Silence
Some silence is good, like a night without a pounding at the door by the maternity nurse announcing a lady in labor in distress. Or the silence of a young man now calmed down with pain meds and suturing after being bitten by a horse or gored by a bull.
But some silence is bad, like a floppy blue baby delivered after an excessively prolonged labor. Or the silence of the generator after the diesel delivery man decided to not bring us a refill.
I have been somewhat silent for the first two months of my service here at Bere Adventist Hospital in Chad, central Africa. The silence is not for lack of material to write about, but more because of soul fatigue. The frequent unnecessary deaths burden my heart. My mind is often overwhelmed with trying to communicate in French and figuring out what to do for patients without many diagnostics or options for treatment. I often feel like there is so little I can do for patients here. We can try to cut something out that doesn’t belong and try eradicate the incessant worms and parasites and try to convince families to donate their blood to save the life of their wife or child with hemoglobin of 7 or 5 or 3. Or 1.9 like kid who died the other week despite all the anti-parasites, blood, and meds I treated him with.
“Elle ne respire pas bien,” were the words that greeted me one morning at the beginning of maternity rounds. I entered the Salle de Accouchement to find a woman great with child not breathing and with a thready pulse. “Chariot!” I instructed the nursing students to run to the OR to get the stretcher so we could bring her to the OR to resuscitate her. We quickly moved her to the OR and there found her pulse arrested and began chest compressions, on a lady with a big belly full of baby. We gave epinephrine, bagged her, and soon Danae and Olen arrived.
We caught a pulse only transiently. After several rounds of CPR and epinephrine, Olen intubated her. We continued CPR without success. So we brought in the family to show them their dead relative. We checked the fetal heart tones, and of course, they were also negative.
Massive PE? Amniotic fluid embolus? Cardiac arrest? Hemorrhagic stroke? Who knows? With no CTs, MRIs or even Xray for that matter, we often have an idea but no definite diagnosis.
The other week I discussed, well, tried to discuss a chapter of a devotional with the hospital staff during our weekly Bible study. My French is better than it was when I started learning in September but no where near where it needs to be. I have down the basic phrases I use every day on rounds at the hospital, but I have to be honest that sometimes I don’t understand the patient’s families or the nurses’ responses.
But I am trying. And that is what I keep having to remind myself. There are others who are much more competent and capable at handling the emergencies and complexities of patient care here. I wish they were here in my place. But, instead, I am here, here in this small hospital deep in the bush of Chad, an 8 hour bus ride on wretchedly pot-holed roads and another 1.5 hour drive on the dirt. I am here. God has brought me here. I don’t know why, and sometimes I query if I heard his calling correctly. But I know in my heart that I am exactly where I need to be - at the bedside of a man dying from Ludwig’s Angina, kneeling on the floor with a family of the 4 year old who died during rounds of cerebral malaria to pray, at the operating table cutting out a baby from a woman sent to us from another hospital now nearly comatose after previously seizing with a blood pressure of 170/110.
Is God also silent with a heart burdened from the suffering of His children? “The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him. He also will hear their cry and save them.” Psalm 145: 18-19. No, He is not silent. He is helping His people, He is helping me. I may not understand the battles happening behind the scenes of the drama that is my life here, but He is not silent.
He speaks comfort through joys, little joys that keep us going: the lusty cry of a baby finally resuscitated after coming out breech, the mewing of playful kittens left by some returned volunteers, the “Merci” from a patient ready to be discharged after recovering from malaria or typhoid, the hum of the blender making mango sorbet on a balmy 105 degree evening after work.
Thank you for speaking to God on my behalf and of our labors for Him here!
With love,
Sarah
But some silence is bad, like a floppy blue baby delivered after an excessively prolonged labor. Or the silence of the generator after the diesel delivery man decided to not bring us a refill.
