Yesterday was Monday. The doctors divided up the patients who came in over the weekend. I had six. I started seeing them one by one, and as I came into a room, there was a body wrapped up and ready for the morgue.
I asked, with some anxiety, “Is that Charles?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need help putting the body on the gurney?”
“Yes, but you don’t have gloves on, so don’t help.”
It was sad that my patient died even before I got to see him. At least I don’t feel guilty that he died while under my care or even under my stethoscope. It is a recurrent problem here that patients came long after it is too late. They are not comfortable with western medicine, a place that is totally unfamiliar: multi-story buildings, electricity, odd looking machines, even elevators.
You can see little nicks with black tint on the sick part of the body made by the medicine man. The patients are so much more comfortable with the witch doctor. He lives in their village. He speaks their language. He lives in a grass hut like they do. He believes in curses, demons and ancestor worship like many Malawians do. He may even place curses or say that he can prevent curses. By the time the family has given up on the medicine man they are long past the point where we could have helped.
I don’t know what the story was with Charles. I never even got to see him.
Blessings - Jerry
1 comment:
I continue to pray for you and your family. Thank you for your hearts to serve, thank you for your humble example of what service looks like.
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