4077 Medical Hospital

Sarah had not been feeling well for quite a while. Severe headaches, sickness and blurred vision. I broke a tooth while out to lunch the other day too. It doesn’t hurt but a visit to a dentist may be on the cards. Before I left home, I had all the vaccinations I was told by the doctors were needed. On arguing with Sarah about the time between boosters for Hepatitis, we realised I had only been inoculated against Hep A. Hepatitus B is strongly advised here, especially if I’m going to be having any dental work done. Hep C should also be done but I’ll get that if I go into the GU clinic back home and say I’ve been a naughty boy over here. That opportunity has not yet presented itself and I will be very careful to use condoms. I will probably risk only using one at a time however. The “double bagging” method might result in an experience akin to that “flup flup” noise you hear when trucks with loose tarpaulins pass!

Two reasons then, for us to visit the local hospital clinic. With Sarah possibly having Malaria and my need for jags, we set off to Nyaho Clinic. She warned me not to be put off by the basic nature of the place. At first arrival, it seemed relatively Western. A car park with guards. Not the British NCP car park attendant that limps up shouting “you cannae park there” This guard was full of smiles. Just as well, given the large truncheon he was wielding. I say truncheon, but it was more like a sawn off baseball bat. We parked up and headed to the reception desk. Sarah has BUPA Gold cover. I have travel insurance but this only applies if something has actually happened to me. Besides, I was told it would be very cheap. As we sat, Sarah explained that we had come along at night because day times here are pandemonium. There were a few people milling about, but essentially we were the only customers. I had tried to explain to the man at the desk that I only wanted the injection. He insisted that I must be tested first. Anyone who knows me, knows how bad I am with blood tests. I’m not scared of the needle, have no problem seeing my own blood, its just that having very low blood pressure, the first problem is finding a vein, even on finding something, there is no guarantee any blood will flow. When it does come out, I very quicly turn a shade of white in the green spectrum and have been known to crash to the floor as soon I’ve stood. I go armed with chocolate or a sugary drink. This evening, I had none of that and was already feeling the heat which made me a bit queasy. We headed through to the first waiting room. The well appointed reception area, gave way to a slightly more dilapidated interior. If you want to visualise the place, what if I mentioned the 1970s TV show M*A*S*H? We sat while a ceiling fan tried to cool the room. Trying too, to fly off its mountings. Windows were just louvered slats to the outside, the odd bug pinging off the fan from time to time. A nurse entered and went through Sarah’s symptoms before coming to me. I managed to explain to her, I had no reason to believe I had picked up hepatitis and that I only needed the injection. We were ushered through a door to the doctor and we had to repeat everything to him. He was a black man wearing a white lab coat and trousers. A pair of Asics trainers on his feet. This room was special, it had air conditioning, some welcome relief on a hot hot night. Sarah was despatched first, clutching scribbled notes. I followed, asking as I left where I was going. He replied “The nurse weel show you” I left through the side door to the outdoor walkway. There was no sign of a nurse but I spied Sarah up at a door back towards reception. As I caught her up, the door closed. A sign said “Payment room” After knocking again, the woman who answered scanned my scribbles before saying “Pharmacee” Another short wait at the pharmacy window until a different man appeared, clicked a few keys and presented me with an invoice. The price of the vaccine would be 19.20 Cedes. Just under a tenner. Before I paid, we went up to another waiting room to get Sarah’s blood taken. A man in a tan boiler suit entered and changed the bin liner. He or others in the same uniform, seemed to wander aimlessly through the whole complex. I’m guessing he was a janitor but his gait and the blank expression suggested more that he may be an in patient. At this, Sarah reassured me that the asylum was in a different part of town! I don’t know whether reassured was quite the right word there. We were ushered through three more doors to a man sitting at a desk. Before him were containers with all kinds of apparatus. From them, he drew the swab and hypodermic to take Sarah’s blood. Everything was carefully used. All the equipment was sealed before use. In front of us, he squirted blood into a green topped vial, a bit more into a yellow topped vial and the few remaining drops onto a glass slide, before adding a solution. We were told to come back in forty five minutes for her results. This may be a developing country but whenever I’ve had blood tests, I’ve had one on, say a Thursday and told to call them after two on the following Tuesday.

We returned to the reception where I paid my due account, before returning to the pharmacy to collect my vaccine. Back down the same walkway to the original waiting room. The ceiling fan still trying to shear it’s mountings. I was called by the nurse to follow her to yet another room in a building across the yard. There, I rolled up my sleeve and felt the, not so cold needle stab into my arm muscle. A small sticking plaster and I was done. I rejoined Sarah to return to the car park for a cigarette. About half way through mine, I started to feel incredibly woosy. I stubbed it out and climbed into the car to enjoy some air con. Within a couple of minutes, the cool air soothed me, just as one of the staff beckoned us to get Sarah’s results. She was issued with another bundle of forms, accompanied by an unsealed envelope. Opening it as we walked back to the original waiting room, she proclaimed her Malaria test to be negative. The other results were scribbles, illegible to either one of us. There was no sign of any nurses. A knock on the doctor’s door was in vain so we waited patiently. We waited and waited. I watched the ceiling fan, curious as to whether it would perform a final flourish to it’s captive audience. After an inordinate amount of time, and more loud knocking on the doctor’s door, we ventured out towards the building I had been stabbed in earlier. This time, there were no signs of life. Another door was knocked, still nothing. We doubled back to reception, where the man apologised and picked up the phone. We could hear the ringing getting louder as we trudged back to the waiting room. The phone in the adjacent doctor’s room rang and rang. When it had run off, we waited. A little less patiently this time. Another bug cascaded down from the fan onto the still unstaffed desk beneath. Sarah, becoming quite exasperated, stood up and marched back to reception. I trailed in her wake. The heat and humidity was fraying patience and tempers. Politely, she again told the man at reception no one was attending to us. Again, he apologised and lead the way back down to familiar “waiting room 3” aka funky fan room. He cut across to stab hut looking through each louver as he went. He stopped at the end door and knocked very loudly. A shape in white stirred and rose. A different nurse made her way towards us, came into the waiting room and knocked on the door leading to the doctor. She then opened the door and there, as before, was the doctor sitting at his desk. Sarah and I threw each other a glance. The same thought on our minds. “Had he been here the whole time and just ignored the door?” He told Sarah she did not have Malaria but that he woud prescribe antibiotics for her irregular white blood cell count. We thanked him and left. Back past reception and round to the pharmacist’s window. He seemed to have disappeared too. I suppose it was understandable, it was just after midnight by this point. We were the only visitors. The heat was unbearable, we were both tired and fed up. Heading towards reception, a new patient walked past. Not unusual, except he was bare footed and missing a large portion of his big toe. All that was left were tendons and blood vessels sticking out haphazardly. I felt a bit humbled by this. When I had foot problems earlier this year, I felt unable to do much. Yet here was someone unaccompanied who had obviously got himself to hospital with a very serious amputation. Sarah told the receptionist we were now leaving. She would get the drugs the following day. We left past the baseball bat guard beaming us a smile as he held open the gates and headed home.

Right now, I am sitting in a pair of tartan trews, white shirt and bow tie. It is the St Andrews dinner dance here tonight. I’m very sure there will be a few stories to tell, once I’ve sobered up from that adventure.