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TITLE: Sickly Fingers By yvonne north 06/27/09 |
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My missionary work in Kenya has offered me many challenges and blessings, but I must admit, on this day I have been seriously asking myself “what is wrong with you Yvonne? Whatever made you think the God was calling you to this place and this time? What are you doing so far away from hospitals, emergency rooms, and most importantly, pain killers?
You see, as I sit and type this thing, my entire right hand is throbbing. It seems I have managed to pick up what the Kenyans call “marach luette” (bad finger). In the medical community it is known as septic finger. Now you ask, just exactly where had my finger had been and what was it doing when it found this disease? I’ll never know the answer for certain, but the choices are endless. Perhaps it was during the scrubbing of my laundry in river water, or while cleaning dishes in cold water from the local borehole or it could have been as I bandaged any number of the injuries at work last week. The point is that at this very moment my entire hand is throbbing; but please, let me begin this story at the beginning.
Three days ago, Tuesday, I traveled to the city of Kisumu one hour away to check on extending my Kenyan Visa and pick up supplies for my medical clinic. Much to my dismay, I was told that my visa was denied and I had 15 days to get myself out of the country. The immigration officer, a dark eyed Asian Mama bluntly told me “it’s time to go home my dear.” Disappointed, I headed back to my home village, Ngiya making plans for my move out of Kenya. On the journey home the middle finger on my right hand began to hurt. It was just a small nagging soreness like an irritated hangnail; nothing to worry about, just uncomfortable and tender but annoying just the same.
The next day was Wednesday, Mobile Clinic Day. This is the day the nurses and I load up our 1993 Toyota truck we refer to as “the ambulance” and head for the interior bush communities to hold mini outpatient clinics. All day long my finger was throbbing. It felt hot and began to change into the color of a fine burgundy wine. After the work at the clinic was complete, we began to pack up our medicines, baby weighing scales, and blood pressure cuffs to prepare for the long journey home. Tired of listening to me complain about my hand, Nereah, one of the clinic nurses, took a look at it. After she finished poking and prodding, she diagnosed the problem as septic finger,” it is going to get worse,” she announced, “but we must wait for it to mature before we incise and drain the pus from it.” Excuse me; we are planning to do what to my finger?
Everybody in the village knew all about this little malady and they were very sympathetic, offering one suggestion after for treatment. At dinner that night I was told to mold some ugali (soft, hot African bread) around the finger and allow the heat to draw the infection to the surface, I was given an herbal tea made from the leaves of a local tree, and I was instructed to soak my finger in a mentholated spirit concoction. I’m sure it all worked, because I spent the night in sleep depriving pain.
By Thursday, the middle finger on my right hand was about three times its normal size, and a sickly half black, half yellowish/greenish color. It was hurt like the dickens, and I started running a fever. I dutifully reported to work in the morning, but Nereah, my friend intercepted me and started me on a regime of antibiotics then sent home with a bucket of warm salt water for hand soaking. I was told nothing else could be done, but the infection was proceeding as scheduled and in time all would be well if I lived through it. I suggested that immediate amputation would be the most sensible alternative but nobody seemed to take the suggestion seriously.
So I went home and had a whining session with GOD. HE was neither impressed, nor inclined to instantaneous healing, so the next step was to pray that the antibiotics would work fast... immediatly would not have been too soon. It was amazing to see that poor sickly little thing morph from a finger into a bratwurst sausage in a matter of hours. Bigger, and uglier it became, the more painful it became. Soon the entire hand began to swell and throb. Whatever little bug had infected my finger was throwing one heck of a party! Sleep was impossible so I wandered back down to the clinic. Again I was sent home.
Early Friday morning I had a date with a scalpel because the pus sac finally reached capacity and exploded during the night. A purulent yellow green substance began to ooze its way down my arm and drip off my elbow onto my fluffy stuffed sleeping bunny. All right! Time to Rock and roll!
I was anxious about the lack of local anesthetic at the clinic and my stunning capacity to embarrass myself in moments of excruciating pain, so I timed my entrance to precede the arrival most of the staff and patients. At least that was my plan, but the clinic staff was on high alert and waiting to receive the muzungu mama from the U.S. Let me see, the spectators consisted of two nurses, the Doctor, a lab tech, our pharmacist, the accountant, two night watchmen, a maternity attendant, two cats, three chickens, a goat, and the new mama and baby who shuffled out of the maternity ward to watch the show. Nevertheless I was happy for this semi-private rendezvous with the scalpel.
Doctor Onyango stood behind me covering my eyes, Albert the lab tech held my arm, and Nereah went to work slicing, digging, squeezing and washing. Big brave girl that I am, I kept my eyes and mouth shut. The procedure was toe-curling, the smells were foul and after surgery, an agonizing pain worked its way through my every pore.
Today is Saturday my fever has been relieved, but my hand feels like it has been forced through a meat grinder. In a few days I’ll be an illegal alien far away from home and Murphy’s Law dictates that I’ll be overwhelmed with visitors today. After all, my house is a disaster, the kitchen is a mess and I can't make tea because, fetching water is impossible. To add to the misery, my back side feels like a pincushion from the cocktail of injectable antibiotics I have been receiving. So today, as I have said, I question my sanity and GOD’s wisdom in placing me here, so very far away from hospitals, emergency rooms and most importantly pain killers.
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