I have been somewhat silent for the first two months of my service here at Bere Adventist Hospital in Chad, central Africa. The silence is not for lack of material to write about, but more because of soul fatigue. The frequent unnecessary deaths burden my heart. My mind is often overwhelmed with trying to communicate in French and figuring out what to do for patients without many diagnostics or options for treatment. I often feel like there is so little I can do for patients here. We can try to cut something out that doesn’t belong and try eradicate the incessant worms and parasites and try to convince families to donate their blood to save the life of their wife or child with hemoglobin of 7 or 5 or 3. Or 1.9 like kid who died the other week despite all the anti-parasites, blood, and meds I treated him with.
“Elle ne respire pas bien,” were the words that greeted me one morning at the beginning of maternity rounds. I entered the Salle de Accouchement to find a woman great with child not breathing and with a thready pulse. “Chariot!” I instructed the nursing students to run to the OR to get the stretcher so we could bring her to the OR to resuscitate her. We quickly moved her to the OR and there found her pulse arrested and began chest compressions, on a lady with a big belly full of baby. We gave epinephrine, bagged her, and soon Danae and Olen arrived.
We caught a pulse only transiently. After several rounds of CPR and epinephrine, Olen intubated her. We continued CPR without success. So we brought in the family to show them their dead relative. We checked the fetal heart tones, and of course, they were also negative.
Massive PE? Amniotic fluid embolus? Cardiac arrest? Hemorrhagic stroke? Who knows? With no CTs, MRIs or even Xray for that matter, we often have an idea but no definite diagnosis.
The other week I discussed, well, tried to discuss a chapter of a devotional with the hospital staff during our weekly Bible study. My French is better than it was when I started learning in September but no where near where it needs to be. I have down the basic phrases I use every day on rounds at the hospital, but I have to be honest that sometimes I don’t understand the patient’s families or the nurses’ responses.
But I am trying. And that is what I keep having to remind myself. There are others who are much more competent and capable at handling the emergencies and complexities of patient care here. I wish they were here in my place. But, instead, I am here, here in this small hospital deep in the bush of Chad, an 8 hour bus ride on wretchedly pot-holed roads and another 1.5 hour drive on the dirt. I am here. God has brought me here. I don’t know why, and sometimes I query if I heard his calling correctly. But I know in my heart that I am exactly where I need to be - at the bedside of a man dying from Ludwig’s Angina, kneeling on the floor with a family of the 4 year old who died during rounds of cerebral malaria to pray, at the operating table cutting out a baby from a woman sent to us from another hospital now nearly comatose after previously seizing with a blood pressure of 170/110.
Is God also silent with a heart burdened from the suffering of His children? “The Lord is near to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth. He will fulfill the desire of those who fear Him. He also will hear their cry and save them.” Psalm 145: 18-19. No, He is not silent. He is helping His people, He is helping me. I may not understand the battles happening behind the scenes of the drama that is my life here, but He is not silent.
He speaks comfort through joys, little joys that keep us going: the lusty cry of a baby finally resuscitated after coming out breech, the mewing of playful kittens left by some returned volunteers, the “Merci” from a patient ready to be discharged after recovering from malaria or typhoid, the hum of the blender making mango sorbet on a balmy 105 degree evening after work.
Thank you for speaking to God on my behalf and of our labors for Him here!
With love,
Sarah
Dear Sarah, May God give you strenght and comfort and faith in that God knows why He send you to Chad. I can't even imagine how hard it must be to be surronded with all these people needing help and knowing you can't help them all. Let the Holy Spirit lead you every moment of your day, may He make sure you have time to connect with Him in your busy schedule. So that He can carry you throughout the day. I will pray for you and your work. Big hugs from a very cold Collonges-sous-Salève...well inside Millefeuille its ok...(-;
ReplyDeleteCecilia
Sarah, this is incredible. As overwhelming as it is, know that you are doing the hands on work that Jesus himself would love to be doing -no matter how gut-wrenching. No doubt there are angels walking with you and in the same room as you... Even in the tragic moments. I have no doubt you're doing more than you think you are, and I have nothing for respect for you. Keep at it, Doc! Always in my prayers.
ReplyDeleteSy
You are truly an inspiration my friend! Linda
ReplyDelete