17 January 2010

It's a Matter of Life and Death

It's amazing how small this huge globe can feel, and how at the same time places can feel as inaccessible as the moon. It started with a news report: Haiti had suffered an earthquake. Little was known, bu t it was a strong earthquake, striking near Port-au-Prince, and severe enough that it made Burundian radio.

Tens of thousands injured, possibly hundreds, and millions of people affected. The news hit like an aftershock to the world. But to a doctor here at Village Health Works, it felt like the earth dropped out from underneath him right here in Burundi. Barry* (name changed), is from Haiti. Port-au-Prince to be exact. He made the decision several months ago to leave his lifestyle, and more importantly his family, to come help the people of rural Burundi with his knowledge.

Now, on the other side of the planet, he couldn't even help his own family.

News reports started popping up on the internet.

“Hundreds of Thousands Feared Dead.”

“Relief Not Coming Soon Enough.”

“Many Still Buried Under the Rubble”

This is the only news Barry was hearing. He tried to call his family, but communication to Haiti was cut off. The only news he heard was from the internet. He contacted friends and family all over North America, to try to find someone who had heard something. All that day, nothing.

Soon, the sun dipped into the still waters of Lake Tanganyika, and still no word from his family. As the rest of Burundi settled under their mosquito nets and blankets, Barry sat wide awake at his computer, hoping someone, just someone with some news, any news, would pop online, and possibly with news that his family was alive and well.

Worry never gave way to fatigue that night, and Barry never went to sleep, afraid of missing that important phone call or email that would tell him his family was alright.

The next morning, as people started creeping out of bed, starting their fires for coffee, tea, and porridge, Barry was already wide awake. Despite what was going on back home for him, he still had his mission here, to provide quality healthcare for those who usually can't afford it. The lines started to form at the waiting area, and family members brought their loved ones to be seen for malaria, TB, coughs, and stomachaches. And soon, Barry got back into doctor mode as he started making his rounds in our malnutrition ward. Putting away his own life-and-death family situation, Barry helped other people with theirs.

The day continued on and on. Rounds to do, patients to consult, medicines to prescribe. All the while, waiting for some news. More news reports came in, pictures and videos flooded the internet, slowly draining the little hope that we all were holding onto for Barry's family. The day stretched on—still no word from Haiti.

I was on my way back from a meeting in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi. With me were two new volunteer nurses, Helen and Connie, who had just arrived, and a representative from the UN's World Food Program, who was coming to check out our clinic to see if they could provide some food for our malnutrition program. I asked Barry if he wanted me to give her the tour because of all he was going through. He said he could manage.

We gave the tour to the World Food Program representative. And Helen was excited to be back after a couple months away, which brought some joy to our sad situation. Connie was also taking in all the new sights, it was her first time to the clinic.

We solemnly ate dinner that night. Barry wasn't interested in eating, or even drinking the cup of coffee Brad, a volunteer nurse from Maryland, had brought him. The second day, with no news.

“In America, you say no news is good news,” Barry explained. “But right now, no news is the worst feeling ever.”

I remember a couple years ago, while living in rural Burkina Faso, I was listening to the BBC World Service news bulletin. They reported an earthquake in Kentucky, where my family was living. I tried to call from my cell phone under the mango tree with phone reception, with no avail, reception was too poor. I tried our village phone, but still nothing. I waited in agony for several hours, just hoping that they were ok. I finally got a hold of my family after a few hours, and found out it was only a minor earthquake. But I remember the dread and helplessness I felt from being so far away that I couldn't help. And I didn't know what had happened to my family, or the extent of the damage. And now Barry was faced with the same situation, and for two days now.

The next day came and went, still the same story. It was a quieter day here at the clinic, so it seemed that Barry had more time to focus on the communication, or lack thereof, with his family. He had called everyone he knew in all parts of the world who might have had some sort of contact with his family. He'd gotten a couple leads, but wasn't quite sure how true they were. Three days it had been since the earthquake, and still no word.

We all went to bed, and Barry hoped to get some sleep that night, after 2 nights without any. But around 2 am, there were some emergencies in our inpatient ward that needed a doctor's touch, regardless of his personal situation. So Barry spent the third night without much sleep.

The following morning, a patient that had come to our clinic with a chronic foot wound a few days earlier started to take a turn for the worse. He had come with an wound the size of a softball on his right foot. The doctors and nurses had been taking care of the wound, and the thought of sending him to a regional hospital for surgery was being talked about. But this morning, he started acting really funny, as if he was under the influence of something.

Connie, Helen, and I were eating lunch at our residence, when Hilarie, one of our nurses, came up to get some sugar and water and rushed back to the clinic. We followed her, and we found Barry leaning over the man's chest, giving him CPR. His heart had stopped, and he'd revived it. Now it had stopped again. His eyes went dead, he stopped breathing, and we all stood there in disbelief that this man who had seemed so healthy a few days before was now dead in front of us. Barry, despite all his fatigue, continued pumping his chest, forcing the blood through his heart to keep him alive.

The man's two sons had moved away and quietly started to grieve, their stifled snobs echoeing off the cement walls and tile floors of the room we were in. But Barry kept forcing the chest to work. All of a sudden, a small gasp from the dead man's mouth. His chest started to slowly rise. He blinked, a reflex of the dryness in his recently-dead eyes. He was still unconscious, but now alive.

Barry continued to help the man's body take back control of its blood flow, and after what seemed like an eternity, the man slowly came to. What we thought was a hopeless situation now became another life saved, by a man struggling in his own reality, not knowing if his own family had been spared from nature's death grip on that tiny island in the Caribbean.

It turns out the patient was diabetic, and the years of high blood sugar took their toll on his heart. But now, he was alive again, and he will receive the insulin he needs to keep his blood sugar down to good levels.

A short while after Barry revived the man, his phone rang. It was a cousin of his in Canada. He said he had news about Barry's family in Haiti. This was the moment Barry was waiting for, whether the news was good or bad, all he wanted was to be able to know, to have closure. His cousin said that he had talked to Barry's father, and that all of his family were alive and well! His younger brother had some minor injuries, but that was all. Everything was going to be alright! They have a long road of reconstruction ahead of them, but at least they are all alive!

We all rejoiced, and the joy in Barry's soul was infectious to all of us, as we all celebrated the good news with him.

Living far away from family can be very challenging, and in my opinion, is one of the hardest things about working internationally. Going through this ordeal with Barry made me miss my family even more than usual. But seeing that man revived back to life reminded me why I am here, and why I believe so much in the work that we are doing here. I feel privileged to be a part of this team.


For more information, check out Tracy Kidder's Strength in What Remains at your local bookstore, and/or go to villagehealthworks.org