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Authors: Britta Das
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prepared myself for a certain lack of hygiene, what I see worries me deeply.
Garbage litters the corners, and patients readily dispose of bloodied bandages, plastic bags or food scraps under the beds. I think of the flies crawling over everything and then looking for a hatching place for their eggs. As we continue along the rows of beds, my stomach twists into a tight knot, and my knees begin to wobble. Shocked, I try hard not to avert my eyes.
Privacy is not a concept practised or valued, and the metre of space between beds is hardly enough to keep neighbours from actively observing every detail of an examination.
Many patients wear a look of dull surrender, a blank stare that seems to reach beyond the hospital walls, yearning for the world outside in the hills. Yet it is not an expression of suffering, but rather of resignation or disbelief. There is no questioning and often no response. What goes on inside their minds is hidden to me.
How would I feel if I had to lie in one these beds, lined up in a row, no curtains and no dividers? What would it be like? A nightmare, no doubt. Everyone in his or her street clothes, looking dirty and smelling accordingly. As we 56
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D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S
continue our rounds, I feel a mixture of pity, sadness and anger. The patients’ obvious lack of education and often innocent ignorance tug at my heartstrings.
A few people are introduced to me as my patients. A girl with a severe burn scar and a damaged knee is disabled and confined to her bed. An old man who is in the hospital for the treatment of his eye infection, complains of a painful, stiff shoulder. A boy in a coma with malarial encephalitis has been paralysed for several days. An old diabetic woman who has recently undergone a below-the-knee amputation for a gangrenous leg needs to get out of bed.
I try to smile at everyone, although my rebelling gut has sucked out my confidence. How will I ever treat these patients in our little two-room department with the fancy title ‘Physiotherapy’? I look at the faces and see only tragedy.
I reach out to greet a patient and meet the eyes of accepted suffering. The poverty, the dirt and the diseases overwhelm me. My heart cries, and my boldness plummets. If I can help any of these patients even a little bit, it will be a small miracle.
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C H A P T E R S I X
Lhamo
At first, I see only a small, wrinkled face with a lovely smile peeking around the corner. My desk in the
physiotherapy room is set back beside the door
frame, and so the next thing I can see from this vantage point is a pair of thin, bony legs floating a few inches above the ground. Then the figure of a tiny lady, and lastly Lhamo who is being carried piggy-back into the treatment room.
Baffled, I stare at the surprising appearance of mother and daughter. Though Lhamo is as thin as a beanstalk, she dwarfs her mother who stands at no more than four and a bit feet tall. At thirteen, Lhamo’s shoulders are several inches wider than the ones carrying her. It seems impossible that the petite lady does not buckle underneath her heavy load.
Yet there she stands, steadily balancing Lhamo on her back.
She even manages to untangle one of her arms to point at the bed beside me.
I snap out of my stupor and quickly pilot them inside the room. We manoeuvre Lhamo onto the bed, and there she stays lying in a fetal position, nervously staring at me. I try to make her feel comfortable by talking to her in English 58
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L H A M O
as soothingly as I can. My efforts are rewarded with a shy, uncomprehending smile.
A few moments later, Pema enters and tells me that she has called
Garbage litters the corners, and patients readily dispose of bloodied bandages, plastic bags or food scraps under the beds. I think of the flies crawling over everything and then looking for a hatching place for their eggs. As we continue along the rows of beds, my stomach twists into a tight knot, and my knees begin to wobble. Shocked, I try hard not to avert my eyes.
Privacy is not a concept practised or valued, and the metre of space between beds is hardly enough to keep neighbours from actively observing every detail of an examination.
Many patients wear a look of dull surrender, a blank stare that seems to reach beyond the hospital walls, yearning for the world outside in the hills. Yet it is not an expression of suffering, but rather of resignation or disbelief. There is no questioning and often no response. What goes on inside their minds is hidden to me.
How would I feel if I had to lie in one these beds, lined up in a row, no curtains and no dividers? What would it be like? A nightmare, no doubt. Everyone in his or her street clothes, looking dirty and smelling accordingly. As we 56
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 56
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 56
13/01/2006 14:59:11
13/01/2006 14:59:11
D O N ’ T C L O S E Y O U R E Y E S
continue our rounds, I feel a mixture of pity, sadness and anger. The patients’ obvious lack of education and often innocent ignorance tug at my heartstrings.
A few people are introduced to me as my patients. A girl with a severe burn scar and a damaged knee is disabled and confined to her bed. An old man who is in the hospital for the treatment of his eye infection, complains of a painful, stiff shoulder. A boy in a coma with malarial encephalitis has been paralysed for several days. An old diabetic woman who has recently undergone a below-the-knee amputation for a gangrenous leg needs to get out of bed.
I try to smile at everyone, although my rebelling gut has sucked out my confidence. How will I ever treat these patients in our little two-room department with the fancy title ‘Physiotherapy’? I look at the faces and see only tragedy.
I reach out to greet a patient and meet the eyes of accepted suffering. The poverty, the dirt and the diseases overwhelm me. My heart cries, and my boldness plummets. If I can help any of these patients even a little bit, it will be a small miracle.
57
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Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 57
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13/01/2006 14:59:11
C H A P T E R S I X
Lhamo
At first, I see only a small, wrinkled face with a lovely smile peeking around the corner. My desk in the
physiotherapy room is set back beside the door
frame, and so the next thing I can see from this vantage point is a pair of thin, bony legs floating a few inches above the ground. Then the figure of a tiny lady, and lastly Lhamo who is being carried piggy-back into the treatment room.
Baffled, I stare at the surprising appearance of mother and daughter. Though Lhamo is as thin as a beanstalk, she dwarfs her mother who stands at no more than four and a bit feet tall. At thirteen, Lhamo’s shoulders are several inches wider than the ones carrying her. It seems impossible that the petite lady does not buckle underneath her heavy load.
Yet there she stands, steadily balancing Lhamo on her back.
She even manages to untangle one of her arms to point at the bed beside me.
I snap out of my stupor and quickly pilot them inside the room. We manoeuvre Lhamo onto the bed, and there she stays lying in a fetal position, nervously staring at me. I try to make her feel comfortable by talking to her in English 58
Buttertea at Sunrise_PROOF.indd 58
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L H A M O
as soothingly as I can. My efforts are rewarded with a shy, uncomprehending smile.
A few moments later, Pema enters and tells me that she has called
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