10-29-08
If nothing else, this experience will teach me to be thankful. If nothing else, I will come home from Lesotho just a little more (hopefully a lot more) appreciative of the life I've been blessed to live.
Yesterday, Nichol and I went out to see Anna. Anne Marie, the PCV who lives in Anna's village and brought her to the hospital in Mafeteng, had returned to her site early Monday and was brought up to speed on Anna's progress by a teacher. Anna had missed school Thursday because she was at the clinic getting the dressing on her finger changed but had come on Friday morning. The teacher sent Anna to the clinic Friday after lunch to have it changed again, but the clinic, which is supposed to close at 4:30 p.m., turned her away when she arrived at 2:30 p.m. because it was “too late.” Hearing this, Anne Marie went to assess the situation for herself and was greeted by a grinning Anna, sprinting down the road to give her a giant hug. Anna's wound had a fresh, clean dressing, evidence she had made it to the clinic that day. Things seemed to be finally looking up.
Nichol and I were able to get away for the afternoon and texted Anne Marie to let her know we were coming out. It was good timing because she was going with Anna to the clinic to talk to the nurse about setting a daily time Anna could get the dressing changed. It seemed that on the days that the clinic had changed the dressing, Anna had missed school because they made her come in the morning and then sit and wait. We arrived around 2 p.m. and waited about 45 minutes for Anna to come down the road from school. We received the same warm, excited reception from Anna, big hugs and even bigger smiles. But the dressing on her finger was not fine. It was dirty and coming unwrapped. We walked with her into the clinic to find no one there. Not a single nurse or village health worker. It was deserted. Hoping the nurses were just late coming back from lunch, we walked to the shop up the road. No luck. As we debated our options, a counselor who works at the clinic happened to walk past us on the road. She told us that the clinic was “closed” for the day, that one nurse was on leave and the other was in another village for the afternoon. No one had keys to the supplies except the nurse who was gone. No one there knew how to dress a wound. There was nothing to be done except bring her back in the morning. As Nichol, Anne Marie and I tried to explain to this woman that someone, anyone, had to come help this child, that a dirty bandage meant the finger could be re-infected and that could lead to her losing her hand, as we pleaded, begged, yelled, demanded, she showed not a single flash of emotion. Not the faintest hint that she understood that something had to be done, that this was not acceptable.
With no other options, we decided to take Anna back to Anne Marie's house and tape the dressing further so it wouldn't fall off. We fixed her up as best we could and sent her home with strict instructions to meet Anne Marie at the clinic at 7 a.m. the next day. After Anna left, the three of us just sat, shocked. Why was it that no one in this village seemed to care about this girl? There's supposed to be this great cultural thing about the Basotho, that they take care of each other, they watch out for their neighbors, that they take in their orphans. Where was that culture now? We'd seen it in people like Nichol's counterpart Blossom, my 'M'e and precious few others, but why was it that her community, the ones closest to her, seemed to be abandoning her?
This morning, Anne Marie texted me with the news that the visit to the clinic had not gone well. Apparently the staff blamed Anna for not coming in, said they needed “time for themselves too,” explained that the early clinic closures were a product of only having one nurse on staff. They complained that they had other tasks to do, that Anna had never told them she was supposed to come in every day, that her fingernails were too long and someone should take better care of her. But change her dressing, which takes just a couple minutes, first thing every morning so Anna could make it to school? Well, that seemed like a lot to ask.
As they finally unwrapped Anna's finger, Anne Marie grew concerned at what she saw. It looked open, bloody, oozing. She passed this information along to Nichol and I, all of us unsure of what to do. Nichol and I tried to track down social services, the hospital administrator, the hospital matron, all of whom were busy or gone. We finally tracked down one of the head nurses who said we should have Anna brought in for the doctor to check over, just to make sure the infection hadn't returned. She called the hospital driver, who was at the village clinics collecting the blood samples, and told him to pick up Anna at her clinic. I called Anna's principal and told her Anna needed to go to the clinic “now now” (“now now” means “right now” while “now” simply means whenever you feel like getting around to it...you can only imagine what happens if you say something like “soon”).
The hospital truck pulled up around 2 p.m. and out jumped Anna. She alternated between smiles of excitement at seeing us and tears, fearing she would have to stay at the hospital yet again. One of the nurses who had been working in the women's ward when Anna was admitted saw us and helped us figure out where we were supposed to go to see the doctor. Except he was at lunch. We took Anna over to the PSI/New Start office, bought her an orange and steamed bread for lunch and waited until it was time for the doctor to return. We flipped through her medical record book, trying to discern what the doctor had written, what the clinic was really supposed to be doing. But then we came across that horrifying word, written in her medical record book in blue ink, the one word we'd all suspected but never uttered. Our worst fears confirmed. Things are so wrong about this situation, things that make me sick to my stomach. With nothing else to do, we just sat and waited for the doctor.
