When It's Not Worth It to Go to the Doctor

Sometimes, it's just not worth the trip to the doctor.

Case Study #1:

Last year, Elias managed to gash his head during French class (of all the dangerous places).  He had a neat, inch+, long, gaping wound and instead of going to the doctor...we'll, I fixed him up myself.  Today, he has a pretty little scar right above his left eyebrow.  He loves that scar.

Before anyone gets too worked up, let me just say that this was a well-informed choice.  Had I been in the U.S., I probably would have taken him to the doctor for a few stitches.  But, I'm not in the States.  I'm in Kinshasa.  Where we have perfectly reasonable doctors and hospitals more than capable of stitching up my kid. (And another facility just for serious emergencies.) But...the drama of it (the traffic, the wait, the uncertainty that anesthetic would be used, etc.) just wasn't worth a cosmetic scar.  I had a nurse-practitioner friend come check it out and after a lifetime living and practicing in the Congo, she agreed that my home patch-up job was an okay choice.

Case Study #2:

Neighbor James (remember him?) came over the other night.  At first, I couldn't tell what was wrong.  He still refuses to divulge the dirty details, but somehow, he managed to really screw up his finger.  It was swelling and James was an uncomfortable shade of green.

He was really worried that it was broken.  Over ice packs and deep breathing (and I threw in a Tembo for old-school good measure), we considered the facts:

• It was late afternoon on a Thursday.  This meant that a.) it was probably the second shift at the nearby hospital with the xray machine, which could mean a long wait and and b.) there was always the option to go the next morning if things were looking bad.  
• James could easily bend his finger.  This comforted me, or at least convinced me that the finger wouldn't fall off if we delayed.  

I have no idea why Johan is wearing a tie.  Don't ask me.

Now, for my second disclaimer of this post:  I told James I would go with him to the doctor that minute if he would like.  Happily.  Really.

But, I also supported his hesitation to immediately run to the doctor over his finger.  Maybe if it were the States, James would have jumped in the car and tried to make it to his family doctor before the office closed.  But, in Kinshasa, we decided to wait.

I buddy taped that finger to the one closest, prescribed RICE, and told him to check in with me in the morning.

In the morning, we admired the various shades of purple a finger can turn...and looked at it repeatedly from several different angles.  But, James could still move it and the pain was significantly better.  So, we made a splint and wrapped it in a florescent green bandage to soothe him.

The fact is that, living here is way safer for us than most would assume.  We have the luxury of choice in non-life-threatening situations.  We can hem and haw about whether or not traffic and lack of anesthetic is "worth it."  Because, if we really need to, we have the money, the transportation, the connections to get the help that we need. Most people around here don't even consider the option because there isn't one.

James' finger is still a little weird.  And, as an old arthritic man, he may grumpily curse my support of his decision to not get an x-ray.  And Elias might grow out of his Harry Potter stage and hate his faint forehead scar.  But, the way I look at it (after-the-fact), these details are reminders of what Kin is all about.

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Guest Post: Mama Linda Saves the Day...and the LEGOs

I met my future cousin-in-law Ted the day before he and his family moved to Tanzania. He was 8. A few weeks ago he graduated from college. (But miraculously I've stayed the same age.) Here's the first in what we hope will be a series of guest posts about other mamas around the world. 

To Mama Linda!

When I was 8 years old, my family moved to Tanzania so my parents could work with Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) and Tanzanian artisans. The move brought many abrupt changes: in climate, in language, in culture. It also brought a new person into our household: Mama Linda. Mama Linda helped keep our house in order and cooked many meals, doing her best to satisfy two kids who'd long ago decided to evenly divide all edibles between them; I hated anything that my sister Justine liked and vice versa.

One of Mama Linda's more surprising culinary experiments was feta on pizza because we were out of other cheese. After returning to Tanzania a decade later, I realize we were lucky to have cheese of any kind; dairy products (other than milk straight from a cow) are rare indeed in Tanzania.

Mama Linda joined our life at the beginning of what I might call my contentious phase. Ornery, disrespectful, rebellious, whiny: all are adjectives that applied to me at that time. I wouldn't have dared yell at Mama Linda of course, but I remember telling my mom to tell her not to clean my room. That was also the age of LEGOs covering the floor, and I didn't want any little bricks accidentally swept away or any projects disrupted. I have a clear memory of Mama Linda looking incredulously at me, probably for this request. I think mostly she just chuckled.

Photo Credit: Jill Humphrey. Lego Credit: Eli.

My clearest memory of Mama Linda is actually pretty self-centered (as most memories are). In fifth grade, at age 10, I tripped while running down our hallway (to read The Fellowship of the Ring) and hit my head hard on my concrete doorway. Bleeding profusely, I screamed, and my mom immediately knew that I needed to see a doctor but my dad had our only car. Luckily, Mama Linda had called a taxi for her ride home and quickly shoved us into it. I remember a look of concern and her clucking noise.

My memories of Mama Linda are likely corrupted by the decade that's passed since I've seen her. She has been jumbled up, too, with my fresher memories of my (depending how you count) 3 or 4 host mothers on my Study Service Term in Tanzania last year. They all showed the same incredulity at anything I did, whether I succeeded or failed. I was a constant source of amusement for them, but in the way an infant is. I was completely reliant on those women, for food, drink, and shelter.

I owe those women a great debt of gratitude. Asanteni sana Mama Linda, Mama Michael, Mama Abel, Mama Albert, na Mama Johnson. Ninawashukuru sana!

Okay, am I the only one tearing up? Thanks, Ted! Really there are two universal truths: Little boys will tote their LEGOs all over the world and Mamas will always cluck at them. 

Anyone else have a Mama story to share? Let us know. 


You can read more about Ted at his excellent blog: http://gebani.blogspot.com
 

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