A Trip to the Hospital

After I wrote this blog, I returned to the hospital. Much to my delight, the baby who was grasping for life in the ICU is on the way to a healthy recovery.

The first time you step into the hospital in Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua, it can be quite a shock –especially if you have spent any time in a modern hospital in the modern world. But when you make three to four visits a week, you start to overlook the slightly decaying concrete walls, dirty floors, stray dogs running freely, and the many people with various diseases waiting for care. What you see, instead, is the best staffed, supplied and equipped hospital on this side of the country. The ICU may only have four beds, but the hospital has an ICU. It also has a neonatal ICU, which is where a lot of my patients end up.

“So piloto, who are you here to see today?” asks the nurse on duty. She says it with a smirk, because usually I forget the paperwork and have to explain who my patient is in my broken Spanish. Today, I actually have two patients; the first is a young pregnant girl, who was in premature birth when I flew her the day before. When my Spanish finally finds the right room, I immediately recognize her through the small door window. She doesn't see me, as I witness her and her husband holding their first child for the first time. Suddenly, she recognizes me – her face glowing with relief and pure joy – and gestures for me to come in. For a moment, I get to share in the happiness of this young family. As I scan the room, I don't have to look far to see my other patient. She's in the bed next to us.

She is a 14-year-old girl I flew in late the day before. She had an emergency C-section with serious complications in the bush hospital. I flew her, the newborn baby and a doctor from the small town of Bonanza; there was no room for a family member to take the trip with her. I was nervous for her, because she was very scared and in a lot of pain. My heart went out to her, because she had to undergo such a traumatic experience alone. I make my way to her bed, after talking with the nurse. She says that the mother is stable, but heavily medicated. The baby, on the other hand, is struggling to hold on in the neonatal ICU. The mother’s eyes open, and she nervously nods when I ask if she remembers me. I try to offer words of encouragement and hope, but it’s hard to come up with words to say when your patient is a young mother whose child is dying next door. I do manage a smile out of her when I say that I'll come back tomorrow.

I make my way out of the hospital with my two patients, who are going through two totally different experiences, on my mind. As I pass the emergency room, I hear my name being called out over the noise of the crowd. It is the sister of another patient I flew a few weeks before. She is also pregnant and had been staying at a local maternity house until she was ready to give birth. The doctors had advised her to have the baby at the hospital, due to some anticipated complications. I spoke to her a few days ago, and she conveyed that she was extremely nervous and scared for the upcoming birth.

I step into to the examination room, where the expectant mother is sitting in a chair. I greet her, while silently wondering what my next conversation with her will be like. It is quite possible that the birth will go great, and I will again get to rejoice with another growing family. It is just as possible that I will again have to search for words of comfort and hope. But one thing is certain: Whatever is in store for this young lady, she will not experience it alone. Some patients need comfort, some need to share their joy, but all need someone there.