July 31, 2008: TLC in Zambia

Zambia. Africa. …As an English speaking American, sometimes it is hard to know for sure what someone is saying in their African English and if they heard correctly my question in American English. Mostly it is the phrases that are different. For example, the other day when I took my daughter in to have her ears checked for possible infection, the doctor said, “I need to get some new cells for the torch.” I translated for Emma as she quickly glanced at me with a glimpse of shock and concern. I could see her envisioning the “torch” as an old fire blazing stick used to guide visitors into caves. I said, “He means he is going to get batteries for his flashlight.” The Indian doctor smiled and asked, “You mean you call “cells”, batteries?” This kind of dialogue seems to take place daily in all kinds of situations. I can only imagine how challenging it must be for fifteen- year old American Emma as she takes “Maths” with its different British vocabulary and is required to show all her work in pen… I awake at 2:30 in the morning and think I may have malaria. It was my greatest fear in making the journey into my new life as a drama teacher at The International School of Lusaka. In the last year, I had been diagnosed ten years too late with Lyme’s Disease and had just learned to live with it well. I bought the best chemically treated bed net that I could find, consulted with a scientist from Canada who served on the National Board of Scientists without boundaries, and purchased various types of mosquito repellents; one that I would soak into my clothes, another that would be sprayed onto them, and yet another that I would wear on my skin that had a special time release effect. I even convinced myself that I couldn’t live without a 24- tablet box of Malarone purchased for $120. (I knew I could buy it in Zambia for about $20 but American pharmacists cautioned me about its authenticity). Six months after being in Zambia and only sleeping under my net at night (I hadn’t seen a mosquito in months), I hadn’t had a single cold --in fact, I was in better health than I could remember. Yesterday, I was almost bragging to my colleague about my apparent resiliency. Today, I had many flu-like symptoms of pain, and felt so alone. I should act fast. My fifteen- year old daughter slept quietly as I lumbered out the front door and drove myself to the local clinic five minutes away. The building had been closed and dark for hours. I was told, over the phone, that they would call a doctor in to see me. In the empty dim hallway of the late night/early morning, I see the first black doctor I’ve met in my four trips to the usually packed clinic. I am pleasantly surprised but show nothing in my face. He is tall and has a face that is kind, and dark leather shoes with laces that are untied. He makes sure I sit down and then he asks what he can do for me. “Why am I there?” He too has a cold that he has been fighting. I explain how badly my throat is hurting and how when the headache came on, I thought I might have some unknown to me, African disease. I was afraid, and in a lot of pain. His voice was gentle and clear. After ten minutes of questioning and tapping, and looking into my throat, he diagnosed me with “The flu and being overwhelmed.” He recommended some “drugs” (his chosen word to describe traditional pharmaceuticals) to be taken over three days. He was familiar with the grapefruit seed extract that I was taking and thought that I should continue it. He, too, takes natural remedies, but if the pain gets too bad he will take the “drugs.” He took the “overwhelm” part of his diagnosis seriously, and asked me to lie down. He ordered two cups of tea and asked me direct personal questions with such tenderness that I had to answer until I cried. He wanted to know if I was seeing friends, if I spent time with loved ones, if I was getting enough relaxed and social time. He even wanted to know how I felt when I would ask others to get together and they said they were too busy. He explained delicately that there were some people who liked to spend a lot of alone time and others who needed a lot of social time. He wanted to know who I was and what I needed and if the “balance” was right for me. I told him that I loved my time with others and also loved my time alone. I shared with him how I had a new community of friends at social tennis, and my colleagues at school, and a few others outside of that. I explained further that it was just this week I had set a personal goal for myself to make more social time in my life. Yes, I did seem balanced for me except that I wasn’t eating lunch at work or taking breaks during the day, and I missed being held. “You what?” He replied. I repeated, “ I missed being held. I have a friend who just visited me from the United States and now he is gone and I miss being held.” “You what? He asked again adding, “ I don’t understand what you mean by ‘held’? It is a different term.” I pantomimed the motion of my arms being around a man and resting. He stood up and offered his shoulder. I cried and he patted me on the back and repeated the words, “This will pass. This will pass.” I rested and cried for only a few moments in his light embrace and it was enough. I had claimed some hope of survival in his compassionate and holistic presence. He left the room for me to rest and later sat with me over a cup of hot tea and explained how he wanted me to take the drugs. Stirring the tea felt like a magic potion. Hearing the tin-tin sound of the spoon against the sides of the porcelain cups nurtured my worried heart. I imagined if such a tender experience was possible in a hurried American hospital. In parting, I asked him about his family and his medical training. He said that he was from the Congo. I asked him if he missed it, because every person I have met from the Congo misses it. He said softly with appreciation for my question, “Yes I do miss the Congo. But they are so misbehaving there.” He wrote me a letter for work saying that I was going to be absent for a couple of days and I laughed at the old fashioned feeling of the action. He said, “Yes, but if I do not write it for you, they will not know and think you are not telling the truth.” I had a memory flash of a pediatrician writing me a note when I was about ten years old. I thought about how in the Eagle Point School District, back in Oregon, they had talked about requiring doctor’s notes for days that a teacher might be absent. I saw how pleasant that requirement might be, if it were possible to be cared for in the U.S like this. I left the clinic after forty- five minutes. No one else was there and they closed the gates behind me.