I should have known by the rambling, wordy, preachy tone of my last post that I was getting ill. The mental clarity is always first to go. I had wanted to write a simple post about a short ride. Instead of just appreciating the man in my life for qualities I love- his sensitivity to others, his willingness to go out of his way and do the unexpected- I ended up getting swept away by the frustration of the entire situation of street kids in Kinshasa. And my inability to actually do anything to change it.
I've been thinking about them the entire time I have been sick. Because the illness descended upon me the next day like a plague and as sick as I've been feeling, I am thankful to have a bed to crawl into. Clearly 2014 is not the year of health. I am doubly "blessed" to be living on campus and working in a school- both situations which make me highly susceptible to plagues. Living on campus means it is possible to go to work - despite being slightly ill- and return home all the while never really leaving 'home.' Its so much easier to trick your mind when getting to work only involves a 5 minute walk- though, admittedly, sometimes that walk can seem like miles.
Working in a school of course means being locked up with 26 kids and all their germs for 6-7 hours a day. Every day. It's always a bit scary to me to witness how fast the germs spread. Half of my class was wiped out for a week. And then it was my turn. As I struggle to get back to feeling 100% (I'd settle for 75% at this point) I watch my colleagues all fall, one by one taking their turns. If it were yellow fever or something deadly, well, our story could easily turn into the next blockbuster disaster film.
I wonder why getting sick has seemed so much more intense over here in Africa than anytime I've been in the US. I've tried to think back accurately- not with the cloudy haze of time and memory influencing- and I feel pretty certain that my illnesses here hurt more, last longer and feel closer to actual death than anything I've experienced in the US. Here are a few of my nonscientific thoughts on why:
1. Bigger, badder bugs- simply put, this tropical climate is the perfect breeding ground for the biggest, baddest germs. The hot, moist air is just what those invisible guys need to grow to their biggest unseeable selves. Just when you think you've gotten them beat, you step outside into that thick humid air and they get a second wind, springing back into life and kicking your butt again.
2. Small, stingy vegetables- Maybe this one only relates to Kinshasa, but I am convinced the small vegetables that look as though they clawed their way out of the ground, survivors of some weird vegetable holocaust provide such little vitamin content that most of us are walking around in a nutritionally depleted state to begin with. The germy bad guys move right in with ease since our vitamin armies aren't up to the task of taking them on. Of course, nuclear vegetables should be able to put up a good fight. I'm probably just buying in the wrong places. Surely there are healthier places to get vegetables, like the cemetery.
3. Everything in Africa is more intense- just to remind you how precious life is. Most of the things about daily life in Africa have more to them. (And remember, it's ok for me to be completely biased because my disclaimer clearly mentions a nonscientific study.) People don't just go to the store- they dress up in their finest cloth with mesmerizing patterns and bright, bold colors and parade through the aisles with a regal air. Kids aren't just cute and adorable here- they have huge, deep eyes that seem to be able to look into the depths of your soul and smiles the wattage of sun rays. They dance and sing and move through their day with agility and fierce joy even if they happen to be lugging gallons of water or carrying a smaller sibling off to get candy at the corner store.
The streets don't just hum with commuters, they sing and sway with the greetings of neighbors. Sometimes they break out in pushing, yelling fights. They laugh and cajole and suck their teeth in disbelief- look at those two fighting...tch tch tch. Cars don't just roll down the streets at quitting time- they belch and burp and cough out fumes. They squeak and rattle and wheeze, and every so often, they explode like gunfire.
No one just hops in a taxi- first there is the seduction of the serenade - the singer of destinations. Next you are swallowed into a crowd of strangers, possibly entering a shoving match with a mama or a papa and then you must throw yourself into the already moving car, slamming the door just before a motorcycle comes whizzing along the side nearly taking your arm and half the door off with it.
Once sealed inside the small steel oven, traffic coasts to a standstill. It doesn't just get backed up- it tangles and weaves and takes up three lanes on the wrong side of the street. It flows over onto the sidewalk- drivers honk and bang on rooftops, they squeeze through narrow openings, cut off oncoming traffic and idle in fast anger going nowhere. More small fights brew, further stalling progress, more commentary is shared on the deplorable state of the state, papers become fans while pocket tissues are bought from sidewalk sellers to wipe the streams of sweat and taximotos zoom in all directions using every inch of available space. Pedestrians jump from hood to hood of motionless cars in an effort to cross the crowded streets. Heads lean back and naps are taken. Stomachs growl.
Food to go isn't just sold from sterile stalls along the roadside packed in Styrofoam containers and plastic bags - goats are whacked and hacked in front of you while their little cousins bleat nearby nibbling on stray cardboard and patches of grass awaiting death. You get to pick out the exact part of the carcass you'd like roasted before your very eyes while beers are served and bottle tops are unhinged with bare teeth. Little packets of meat are wrapped in brown paper served with fermented flour in a banana leaf and handed over like French cuisine.
With this kind of excitement, why would anyone expect to just get a little cold and get over it? No, you get exploding headaches and all over muscle soreness. There are mists of nausea and waves of dizziness. Your body fluctuates between hot and cold. Doctors everywhere want to offer you the quinine drip which results in ear ringing and vague staticky radio sounds. Coughs dig deep into the lungs and those little germy guys build whole cities down there. And if you want a bowl of soup to comfort you, you need to get up and start chopping vegetables.
I miss comfort food most when I am sick here. I dream of soup from a can and would happily consume all that extra sodium and brave the risks of eating food laced with BPAs. I miss Tylenol in a liquid form for the boys- though this past bout with the mystery plague and side dish of fever has me actually impressed with Doliprene and it's amazing all over fever and pain reducing effects. I didn't take it myself, but the transformation in Mohamed was stunning. I guess the medicines have their intensity value as well. Everything is more.
For me? Well, after 4 days I finally started chopping vegetables. I came up with a soup even Healthy Choice doesn't offer I think- potato-onion- noodle- corn- spinach- eggplant- thyme and extra garlic. Despite the random ingredients, it held true to that northeastern soup taste I was hoping for. A little comfort to get me though this last plague before heading out of Kinshasa forever, as the kids say.
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label illness. Show all posts
28.5.14
19.6.13
How I lost my faith and got it back again...for now
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)