In Which It's Time For Hands-On Experience Of Local Healthcare
on Zoe Page (Sierra Leone), 18/Nov/2010 07:29, 34 days ago
Champion Flies are nasty little blighters. When you swat them, they ooze out an acid that burns your skin and leaves it blistered and sore. Which is why it looks like I have sunburn on my collarbone but, despite spending yesterday in the sun at the pool, I most definitely do not– it’s those darn flies.They’re not the worse of today’s health issues, either. I am spiking a fever, and though the sore throat and runny nose make me think housemate-flu (as in what you get when you suddenly start living with 4 people you’ve not been exposed to before), I need to keep an eye on it. Why? Because as anytravel guidewill tell you, in countries such as this a fever is Malaria until proved otherwise.Body temp is a funny thing– you can be sweating buckets and still be normal on the inside, or burning up without dripping from your forehead. After a walk to Basha’s for lunch (yes, twice in two days...it’s that good / that handy and close) and an arduous taxi ride through the building site that is the west end, I gethome feeling far too warm and stick Alex’s thermometer under my tongue. It says 36. That’s ok, so I lie down and watch Private Practice and use up all my tissues. There’s no loo roll left in our (girls’) bathroom and the boys don’t use it (rather thanembrace cultural differences!!!!as VSO would preach, we just try to ignore this, especially when they’re doing the cooking). Oh well, maybe I should take my temp again. It’s 39. Yeah, that’s not good. I stand up and sit straight back down, rather dizzy. My voice is gone so I text Alex who rings Daniel who takes Yohannes’ car (since the VSO vehicle is, rather ironically, out getting me further supplies of Lariam) and comes to get me. As traffic is awful, we don’t go to the usual VSO doctor across town, but instead go to a local place (literally 2 minutes walk from Alex’s). It is called the Davidson Nichol Medical Centre which cheers me up momentarily as it’s a fun play on David Nicholson (NHS Chief Exec, lovely man, unfortunate face, great for being photographed next to at MTS presentation evenings).I see a nurse who takes my BP (low) and pulse (high) and temperature (not coming down). She does a strangely painful finger prick for Malaria and then I see a doctor who prods my stomach, admires my bites, burn and bruises, and asks me if he should admit me. Um, who’s the doctor here? I say he should do what he thinks best, and try to ignore the dollar signs before his eyes as he says yes, I should be admitted, and would I like a private room? I’d not even noticed this was a hospital, but sure enough on the floor above there are 3 wards, an ICU (!) and 2 single rooms, one of which becomes mine.I may never have been an inpatient before, but I’ve spent enough time in hospitals in the UK and abroad to note at once that this is...different. No pillow on the bed, no loo roll in the en suite (I know! I’m still on a quest to blow my nose, and have resorted to the cleaning cloth in my glasses case). I have a TV that doesn’t work, air conthat is temperamental, and no mossie net. They put me on a drip. I ask if it’s Saline and she say yes, then no, maybe it’s glucose, or actually, yes it could be Saline. Of course after all that it’s sugary not salty, but I don’t really care. I get a jab in the bum: the Malaria test was negative so they’re treating for...Malaria. Of course.Alex comes to visit, bringing with her Shona who, star that she is, harangs the doctor since I have no chart in my room and haven’t really been told what is going on. I read the scribbled notes downstairs so know to expect hourly observations, and yet have only had one lot in the 2+ hours since I was admitted. I still don’t get any more obs, but since my drip is now empty, and filling up with blood flowing in the oppositedirection, they do change that, this time hanging a bag of Saline.The girls admire my dinner: a plate of baked bean salad. Alex and I tut in unison that ketchup and mayo isnotsalad dressing. I don’t get any water. I have some with me, but considering the doc told me to drinks lots, it won’t last long. What I REALLY need is a red jug and beaker. That would make me feel better, I’m sure.The girls leave and I try to get some sleep, but they look in on me every 30 minutes. Maybe here‘observations’ means exactly that, i.e. check the patient’s not dead. Every time the nurse barrels through the door, she tells me off for not being asleep. I’d like to see her try to catch some Zzzs with mosquitoes flying around and people loudly entering the room all the time.