Friday...

I can’t believe I have been here for 6 weeks. The end is approaching and it is so bittersweet. Part of me wants to stay forever, the other part of me wants to run and never look back. In my mind I have flashes of dead babies, wailing mothers, blown pupils, bloodied hands, last breaths, and silent chests. I will remember every child whose eyelids I closed. I hope that I have somehow immortalized them by writing their stories and sharing their names.

As for me, I know that I will never be the same. I have seen things here that I never thought I would see and I have learned things that I never knew I’d have to learn. I have stepped out of my own reality and into a world where so much can be lost at the dawn of life.

The people of Cameroon are beautiful and strong and full of faith. They are grateful for their waking breaths and they are mindful of their own mortality. They are welcoming of strangers and generous with no expectation of return.

This morning at the end of Morning Report one of the residents, Dr. Nshom, prayed out loud for me- prayed for a safe trip home, prayed that I find a job that is satisfying to myself and God, and prayed that I would return again to Mbingo Hospital. My time here was short, but it is easy to be melded into a community that is so open-armed. I hope to remember the residents and NPs I have worked with- Kristelle, Alvine, Nshom, Claudette, Albert, Nora, Simo, Kamden, and Edith, and I will wonder where they are in the future. I hope they will be happy and healthy and I hope that they will use their knowledge and skills for the betterment of Cameroon. I hope that their children will be healthy and that their spirits will remain strong despite the things they see on a daily basis. I hope they have learned something from me, as I have learned so much from them.

Dr. Nshom, NP Edith, me, and Dr. Alvine

Mbingo Hospital is doing great things.

Before long I will be back in NYC and my role will be very different than it is here. I wonder how this experience will influence my practice, how I will slip back into a world of excess and entitlement. I am grateful that I live in a country where I can name my child at birth, where doctors don’t have to expect a new empty hospital bed every morning, where parents don’t routinely bury their babies. The pain of the loss of a child is universal, whether you are in West Africa or North Carolina, whether it is malaria or metabolic disease, whether you’ve seen one or you’ve seen one hundred. And I guess that is why we keep doing what we’re doing. Why we go home and scroll through labs and textbooks, why we blame ourselves for progressing illness, why we curse God with one breath and ask for miracles with the next.

May our perspectives remain broad, may we recognize a common humanity, and may our eyes never be dry at the bedside of a child. 

"Children's Ward"