As the doctor glanced at her records, he tried to ask Anna a few questions (thankfully he spoke Sesotho) to calm her down. She cried, fearing more needles. He asked Nichol and I to leave the room. This initially caused her to wail even louder but she quickly calmed down. After a few minutes he walked out of the room, past us and out the door. We could hear Anna in the room, sniffling but under control. Then came her little voice...“'M'e Thato?” I didn't answer at first, but after her calling me several times I asked her what she needed. “I want to go home!” More wailing. Ok, so talking to her was not such a good idea. But what do you do? A few minutes later the doctor returned with a bundle of gauze and brought Anna out to us. He told us the wound was ok and the infection was still clearing. She could go home.
As Anne Marie, Nichol and I walked Anna towards the taxi rank we debated our decision. Are we really helping anything? Is our interference making things worse? Are we overreacting? Should we just do what we all really want to do but know we can't, take her away from everything horrible and wrong and shelter her, teach her, give her everything she deserves?
As we walked we crossed a dirt road in the process of being paved with some piece of road
construction equipment, beeping as it backed up. Anna started crying; she'd never seen road construction equipment before. We stopped at Nichol's office on our way and Anna stared in wonder at the staircase leading to the second floor. After much encouragement, she sprinted up to the top and hung her head over the railing, big eyes and giant grin staring back down at us; she had never seen a staircase before. Before we put Anna on her kombi home, we took her to the Total petrol station and bought her a soft-serve ice cream cone. We demonstrated how to lick it; she had never had soft-serve before.
Are we really helping? I hope so. Are we making things worse? Well, could things really be much worse? Are we overreacting? Maybe. But for a girl who has next to nothing, next to no one, who has endured neglect and other, even more horrifying forms of abuse, maybe an overreaction is due.
Social services is aware of the situation and is going to visit her village, assess her living situation. A World Vision staff person stationed in Anna's village knows about her case and has vowed to check in on her and provide assistance. Red Cross has asked what they can do to help. Teachers have inquired about her case, wanting to help her get the education she needs (she's several grades behind her peers, possibly due to a learning disability and no doubt due to trauma and the fact that she wasn't sent to school until just a few years ago). Maybe Anna's community isn't doing anything to help but hopefully these others will.
I walked home tonight, wanting to fall on the ground crying and scream at the top of my lungs. But I also felt thankful. So thankful to have friends and family who care. People who I know would do (and in many cases have done) anything for me. People who have protected me, kept me from ever having to experience anything even near the life Anna has lived.
To you, to family who are always there no matter how far away I go, to friends who are never too busy to laugh, cry and complain, thank you. I hope I am passing along a little of your love to someone here who really needs it.
11-2-08
Holidays aren't the same in Lesotho. Friday was Halloween but for the first time, probably ever, I didn't dress up and I didn't go to a party. Kids still asked me for candy, but they do that every single day, not because they are trick-or-treating.
Shafiq, an education Volunteer in a village in Mafeteng, hosted a Halloween party at his site last night. I'd never been out there before because the trip involves a 45 minute bus ride from town and a 45 minute walk once the bus drops you off at the road. Ok, so not really that far, but I can be rather lazy. Our group of six piled into the bus to the typical public transport jams of rap, house and Basotho accordion music. As we got off at the road, storm clouds gathered to both the east and west with a small, clear strip in the middle...a strip that luckily lead directly to Shafiq's house. While long, the walk was quite pretty, a mix of Nebraska-flat land and random, almost alien looking red mountains that sprout up periodically without rhyme or reason.
We arrived just before the rain and, thankfully, the braii (barbecue) pit was covered. Shafiq made roti and curry and we grilled chicken, which was perfect with the addition of some Cookies BBQ Sauce sent from home (THANK YOU!!!!). The night was pretty low-key and relaxing, just nice conversation with a few fellow PCVs.
This coming week is my last on lockdown and Friday I'm heading for my first weekend in South Africa, to Bloemfontein, a city about two hours from Mafeteng. There isn't anything particularly touristy there, but that's not why we're going anyway; we're after the mall, the coffee shop, the movie theater, the restaurants. And yes, I do plan to stop at McDonald's. I know, I know...
