Looking up from the patient screening book to see the growing number of
patients waiting to be seen, my eyes rested upon a mother anxiously
rocking her infant back and forth in her arms. Worry clouded the woman's
face as her eyes concentrated on her infant. The infant's eyes revealed
fading glimmers of life. For the brief moments they opened, only the
whites of her eyeballs showed. Her small chest rose sporadically as she
gasped for air. For a brief moment, she didn't seem real. The one-year
old girl remained in this zombie-like state as her mother rushed her to
the front of the patient queue.We tested the child and asked the mother the who's, what's, when's and how's about her child's condition. The mother treated her child at home, saving her the effort of walking the 24 kilometers to the clinic. But now, after several days, the child's condition deteriorated.
Looking at the child's lifeless state, I desperately snapped, "Can't we just please refer her to the district?"
"All of these people have malaria," the clinic In-Charge answered. He raised his hand to guide my eyes to the sea of patients waiting outside of the clinic for malaria tests and treatment.
"She doesn't look well... at all. This woman walked TWENTY. FOUR. K..."
"We will see her," the In-Charge reassured.
My face showed quiet annoyance. "Help us in...," the clinic In-Charge's voice just became the background noise to my own thoughts.
I zoned out, looking at the child, then the child's mother, and then to the clinic staff in the cramped room. The In-Charge ushered the mother and her listless child into the outpatient room to receive Coartem to treat the child. Feeling helpless, I walked away from the clinic to escape what I knew would soon follow.
Within moments, a woman's high pitched screams pierced the murmurous chatter around the clinic. The child had died. I turned around to face the wailing mother staggering up the hill, engulfed in grief. The child, strapped to the mother's back in a chitenge, looked as if she was resting peacefully. A woman, probably a relative, walked behind her, holding her hands behind her back, head lowered, as if she was helping to absorb some of the mother's pain. They walked in this miniature procession 24 kilometers back to their home. The scene stung my eyes and I looked away.
I returned to the clinic to finish the work day but my mind kept replaying the events leading up to the child's death. The In-Charge, noticing my unusual silence, announced "Today, you have WORKED" with a chorus of the other staff members chiming in. I looked off to the side, suppressing my snarky response. Did I really? My head, heavy with shame and anger, focused on the booklets in front of me: "Oh?" The In-Charge continued "Nay, these things happen." I nodded slightly, angered that such a preventable and treatable disease was an accepted as a way of life.
I said my goodbyes for the day and walked back to my house.
She walked 24 kilometers back home, crying and holding her lost child. My thoughts repeated this line all of the way back to my house.
In the safety of my hut, all of the frustration that had been boiling within me spilled out. I muffled my crying so that the headman's family wouldn't hear me. As I fell backward on my bed, I thought about how that little girl joined nearly 8,000 people in Zambia who die from malaria each year.
Find out more information about malaria in Zambia by visiting the Stop Out Malaria project here.
