Dry and without shame...

Fistula camp is finally wrapping up here at AWC. Although, camp surgeries ended two weeks ago, the ladies are still here recovering. While some think March Madness has to do with basketball, for me it had to do with one thing: beds. I would go bed to bed each morning with the doctors on rounds to check on all the patients. For camp, we tripled our numbers and quickly we ran out of space. At one point, we had 80+ women staying overnight and that was a number I had hoped we never reached. The wards- orange, blue, and green- all added another bed. The classroom was converted into a ward with 15 beds. The team house dining room was literally a camp with mosquito nets draped over mattresses on the floor. Excel workbook became my best friend as I moved ladies around the five wards based on acuity and the surgery schedule. I knew each lady by name and where each was sleeping. One day, as I stared hopelessly at my color-coordinated charts, I thought we might not have enough space. Then the door between the doctor’s and my office opened- and out came a patient. Adama was dancing and singing tenki to Papa God because for the first time in ten years she was dry. She came over to me and gave me a great big hug- at that moment, I realized, I would make bed space wherever I could find it for these ladies.  

So, I’ve shared stories of young girls that have come for fistula surgery and the majority are teens to twenty-somethings. However, there are ladies that have suffered from fistulas longer than I have been alive. Galleh came all the way from Guinea in hopes of finding help in Freetown. Her chart was nearly blank- she did not know how old she was and she had lost count how long she had been leaking. The top of her head wrap would reach my shoulders as I gave her a hug everyday. I called her my Fullah (Guinea tribe) grandmother. Galleh had her surgery during camp, but unfortunately we could only do a little to help the leaking due to the extent of her injuries. She would tell us on rounds that her leaking was lessening everyday and even the surgeons were amazed with the outcome. I couldn’t help from smiling whenever Galleh flashed her toothless grin.

When I first met Yeama sitting on the clinic benches, she gave me a quizzical look- probably the color of my skin. Yeama looked like any other seventy-year old women, however, when she stood up- she was bent at the waist almost to ninety-degree angle. (Think back to geometry- right angle) I questioned if it was just severe osteoporosis. Her story brought tears to my eyes. Yeama could only remember she was a young girl trying to give birth for two days. She eventually delivered a stillborn baby; this would have been her first and only child. Her husband left and abandoned by her family because she was leaking urine. Yeama did not feel worthy to look into people’s eyes so she bent down to avoid their judgment. Over time, possibly 40+ years, the shame crippled her so much she could not stand up straight. As she recovered on the ward, I saw her transform as she interacted with the other ladies and even gave me a smile when our eyes met. Although, Yeama will never stand perfectly straight again, I could see that a weight had been lifted. As her name was called out at the Gladi Gladi, Yeama stood up for the first time dry and without shame.