So picture me for a moment, if you will, sitting in a local cafe in Lamu town, eating some fried beef and chips for dinner while keeping half an eye on the East African version of Pop Idol…
That all sounds very relaxed for a Sunday night, right?
Now add to this picture the Chief of Shela village settling my bill quietly with the waiter in the background and dashing out the door.
Hmmm?
Then you might notice that I am actually eating quite fast, and I have downed a whole bottle of Sprite before the food even reached me. And what do you then make of the waiter running ahead of me out of the door to show me the way back to one of the two private clinics in Lamu town – the one where they have scanning equipment and a small operating theatre?
Intriguing?!
It seems Africa is putting me to the test.
Just as I finished setting up my clinic room at the dispensary in Shela village this afternoon, blue-tacking a brightly coloured hand-drawn sign with “Karibu” (Welcome) and my opening hours on the door, the Chief came knocking. His daughter is in a lot of pain – please come quickly to his house. No one else is around at the dispensary, and the whole village seems to think that “medical student” equates to “doctor”, so I grabbed my kit bag and ran after him.
To cut a very long afternoon and evening short, I’ll just describe a few still shots from the story for you.
I am sweating in a hot and humid room at the Chief’s house, brushing flies off his 32-year-old daughter’s face, while asking her questions about the pain and reaching for my kit to take her blood pressure.
I am then on a boat, checking her pulse repeatedly, as 12 of her family members, her and I sail towards Lamu town, while she writhes in pain on a rickety wooden bed we carried her to the beach on.
I am explaining to the increasing numbers of family members and friends who arrive at the clinic (how many people can they fit in one waiting room?!) what Acute Appendicitis means and what will happen if she does not have surgery to remove her appendix soon.
When he hears I have not even had lunch let alone dinner yet, I am invited by the Chief to go eat something as we wait for an ultrasound technician to arrive from the other side of the island.
I am then in the back of the three-wheeled ambulance vehicle holding a bag of saline over the Chief’s daughter as we bump along the road with 12 of her family members in the ambulance with us, heading for Lamu district hospital where we are told that a surgeon is on call.
Finally, I am standing with the Medical Officer who took half an hour to arrive at Lamu district hospital, and going through the mnemonic for Appendicitis with him using my iPhone as a reference. The Chief’s daughter is scheduled for surgery first thing in the morning when the operating theatre staff arrives, and the Medical Officer invites me to come along for the surgery. I say yes. No ultrasound or haemograph machine is available at the hospital (both out of order), so it was lucky that we went to the private clinic first for the ultrasound scan that confirmed my diagnosis. I hope she stays stable through the night.
Now, after a walk along the full moon-lit beach back from Lamu town to Shela village with the handful of family members who did not decide to stay overnight at the hospital with the Chief’s daughter, I am feeling… like I did alright. Phew.
The Chief was very grateful, and I was honoured to have been of assistance, supporting his daughter through the pain and getting her the right treatment. And it’s not over yet…
In fact, I think it’s just beginning. Not his daughter’s illness, which will hopefully be resolved tomorrow, but my relationship with Shela village’s health and wellbeing. Several family members wanted appointments to come and see me for “stress” after today’s events!
