He shares my great dislike of doctors which makes getting him healthy an even bigger challenge than might normally be the case. Of course, sickness in Congo is always a challenge.
When it comes to myself, I am quite happy to self-diagnose, self-medicate and travel through the journey of trying to figure out exactly what it is that ails me. It's a bit easier since I am able to feel the slight aches and pains and have some experience with my body. We know each other well. It's a lot harder to self-diagnose someone who isn't yourself. And if he is only 10, he's probably got a lot less experience with knowing not only what hurts and where, but how it hurts.
And if you happen to be that normally healthy, energetic 10 year old's mother, it's a lot harder to be objective and patient. But we do have a routine for dealing with sickness. It always begins with a trip to "clinic A" for a malaria test. Clinic A is helpful because they have a speedy, reliable test. Or so I am convinced. Because of the impending travel (some 6,000 miles, alone, on an airplane!) I thought perhaps we should see the doctor- just to make sure we'd covered all the bases.
Clinic A is always overpacked and overbooked. A long wait is certain. The benefits for me include only the fact that all fees are billed directly to my job and so I don't have to lay out any cash. Extremely convenient. While we were waiting to see the doctor, I took it upon myself to go ahead upstairs to the lab and get the malaria test. An hour or so later, we were finally in to see someone. We sat in front of his massive desk as he asked a few questions and then wrote out prescriptions for a malaria drug and a fever reducer. We already had the fever reducer and we hadn't yet received the results of the test. No headache or other pains had me feeling suspicious about whether this was really malaria. Of course, if you're a frequent reader, you'll know that it's always malaria, even when it's not.
I remember being, perhaps eleven, or maybe even into my teens when I realized- somewhat incredulously- the doctor was only asking questions. That's it?! What if I lied? What if I was mistaken? It seemed the entire diagnosis hinged on my answers to the questions. The entire medical process took a huge downward tumble in my rank of reliability.
But then there was the time in my early twenties when I suffered a miscarriage. I was in the midst of agony emotionally and physically when a doctor walked into the emergency room. He was clad in leather and shook his long hair out as he removed his motorcycle helmet. My entire faith in the medical world was restored for a moment as he asked kind questions and gently reassured me that the world would go on and I would have plenty of happy, healthy children.
My experiences with doctors have continued to rise and fall in such a manner. Complete faith and gratitude, complete disappointment and confusion. When I was living in Florida and pregnant with my youngest, I went to the doctor regularly for all the suggested maternal and prenatal appointments. I was in a state of disillusionment with all things medical at the time. Things really reached a new level of complexity and confusion when I arrived in NY to give birth. I was 9 months pregnant and due any day. I visited my long time obstetrician and in a matter of minutes she was able to tell me the baby was "head up" and I would need a cesarean. All from listening to the heartbeat with a stethoscope. No fancy equipment needed. Of course, my faith in her skyrocketed while my bewilderment at what exactly the other doctor had been doing only added to my confusion.
And then there was the time in my thirties when, after battling depression since my early teenage years, I'd finally gotten enough courage (perhaps desperation) to ask for something. Medication. To help me over a very great hump. I was told by my primary caregiver, after a quick review of some major life changes, that "I'd only brought it on myself, hadn't I?" My faith once again plummeted.
I have become expert at knowing my body and it's needs. I've moved to a nearly all year sunny and warm climate, exercise with addiction and use a variety of essential oils and natural remedies to keep myself in balance.
I generally employ these methods for my children as well. They run when I come with the mint oil for head and body aches. They struggle to gulp down strong ginger teas peppered with cloves for whatever ails the stomach. And in general, they stay healthy (the best way to avoid all of mom's natural cures.)
Try as he might, Mohamed couldn't fake his way into feeling better. Anytime he felt my hand on his head, checking the temperature, he would pop up with a momentary smile and say, "What? Yeah, I'm ok." After a day or two of this, however, he began to sadly admit when he felt the fever returning (as if his drooping eyelids weren't evidence enough.)
Just as we were leaving the clinic, we ran into the lab technician who managed a surprised, "You're still here? Ok, wait for me." We trudged back upstairs to get the results. Negative. Great. Really, not having malaria was a huge relief. Except we'd already seen the doctor, who'd already prescribed a bunch of medicine that we didn't really need. And that had taken more than 2 hours.
Now what? We went back home, he gulped down more ginger tea, echinacea, some effervescent fever reducer (could we get some children's tylenol in liquid here people?!) and hoped the morning would bring a miraculous recovery. Despite my suspicions and the negative malaria test, I gave him a dose of Coartem, figuring at worst it could prove as a prophylactic.
The next morning did not bring full recovery and with only days to go before the trip across the ocean, we set out for Clinic B. Clinic B is rather expensive- well, for Africa I suppose, where it is still possible to pay for all your medical needs out of pocket if you happen to have an ex-pat salary. I admit to spending the morning raving about the ineffectiveness of doctors in general and their inability to do more than just guess (a mother's stress and hysteria does make one prone to stereotypical generalizations of the unkindest sort.) Aside from Clinic B, however, my only other options were full scale hospitals. Mohamed is a terrible patient and even getting him out to the clinics is an effort in cleverness and charm ( ok, threats and bribery.)
Clinic B is usually full, but not overpacked. There's always a wait, but it's not unbearable. There is only one doctor and one examination room. It's clean and sterile and open. The doctor is white haired and friendly. We sat at his massive desk while he asked a few questions. Then he told Mohamed to take off his shirt and lay on the examination table (a step we never got to at Clinic A, I noticed.) Doctor B took his temperature (38.7!) attempted to do a fahrenheit translation for me (no need, I told him as I'm getting pretty good at Celsius however,) felt his stomach and then looked into his mouth.
Ah ha! It was there, looking into his mouth, that he diagnosis tonsillitis. Step two in my self- medication routine- when it gets down to needing prescription meds- is usually antibiotics. I'd been about to go there with Mohamed but really didn't want to chance anything before the long plane ride.
So there it was. Faith restored. With a gentle touch, a look, a human interaction, the doctor was able to allay my fears and return me to the land of normal motherhood. (oh the worries and nightmares grow proportionately with each day of undiagnosed ill health.)
Once again, a tale of two doctors, two approaches, two different results. I guess I am back to feeling gratefully in awe of the medical profession. For now.