If nothing else, this experience will teach me to be thankful. If nothing else, I will come home from Lesotho just a little more (hopefully a lot more) appreciative of the life I've been blessed to live.
Yesterday, Nichol and I went out to see Anna. Anne Marie, the PCV who lives in Anna's village and brought her to the hospital in Mafeteng, had returned to her site early Monday and was brought up to speed on Anna's progress by a teacher. Anna had missed school Thursday because she was at the clinic getting the dressing on her finger changed but had come on Friday morning. The teacher sent Anna to the clinic Friday after lunch to have it changed again, but the clinic, which is supposed to close at 4:30 p.m., turned her away when she arrived at 2:30 p.m. because it was “too late.” Hearing this, Anne Marie went to assess the situation for herself and was greeted by a grinning Anna, sprinting down the road to give her a giant hug. Anna's wound had a fresh, clean dressing, evidence she had made it to the clinic that day. Things seemed to be finally looking up.
Nichol and I were able to get away for the afternoon and texted Anne Marie to let her know we were coming out. It was good timing because she was going with Anna to the clinic to talk to the nurse about setting a daily time Anna could get the dressing changed. It seemed that on the days that the clinic had changed the dressing, Anna had missed school because they made her come in the morning and then sit and wait. We arrived around 2 p.m. and waited about 45 minutes for Anna to come down the road from school. We received the same warm, excited reception from Anna, big hugs and even bigger smiles. But the dressing on her finger was not fine. It was dirty and coming unwrapped. We walked with her into the clinic to find no one there. Not a single nurse or village health worker. It was deserted. Hoping the nurses were just late coming back from lunch, we walked to the shop up the road. No luck. As we debated our options, a counselor who works at the clinic happened to walk past us on the road. She told us that the clinic was “closed” for the day, that one nurse was on leave and the other was in another village for the afternoon. No one had keys to the supplies except the nurse who was gone. No one there knew how to dress a wound. There was nothing to be done except bring her back in the morning. As Nichol, Anne Marie and I tried to explain to this woman that someone, anyone, had to come help this child, that a dirty bandage meant the finger could be re-infected and that could lead to her losing her hand, as we pleaded, begged, yelled, demanded, she showed not a single flash of emotion. Not the faintest hint that she understood that something had to be done, that this was not acceptable.
With no other options, we decided to take Anna back to Anne Marie's house and tape the dressing further so it wouldn't fall off. We fixed her up as best we could and sent her home with strict instructions to meet Anne Marie at the clinic at 7 a.m. the next day. After Anna left, the three of us just sat, shocked. Why was it that no one in this village seemed to care about this girl? There's supposed to be this great cultural thing about the Basotho, that they take care of each other, they watch out for their neighbors, that they take in their orphans. Where was that culture now? We'd seen it in people like Nichol's counterpart Blossom, my 'M'e and precious few others, but why was it that her community, the ones closest to her, seemed to be abandoning her?
This morning, Anne Marie texted me with the news that the visit to the clinic had not gone well. Apparently the staff blamed Anna for not coming in, said they needed “time for themselves too,” explained that the early clinic closures were a product of only having one nurse on staff. They complained that they had other tasks to do, that Anna had never told them she was supposed to come in every day, that her fingernails were too long and someone should take better care of her. But change her dressing, which takes just a couple minutes, first thing every morning so Anna could make it to school? Well, that seemed like a lot to ask.
As they finally unwrapped Anna's finger, Anne Marie grew concerned at what she saw. It looked open, bloody, oozing. She passed this information along to Nichol and I, all of us unsure of what to do. Nichol and I tried to track down social services, the hospital administrator, the hospital matron, all of whom were busy or gone. We finally tracked down one of the head nurses who said we should have Anna brought in for the doctor to check over, just to make sure the infection hadn't returned. She called the hospital driver, who was at the village clinics collecting the blood samples, and told him to pick up Anna at her clinic. I called Anna's principal and told her Anna needed to go to the clinic “now now” (“now now” means “right now” while “now” simply means whenever you feel like getting around to it...you can only imagine what happens if you say something like “soon”).
The hospital truck pulled up around 2 p.m. and out jumped Anna. She alternated between smiles of excitement at seeing us and tears, fearing she would have to stay at the hospital yet again. One of the nurses who had been working in the women's ward when Anna was admitted saw us and helped us figure out where we were supposed to go to see the doctor. Except he was at lunch. We took Anna over to the PSI/New Start office, bought her an orange and steamed bread for lunch and waited until it was time for the doctor to return. We flipped through her medical record book, trying to discern what the doctor had written, what the clinic was really supposed to be doing. But then we came across that horrifying word, written in her medical record book in blue ink, the one word we'd all suspected but never uttered. Our worst fears confirmed. Things are so wrong about this situation, things that make me sick to my stomach. With nothing else to do, we just sat and waited for the doctor.
