Blogging for the past 6 years has revealed certain facts about my character which I would not have otherwise known (or maybe it is living in Congo for the past 6 years that has brought forth these qualities which were previously lying dormant in the winter worlds of my personality...) Because they are now forever documented on the web (unless of course I request to have them removed- recent news here and an endlessly fascinating title here) I can easily link to proof of my obsession with medical/ illness stories and pharmaceutical remedies (completely refuting the fact that I have always claimed and previously thought myself to be a healthy individual with a nearly all natural life style- I'm sure I haven't even linked to all the previous posts describing our hospital and doctor experiences, but I am ready to pull the kid card and say whenever kids are involved, there are bound to be more doctor stories to tell.)
And so it is this time. Because along with my story telling, there is that aspect of faith changing. I constantly battle with myself about whether to believe in the medicine, the doctor, the whole process of invasion- or to just let time and nature take their healing course. I battle about treating symptoms as opposed to finding out the real cause and taking prescriptions as opposed to using herbs and teas and the medicinal properties of foods to do their job. A recent pharmacy find had left me feeling secretly delighted - a sore throat spray containing mint and clove oils reminiscent of an all natural, essential oil spray I had bought at my favorite supply store back when receiving mail items was still possible. Mohamed confirmed everything with his comment, "Tastes just like the old one," after an initial trial spray.
My inner battle began anew when Mohamed showed me his swollen finger- fat and unmovable 3 days after a nasty fall. While it didn't hurt, it was easy enough to take him in for a quick exam to be sure it wasn't fractured or broken. Since we are still in the luxurious position to have insurance, it seemed wise to take advantage of it. The exam left me feeling dubious- as it often does. The doctor poked and prodded, pulled and massaged. Mohamed winced and gasped and closed his eyes. Predictably, we were sent for x-rays.
One day and several hand scans later, we arrived back at the doctor's office. While Mohamed was supremely thrilled to have gotten a look at his bones, the x-rays showed no fracture and so we were still left with a swollen, impaired finger. While the doctor typed away on his desktop, I asked about the next step. What should we do now? He was ready with his prescription paper and pain medicine. "But, he doesn't really have any pain. That's not the problem. The problem is his finger has been swollen for 4 days and he can't move it." I pointed out the obvious. It surely seemed to me the doctor was making things up as we went along. And I feel I should apologize in advance for not having faith in his ability. He mentioned something about massage therapy in a few days if the swelling didn't begin to go down and wrote a prescription to help with this.
I am sincere when I say I have no idea where my immediate disdain and disbelief of all things medical was born, but sure enough, it rose up like a fierce protecting dragon once again. Fine, I thought, we'll take the medicine, but that doesn't mean I actually have to give it to him. I vowed to look it up and find out exactly what farcical thing they were trying to prescribe now. I wanted to know why the finger was swollen, not just how to remove the symptom.
Perhaps my rebellious nature stems from the fact that there seems to be a remedy for everything (despite popular American belief, I am sure the cure for the common cold exists and can readily be found in any African drugstore.) Language probably also contributes to my inability to believe in the validity of the medicines. With my basic French, and their basic understanding of biology, I often find myself in vague and concerning conversations with friends that include phrases like "my blood is dirty" or "my heart hurts" or the ever alarming, slightly vague but oft present, "I thought I would die." There's a medicine for that- for all of those in fact. "Cleaning the blood," "calming the heart" and "saving you from imminent death." It conjures up images of 1800's America to me-- the traveling salesmen with suitcases of snakeoil. And if none of those things work, there is always the nganga who can provide a natural healing alternative. However, if I have to go pharmaceutical, I want long, awkward prescriptions I can't pronounce and medical sounding diagnoses.
Consistent with my illogical and contradictory nature, I become immediately suspicious of those un-sayable cures and commence to googling the minute I am within range of connectivity. Imagine my surprise when I looked up Chymoral and found it is a medicine used for swelling in hand fractures. So specific. So exactly to the point. I admit to feeling a little bit of awe. The doctor never even appeared to be consulting a text or double checking anything. He just knew about this amazing hand fracture drug. I got to thinking about the million different ailments one could suffer from and the million different remedies that were out there- each fitting the other like a glove. Had he really committed all of this to memory?
Mohamed took a dose that night. In the morning, he surprised me at the kitchen sink by saying, "Look Ma, I have some improvement," as he bent his finger halfway. Maybe it was the medicine. Maybe it was just a natural improvement after 5 days of swelling. Most likely a combination of each. I'll never really know but I can't forget that sensation of wonderment- a hand fracture drug? really? And so I remain renewed in the most temporary sense. A drug for everything, why not?
