Today my director set up a visit for me to tour the local district hospital in town. Its useful for me to compare our facility to other medical facilities that the poor in this area have access to. I was expecting to see difficult conditions, but I didn't realize it would hit me as hard as it did.
The government run hospitals are all supposedly free. But in actuality, when you show up they have practically no supplies or drugs. They may ask patients to pay for everything starting from the latex exam gloves. Then the pharmacy is typically poorly stocked so patients will have to go elsewhere to buy drugs. So it ends up being more expensive than private clinics (like ours).
I started by meeting the head doctor and the community health specialist, Dr. George and Dr. John, who were both incredibly smiley and almost giddy. Odd. Then another worker took me on a tour from ward to ward.
HIV/AIDS center: This one was run by a private health organization and was bustling with activity. It seemed productive and helpful. 6.7% of the Masindi population is infected.
Men's Ward: The building was constructed in 1922 and has obviously not had much renovation since then. Dozens of beds stretched out in a long hall, all of them full of staring eyes. The ceiling looked like it was crumbling.
Maternity Ward: It was designed to accommodate 16 beds. It now holds 40. And there were women on the floor. Some give birth on the floor. Some women in the ward had that glowy new-mother look on their faces as they held their newborns. Others looked sad and serious. The tour guide allowed me to walk into the labor room, where I beheld a birth which had just finished. Yikes! I congratulated the mother and hurried on. For more about conditions in Ugandan maternity wards, read here.
Operating Room (the "theatre"): This was the smallest ward, there is only one OR for the entire district. The floors and windows were filthy in the prep area, paint peeled from the walls, all the supplies I could see sitting around were ancient. I asked the attending nurse if I could go in the OR and she said no, a patient was undergoing a C-section. As we turned to go, the door opened. The surgery was over and I saw them wheeling a woman out on a stretcher. A sheet was pulled over her face but she was writhing under it, waking up from the surgery. I didn't hear any baby cries. I held my breath. I asked if I could look inside the theatre. For some reason I had to look. "Are you sure?" the orderlies asked me. Yes. They let me in. The floor was covered in blood. The wooden operating table was too. The entire room was grimy and dark. I looked toward the corner and there was the baby, unattended, wrapped up and quietly waving its arms. Thank God. I could finally breathe. The doctor approached me warmly, introducing himself and asking me many questions, but I could not stop myself from backing out of the room as he spoke. I had to get out of there.
Later, Gilbert, one of the workers at our clinic, told me he used to work at the district hospital. Dryly, he informed me that "All women who undergo Caesarians at that place get sepsis. Its compulsory."
Children's Ward: I declined, told the tour guide we could skip that part. I knew I would never be able to hold it together.
Dental Office: As we entered, a little boy was just walking out with a wad of cotton under his lip. He was in a dress suit. I wonder if going to the dentist for a tooth extraction is a special occasion? The dentist greeted me and bluntly said: "We do tooth extractions only. We would do dental cleanings if we had the supplies, but we don't." At first I was very put off by this comment. Since I'm white, I'm used to everyone thinking I will have a monetary solution for their problems, and I resented him verbalizing the need so bluntly. But later I thought about it, and I think I respect him for it. He was advocating for his patients. Somehow, in the midst of such horrendous and unjust conditions, he had enough hope to fight for his patients and speak to someone who might perhaps be able to do good.
Bitter End: As I concluded my tour, I was pretty much speechless. I passed by Dr. George's office. He was still there at his desk with his wide grin and twinkling Santa Claus eyes. He and some of his cronies were talking but I was only half listening to the pleasantries they were directing at me. Then I became aware that they, too, were soliciting donations from me.
"You need to help us build a VIP ward. We have plans for it, it will be a marvelous structure. It will be for people like us." they swept their hands to include themselves and me. "You can't treat people like us in these wards." People like us.
They continued about this for several minutes, reiterating over and over how these wards are not fit for everyone in Masindi district and there are no suitable medical facilities for "people like us."
I think my deadpan face in response to these remarks curbed their enthusiasm a bit. But only a bit. I was too disturbed by the whole experience to even speak. I remained quiet and civil, but my blood boiled at the arrogance. Its as though they have shut themselves off to the suffering of the poor so much that they no longer regard these patients as human. So they believe the poor don't need access to the things that well-off "people like us" deserve.
Out of everything that I encountered today, nothing disgusted me more than that comments of those men.
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