Tedd Arnold has a funny book about a boy who's afraid of losing his body parts. He followed it up with More Parts , an equally amusing book that deals with expressions involving loss of body parts. The little boy imagines the worst until his parents explain at the end that all these idioms can't be taken literally.
The humor, of course, lies in the premise that losing our body parts is something that really happens and it can be scary- if we don't understand the natural processes of our bodies. While the West likes to attribute the "foolishness" of body part harvesting to Africa, and Abidjan itself has had its hard times, there is no lack of conspiracy theories in the US about about the victimization of the black community or even planned parenthood's role. The fact is, worldwide organ trafficking is a lucrative business.
And the majority of us never even give it a thought. Although Medicare says they cover part of the costs, (notice that medications for after treatment are covered for a limited time, even though the American Society for Transplants reports that medicine will be required for life) there are endless stories of fundraisers for families trying to receive care (and what's up with organ registry list fees?!) and even an organization dedicated to the cause for children.
All of these images went rolling around my anesthesia-hazed mind on Saturday afternoon as an orderly wheeled me out of recovery in search of a room. "Her parts are there," he said to his partner, motioning to a small covered container. It was closed securely, labeled with my name and personal information and held a good sized piece of tissue that had, only hours before, been tucked safely inside my body.
I'm sure no one was hatching plans to steal my vial in the middle of the night and whisk it off to the highest bidder....no bidders for this particular harvest...but nevertheless, I was disturbed to have an inner piece of me exposed to the outer public. Obviously it had been sitting on the shelf just above me while I'd slept the afternoon away in the post-op area.
If this were Kinshasa, honestly, the story would be more about hospital conditions or medical interactions. But here in Abidjan, true to form, the only complaint I can offer is in insurance procedures- or maybe it is doctor procedures, it's really hard to tell.
The clinic itself is bright and shiny in all the right places. There are procedures and precautions at every turn. I think it is a familiar experience to the etranger and inspires confidence. I don't have much experience with hospitals or illness, so I don't know if all the tests they made me take were routine or over-excessive Ivorian regulation. Likewise the extended no work recovery period allowed by law. I am not sure how much is medically necessary, but the fact that the law allows for it- requires it even- is welcome for someone like me, who would probably otherwise just return to work the next day and push on through. Honestly, a break is welcome. Needed even.
Things had been going so well, in fact, that the sight of my tissue in a jar beside me was all the more alarming. "What am I supposed to do with that?" I asked the doctor. "And is it going to be ok...just...out in the open?"
The doctor has not won any bedside manner accolades from me in our brief time together. He raised his hands and shrugged. He told me he had to take it out before he could request that it be analyzed (Really? What else would one do with extracted tissue?) and suggested it would be fine until Tuesday (Monday was a holiday.) I tried to do a bit of a google search, but even the grand master of information had no helpful results to offer on "tissue storage after biopsy." All I could find was that the specimen should be stored in 10% formaldehyde solution. No one else seemed to have the experience of being sent home with their insides in a jar. I am not sure if I will have any belief in the results.
Seeking out the insurance ok paved the way for a new adventure- me wandering the business district of Plateau, 72 hours post surgery, feeling like I might fall over at any minute. I was battling my desire to walk as little as possible and conserve taxi money. Generally, those are not compatible ideas. To top it all off, I'd mistaken the name of the reference hotel. I headed towards the lagune area and the Novotel, thinking it was the Ivotel. This involved a 20 minute walk across town, when in actuality, the taxi had originally dropped me off surprisingly close to my destination.
After determining my error, I hailed an orange cab and had it bring me back to where I'd began. So much for going the economical route.There I found the insurance bureau and made my way up the elevator, through the doors and down a hallway into the small office of a woman addressed as "doctor." I was surprised to find a doctor working there. But then relieved. But then realized it didn't matter much because this person was not my doctor and so had no knowledge of any of the tests, results, or processes leading up to this moment.
It took her about 30 seconds to read, sign and stamp my paper. "That's it?" I couldn't help but ask. I was incredulous. Once again I repeated my protest that this whole procedure was simply not logical. The law affords me more than 2 weeks for recovery but the insurance company has me out and walking around less than 3 days after the surgery to obtain permissions- that could have easily been included in the initial inquiry.
She just looked at me and cocked her head. "You are tired. Don't you have anyone to help you?" It reminded me of the absurd question by the intake nurse when she motioned me through the surgery block doors. She'd looked at my bag and asked if I hadn't brought my parents with me. My parents? I am the parent.
It is one of those things I find infuriating about Abidjan (and surely other African cities are at fault too. Kinshasa had her share of ridiculous forms.) It is the space for parent names. I suppose if you are from a whole family that functions, maybe this is no big deal. You fill in your mother, your father, their birth dates and move on.
For me it is an emotional undertaking. The father line always leaves me conflicted. Since I have found out my biological father is most likely dead, I think it is easiest to simply write 'deceased' there. But the angry adolescent in me surges up every time. My mother? Why do I have to write her name here? She hasn't taken care of me since I was 10. What could she possibly have to do with any of this? I wonder what true orphans do.
In Africa, the assumption is that everyone has an auntie or uncle or cousin or some stand-in family that will fill the role. As an etranger, and an extremely private person, there are not many to ask to fill this role. I am my parent. They will laugh at me here, not quite believing I am serious. It doesn't help that the whole experience has me feeling exposed and vulnerable, which leads to an abrupt rudeness that I can't quite stifle. Add in the "I don't do hospitals or medicines or doctors" and I was basically a wreck. Luckily, I was too tired to offer much resistance. Or even any word at all. I took my paper with it's red signature and made my way over to the lab to drop off my parts.
