sick in Africa

                Being sick in Africa is nothing like being sick in America.

                Imagine running back and forth between your house and your stinky outdoor latrine (unless you go the bucket route, which, depending on the illness, could get a little messy), no cold water to cool off your forehead, no TV to watch while you’re bedridden, no moms to make you soup and rub your back…

                Getting sick here is definitely a test of strength of character.  We’re equipped with a Peace Corps-issued medical kit, filled with anti-diarrheal pills, Tylenol, oral rehydration salts, and the like.  We’re told to “self-diagnose” when we can.  Since there are so many elements which can contribute to one becoming sick in Africa (was it some dirty water?  That cheese I left out for too long?  That weird meat-looking stuff I ate last night in village?) it’s sometimes harder than it seems.  Just a few weeks back, a fellow volunteer thought he had malaria, when it really turned out to be a bad flu.  Maybe.  Sometimes, once you feel better, you don’t want to think of what the causes might have been.  You’re just glad it’s over.

                A few weeks back, I got really sick.  Going-to-the-hospital sick.  Vomiting blood sick.  I’ve never been so sick.  All I wanted was to be in a comfortable bed in a quiet room in a first-world country.  Is that really so much to ask? 

                But I was in Lesotho.  In a tiny, hairy, rat-ridden hut.  Throwing up outside on a rock.  Not one of my high points of Peace Corps service.

                I was picked up from site by Peace Corps and taken to Wilie’s Hospital right outside of Maseru, after a few barf stops along the way.  I couldn’t keep anything down.  I was glad once the driver noticed that I was really sick and started hitting 100kph.  We were there in about an hour.   

                A particularly well-loved Peace Corps staff member was waiting for me at the hospital entrance.  I couldn’t have been more relieved to see a familiar face.  He literally picked me up like a baby from the car and carried me into the hospital.

                We were met by a doctor from Ghana who, in my opinion, was all too eager to chat with us before giving me a diagnosis.  He wanted to know where exactly I threw up en route to the hospital.  At which junction was it?  Oh, yes, he was familiar with that junction.  His family lived nearby it, actually.

He finally led me into his office, where he had gospel music videos playing on his computer screen in the background.  At least it distracted me from any more throwing up. I was told that I’d need to spend the night in the hospital and be monitored until I could get enough fluids back in my system to be sent home.  Apparently, I was just too dehydrated.  So after a few attempts to put in an IV (my passion for needles and blood led me to pass out in the examination room), I was sent upstairs to a private room for the night.  I turned on some South African soap opera and immediately fell asleep.

                A nurse woke me up at around 8:30pm to feed me dinner and move me to another room.  I was secretly disappointed; it seemed completely unnecessary.  I think the nurses didn’t like the idea of walking up and down a flight of stairs all night to check on me, so they moved me into a room right next to the doctor’s office.  It was clearly time for bed; I was literally tucked in up to my chin by three different nurses (who also chose the television channel for me.  It was a Christian exorcist-type show.  They said I needed to watch it and then spread the good word.). 

                I was too paranoid of the thought that moving around a lot would cause the IV to rip open my skin, so I didn’t sleep much.  I got up once and the IV started going backwards, so some of my blood came up the tube.  That was real fun to watch.  I’m actually cringing right now as I write this, so I’ll just end it by saying that it was an uncomfortable night. 

                The next day, after a sponge bath and a hot breakfast (and another relaxing IV), I was itching to get out of there.  The rest of my training group was at a hotel for a week-long workshop, eating fancy meals and sleeping in big, warm beds.  My hopes were crushed when the nurse came in around 10am and asked what I wanted for lunch.  I didn’t need any more treatment, I told them!  I felt fine!

                Alas, the doctor finally waddled in a half an hour later and told me I was free to go.  What luck!  I think I skipped out the front door.

                I’m going to try not to do that again.  I’ve got plenty of medical supplies in my little Peace Corps kit at home.  I’d much rather be stuck getting sick in a bucket.