Counting Sheep

We are into our last days at clinic. It has really gone by fast, and this week especially knowing we leave soon. So much has happened that I wish I could write about.

Wednesday evening Dustin and I went to church with the kids. The ones who board here for school are leaving Friday for their version of summer break. So, we wanted to spend some time with them before they left. After church I met up with Irene and some of the other girls. They wanted to know my name. In Ghana, you have several names. Sometimes additional titles as well. There is no ‘legal’ way of using your name, your name is whatever you want it to be, really. But one of the things Ghanaians do, is they don’t name their babies when they are born. They take the baby home, and the entire family has to tell the mother, what the child’s name will be. To solve the problem of the baby being called ‘hey you’ or ‘small one’ for the first two months of it’s life, they give the child it’s Ghanaian name. This is based on the day of the week you were born. When we arrived that was one of the first questions we were asked, “what day were you born?” Of course, I do not know, and here it’s very important so, some of them were surprised I didn’t know the day of the week. It’s kind of like if you didn’t know your own birthday. Dustin and I looked it up, I was born on a Tuesday, so my Ghanaian name is Abena (pronounced ah-beh-nuh). Pretty, huh? ;)

Monday- Adjoa

Tuesday- Abena

Wednesday- Ekua

Thursday- Yah

Friday- Efua

Saturday- Ama

Sunday- Esi

So I hung out with the girls (several of us are named Abena, so, we are sisters). Then it was time for them to go to the house and go to bed. I continued on my walk with Dustin to the hospital to check on patients. When we arrived, nothing was going on so we started walking home. We met Dr. Alex in the road and he said a patient was coming. She was with her midwife and had severe pre-eclampsia.

Ok pause- pre-eclampsia is a condition in pregnant women consisting of severe hypertension, and high amounts of protein in the urine. This disorder often leads to eclampsia, with is the addition of seizures, thus making it a little more serious and requiring immediate delivery.

Ok, we’re back. So, this patient had severe pre-eclampsia. Blood pressure was 220s/140s and she was so swollen she could hardly breathe. (this was of course because of all the protein loss in the urine). When she arrived, she literally looked like pictures of people that get bee stings and their whole body swells, even the eye lids. It was terrible, I mean absolutely horrible. We got a line, put in a catheter, and gave some dexamethasone. We did this because did I mention, she was only 31 weeks gestation? The lungs are not fully mature until at least 32 weeks (at the earliest from what I understand), so the steroids were supposed to help the child’s lungs develop.

So, we peaced out. She was stable and the nurses were going to call if she had a seizure. In that case we would need to section her.

11:00 PM. Good night.

3:14 AM. Phone rings. Patient has seized. Much C-section asap.

OMG. I am so tired. What the heck.

So, Savannah and I drag out butts out of bed, and up to the OR. We rush in the hospital front doors and no one is there. Like, we could have robbed the place. Dr is gone, anesthetist isn’t there, I have no idea where the nurses are (this is a common problem). The patient wasn’t prepped for surgery, in fact I believe she was puking. So we waited around for everyone to be in place and started the surgery around 5AM. The procedure was going well. Savannah scrubbed and assisted, I caught the baby. Baby was breathing (PTL, HALLELUJAH) and stable.

At about 5:30 the power goes out. Like, pitch dark, no windows dark. The Dr. and Savannah have their hands in her bleeding abdomen, he has a needle and is trying to sew up the uterus while not sticking Savannah. And it’s pitch black. I’m hold a 4 pound baby in my hands, so I don’t want to trudge across the room looking for the battery lit light. Finally after about 15 seconds of everyone trying to find the switch, the battery light comes  on. In the mean time, she has continued to bleed and the abdomen is full of blood.

Did I mention our suction machine is broken?

Did I also mention we are only allowed a certain number of gauze per operation?

Hmmmmm. This is like in school when you have practical exams and you say “I want to suction” and they say “oh, suction machine is broken.” “Ok, then give me more rags” “Oh, there are no more.” You don’t really think it could ever happen. I’m here to testify. It does.

I took that as an opportunity to step out and take the baby to the midwife. When I went in there she became angry with me. She was raising her voice saying something about a cap? I finally figured out she meant the baby’s cap that they like, go home in and stuff. I went back to the OR and got it. She told me you have to put the cap and socks on first thing if you want your baby to have a long life. If you put the cap and socks on immediately after cleaning the baby, the baby will live about 84 years (not sure where the figure came from). But if you don’t, the baby will only live maybe 54. She is sure there are studies on this. I didn’t argue with the old African auntie midwife.

After the baby was dressed the power came back on. The baby continued to breathe. The mother was brought back to the ward. As of tonight everyone is well and blessed. She is a Thursday baby, so her name is Yah.

