Arua Hospital

A couple of weeks ago, Jesca, our house helper, was in a bicycle accident that put her in the hospital for 5 days.  This gave Kelli and me our first opportunity to visit Arua Hospital, and I can honestly say that I was not prepared for what I would encounter.

I knew a little about the standard of care in local hospitals before we went.  Supplies are extremely limited, so patients must bring their own bed sheets and latex gloves.  There are no cooking or laundry facilities, so patients or their families must provide their own food and wash their own clothes and linens.  I had visions of large rooms full of old-fashioned wrought iron beds—kind of like the massive hospital wards in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s in the States.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

From the outside, Arua Hospital reminds me of the Florida-style schools that are pretty common in South Carolina and much of the rest of the South.  Each ward (surgical, medical, maternity, ENT, pediatric, etc.) is housed in its own building, and the buildings are all connected by covered walkways.  The grassy courtyards in between the buildings are literally covered by family members and friends who have come to care for patients.  Sitting in the grass, they cook over open fires, do laundry, and spend the time between visits.  Patients who are feeling up to it can sit outside on the ground with their loved ones. 

Going into the surgical ward where Jesca had been admitted (even though she never had surgery), beds were placed everywhere there was room.  Jesca’s bed was in a hallway so dark I almost didn’t recognize her!  We saw two nurses the entire time we were there, and that was only because Pam tracked one down so we could get some answers for Jesca about her treatment.  As we were sitting on the bed, visiting with Jesca, Kelli felt something touching her ankle.  She looked down and saw a hand; Jesca’s husband, Michael, had been sleeping on a mat under her bed!

As we spoke with Jesca, we got more information about her accident.  On Sunday afternoon, she had been riding up a hill on her bicycle when she saw a man on another bicycle riding on the wrong side of the road, coming straight towards her.  They had a head-on collision, and the other rider went into a coma.  Jesca hit her head on rocks in the road and had a nasty scalp wound and serious muscle pain, but overall, she was in pretty good shape, considering how bad it could have been.  When we visited her, the other rider was still in a coma.

We didn’t know Jesca had been injured until Tuesday, and had no idea how bad it was until Wednesday night.  When we went to see her on Thursday, she had been given a total of 8 Tylenol since Sunday.  No x-rays.  No IV fluids for dehydration.  No antibiotics or stronger painkillers for her head wound or whiplash.  I was outraged and heartbroken for her.

When Pam hunted down a nurse to find out what was going on with Jesca’s care, we learned that she was ready to be discharged.  (I still wonder how much of the timing had to do with the 3 white women who had just shown up to visit!)  We were given a list of 3 medicines to buy at the chemist’s (for a total of $4), a date for her to return to see the doctor, and instructions for “physical therapy”: Move around and do what you normally do.

As we gathered Jesca’s belongings and left to take her and Michael to their village on the other side of town, I wanted to weep.  This kind of care is not okay.  Jesca deserves better than this.  Her son deserves better.  People deserve better.

I know that I will never have to depend on this kind of medical care.  I can always go to Kampala.  If a situation is bad enough, I can be airlifted to Nairobi, or Johannesburg, or even back to the States.  But most of the people I’m around don’t have that luxury.  If they want medical treatment, Arua Hospital is their only choice.  It’s wrong, and it’s heartbreaking, but that’s all there is.