As the doctor glanced at her records, he tried to ask Anna a few questions (thankfully he spoke Sesotho) to calm her down. She cried, fearing more needles. He asked Nichol and I to leave the room. This initially caused her to wail even louder but she quickly calmed down. After a few minutes he walked out of the room, past us and out the door. We could hear Anna in the room, sniffling but under control. Then came her little voice...“'M'e Thato?” I didn't answer at first, but after her calling me several times I asked her what she needed. “I want to go home!” More wailing. Ok, so talking to her was not such a good idea. But what do you do? A few minutes later the doctor returned with a bundle of gauze and brought Anna out to us. He told us the wound was ok and the infection was still clearing. She could go home.
As Anne Marie, Nichol and I walked Anna towards the taxi rank we debated our decision. Are we really helping anything? Is our interference making things worse? Are we overreacting? Should we just do what we all really want to do but know we can't, take her away from everything horrible and wrong and shelter her, teach her, give her everything she deserves?
As we walked we crossed a dirt road in the process of being paved with some piece of road
construction equipment, beeping as it backed up. Anna started crying; she'd never seen road construction equipment before. We stopped at Nichol's office on our way and Anna stared in wonder at the staircase leading to the second floor. After much encouragement, she sprinted up to the top and hung her head over the railing, big eyes and giant grin staring back down at us; she had never seen a staircase before. Before we put Anna on her kombi home, we took her to the Total petrol station and bought her a soft-serve ice cream cone. We demonstrated how to lick it; she had never had soft-serve before.Are we really helping? I hope so. Are we making things worse? Well, could things really be much worse? Are we overreacting? Maybe. But for a girl who has next to nothing, next to no one, who has endured neglect and other, even more horrifying forms of abuse, maybe an overreaction is due.
Social services is aware of the situation and is going to visit her village, assess her living situation. A World Vision staff person stationed in Anna's village knows about her case and has vowed to check in on her and provide assistance. Red Cross has asked what they can do to help. Teachers have inquired about her case, wanting to help her get the education she needs (she's several grades behind her peers, possibly due to a learning disability and no doubt due to trauma and the fact that she wasn't sent to school until just a few years ago). Maybe Anna's community isn't doing anything to help but hopefully these others will.
I walked home tonight, wanting to fall on the ground crying and scream at the top of my lungs. But I also felt thankful. So thankful to have friends and family who care. People who I know would do (and in many cases have done) anything for me. People who have protected me, kept me from ever having to experience anything even near the life Anna has lived.
To you, to family who are always there no matter how far away I go, to friends who are never too busy to laugh, cry and complain, thank you. I hope I am passing along a little of your love to someone here who really needs it.
11-2-08
Holidays aren't the same in Lesotho. Friday was Halloween but for the first time, probably ever, I didn't dress up and I didn't go to a party. Kids still asked me for candy, but they do that every single day, not because they are trick-or-treating.
Shafiq, an education Volunteer in a village in Mafeteng, hosted a Halloween party at his site last night. I'd never been out there before because the trip involves a 45 minute bus ride from town and a 45 minute walk once the bus drops you off at the road. Ok, so not really that far, but I can be rather lazy. Our group of six piled into the bus to the typical public transport jams of rap, house and Basotho accordion music. As we got off at the road, storm clouds gathered to both the east and west with a small, clear strip in the middle...a strip that luckily lead directly to Shafiq's house. While long, the walk was quite pretty, a mix of Nebraska-flat land and random, almost alien looking red mountains that sprout up periodically without rhyme or reason.
We arrived just before the rain and, thankfully, the braii (barbecue) pit was covered. Shafiq made roti and curry and we grilled chicken, which was perfect with the addition of some Cookies BBQ Sauce sent from home (THANK YOU!!!!). The night was pretty low-key and relaxing, just nice conversation with a few fellow PCVs.
This coming week is my last on lockdown and Friday I'm heading for my first weekend in South Africa, to Bloemfontein, a city about two hours from Mafeteng. There isn't anything particularly touristy there, but that's not why we're going anyway; we're after the mall, the coffee shop, the movie theater, the restaurants. And yes, I do plan to stop at McDonald's. I know, I know...
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