So, we got back to the house around 630. I napped until 730 and then went in and saw patients all day in clinic because the midwife who normally does was gone. I probably saw over 50 patients today. I finished seeing them around 530.

UPDATE on Abigail

She went to a rehab center in a local town with a bigger hospital for child nutrition rehabilitation. At least  the family said that’s where they would take her,  but the truth is we will probably never know. We pray that she has a live full of relationships that bless one another, that she is God fearing and Christ loving, and that she knows the power that God wants to put within her to do amazing things. I can’t help but think what her life would be like if  she had been able to come to the States with us. But when I start thinking of that, I have to know that God has a plan for this child. Nyame Ado.

My last patient today was a Muslim woman. On July 22 she came to the clinic because she had not felt fetal movements in 2 days. Doppler confirmed there were no fetal heart tones. So, the midwife wanted us to induce her and allow for delivery. She wanted to go home first and let the husband know and come back. When she arrived home, she went into labor and delivered at home. The baby was in fact dead. She didn’t speak English and at this time,  my interpreter was MIA. Of course.

So, here I am. Face to face with an African Muslim woman. A woman who has had 6 other children. I have had none. She is Muslim, I am Christian. She is black, I am white.  She is poor, I am rich. And what can I say to her? She speaks some broken words to me about "baby" "boy" and "big." A boy I gathered she was very proud of. And through all the chaos of this terribly hectic day, I had an overwhelming feeling of what God feels for us when he talks about leaving the 99 sheep to go and look for the 1 who is lost. Time stood still for this woman. I felt like I had seen 99 other patients today and it would’ve been so easy to send this woman on her way without spending a few seconds with her because I had already helped so many other people. I was tired, I hadn’t slept, and I couldn’t communicate well. I asked the Lord, “God in this moment what  words do you have for her that I can give? What can I do? What can I say?” And just like that it came out of my mouth as I reached over and put my white hand on her black one and I said, “Nyame Ado” which translates as “as God wills, so it is so.” She nodded in agreement with me and said “ah, Nyame Ado.” And it was like that’s all I needed to say. She didn’t need to hear about this medicine, that medicine, risks of infection, risks of bleeding. She needed confirmation that through all this, God is still the one in control, and that she’s going to be alright. I felt a sigh of relief come from her as she continued to repeat it “Nyame Ado, Nyame Ado, Nyame Ado.”

And then she smiled. It felt like the moment when the one sheep rejoins the 99 and it knows every thing is going to be alright.

I am so happy I serve a god that will do that for me. After he has cared for many, many other people, he still looks at me as if I am the first patient of the day. Or, perhaps the only client, student, or phone call in a day’s work, but in reality I am probably the last one of hundreds. You know, that feeling when you’ve made 99 phone calls and you just can’t make any more, but really the 100^th is just as important as the 1st? Or you’ve disciplined all day, and that one student in 7^th period that you  just want to ignore because you’re tired? God never looks at us that way. He sees us  fresh, new and clean. As if we are his only creation. Not the dirty, rotten sinners that we truly are. And I pray that for us, if God can see us that way, that we can see others that way too.

Sometimes you're with the 99 and sometimes you’re the one. I pray that the day I’m lost and alone, and am the sheep who has wandered away, that God upholds his promise to come and find me. And that if I'm stranded on the road, and people are passing me by, that a Good Samaritan will stop and help me. Because I am still one person. I am somebody. Whether I am clothed, clean shaven and showered, or I am dirty and homeless. Inside I am a person. We should try and model more of this in life. We need to practice treating each person as if they are one out of one and not of 100, or for that matter, a million.

In James 2:15 he writes,  "If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that?” I find this to be especially hard when I've had a long day, paid bills, or am in a hurry, to stop and see the needs of people around me. I may see them, and even say "God bless you" or something like that. But what James is saying is that even if I take the time and say "God bless you" but I don't help provide their basic needs, what have I done? I've done nothing. God isn't going to bless a person because I say "God bless you." So, really I've done nothing. I've just been another person walking by saying "sorry, I don't have any change." Ew. How disgusting to be grouped in with those 'other' people who don't even help. Too bad James is saying my pathetic attempt at consoling someone does no good at all unless the fruit is there. So let's walk through the week in confidence that by giving, and doing, God will replenish us greatly. That we are part of the solution and not part of the problem. That we are covered and protected by God's grace and therefore we can reach out to someone we may not know who is in need, someone who looks different than us, or smells different, eats different things, wears different clothes or what have you. Because we are all made in God's image. Even the homeless man on the corner holding a sign that you pass by on your way to work every day that says "Please help, homeless, need work, God bless you." Or the man who limps over to you and says "do you have any change?" but you don't give it to him because you don't feel like he really is handicapped. 

Let's be The Change so that when nonbelievers get asked about Christians they say "Oh my gosh those Christians, they'll just love anybody."