I wake up at 5:30 (T minus twelve and a half hours) to go for a run. The sunrise is hazy and the most distant mountains are obscured by dust in the air, but I can already tell it's going to be a hot day. The village is just waking up. Women are going to the well to pump water. The occasional child or chicken scurries across the road. My legs feel like lead, as they have for the past two weeks. I chalk it up to being anemic since I haven't had meat in 6 weeks and cut myself some slack.
I make myself a cup of instant coffee (I have been forced to become less of a coffee snob since coming here--it's instant or nothing) and head over to the hospital at 7:30 (10.5 hours to go).
This morning I get to go to Mora with Myra, the Canadian who, along with Dr. Ellen, built this hospital from nothing 18 years ago and who is the keeper of the money fridge (ie: accountant and administrator). In Mora, I buy some guava (new fruit of the week) at the market and get some quality people watching in, while she makes stops at the button store and the tailor. I'm convinced there is no better place in the world to people watch. I think I could have sat there all day without ever getting bored. Everyone and everything just seem more alive and vibrant here. I don't know how else to describe it.
When we get back to the hospital, I scrub in on a prostatectomy, sans the Davinci of course.
5:45 pm (T minus 15 minutes) I have been waiting for this moment for almost forever it seems. I'm sitting in Dr. Ellen's hot office staring at her computer screen, anxiously clicking refresh over and over again while my 270 classmates have gathered en mass several thousand miles away at this very same moment, our uncertain futures about to be decided for us.
General Surgery, U. of Colorado, Denver. Silence.........................................................................
....................................................................................................................................................................
Damn. .......................................................................................................................................................
Colorado was 4th on my rank list but I somehow wasn't expecting it. Well, I guess if I can manage to elude the 37.5% attrition rate and enjoy the 300 days of sunshine a year, it might actually be okay. And there are mountains and biking and hiking and climbing and skiing galore. And the staff I interviewed with there were incredible. And it's not Indiana. And maybe, okay, it might just be alright. It might just be where I was meant to go after all. I trust that someone is looking out for me and my future.
So I send a few emails and make a few phone calls, shut down the computer, cover it with plastic, two towels and a sheet to fend off the dust, and while my classmates are all out drinking and celebrating together, I walk home in the moonlight alone. Somewhat anticlimactic if you ask me.
Ahh..........Colorado..........What color will I paint my walls?
Everyone--please let me know where you're going next year! I'm sad I missed out on all the excitement back home.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
you know you're homesick when...
-You try to make cookies in a skillet over a gas stove.
-You bust out the make-up you had been wondering why you brought, and wear it to work just because it makes you feel more like at home.
-You fry yam cubes in cotton oil, top with tomatoes and pretend you're eating french fries and ketchup.
-You borrow a quality single speed Skylark for the day and pretend the huge springs under your seat are actually your rear suspension.
-You sing out loud to yourself because you haven't heard music in five weeks. The last song I listened to before I left home was Snow Patrol's "shut your eyes and think of somewhere, somewhere cold and caked in snow...", which now helps me make it through the days of 105F heat and sleepless, sweaty nights with no AC and no fan, only a wet shirt and frozen water bottle between my legs.
Several hours after doing laundry (and by laundry I mean washing every piece of clothing by hand, in a bucket, with blue powder that people here call soap but I'm not convinced actually cleans anything, and hanging my clothes on a clothesline in the bathroom), I find that several hundred mosquitoes have invaded the bathroom and I empty half a bottle of deet in the toilet, sink and air to scare them away enough that I can use it.
I'm tired of being the celebrity in town. I'm tired of people staring and staring... and staring. Maybe they're just curious, but where I come from that's impolite. I miss being able to run down the street and not have people stop what they're doing and come out of their houses to stare. I miss being able to sit in a coffee shop and read with twenty other people and still be alone. I miss the order, organization, precision and timeliness of the U.S. operating room. I miss feeling clean. I miss my garbage disposal and my jeans and tank tops and my yoga class and my $1500 bikes and my grocery store and my Starbucks and my air conditioning and my car (or the abstract idea of my car since I don't actually own one) and even my cell phone.
As much as I hate to admit it, I realize I have become yet another victim reliant on the many conveniences of the western world. I may not spend hours a day watching TV or surfing the internet, but I'm just as guilty as those who do.
-You bust out the make-up you had been wondering why you brought, and wear it to work just because it makes you feel more like at home.
-You fry yam cubes in cotton oil, top with tomatoes and pretend you're eating french fries and ketchup.
-You borrow a quality single speed Skylark for the day and pretend the huge springs under your seat are actually your rear suspension.
-You sing out loud to yourself because you haven't heard music in five weeks. The last song I listened to before I left home was Snow Patrol's "shut your eyes and think of somewhere, somewhere cold and caked in snow...", which now helps me make it through the days of 105F heat and sleepless, sweaty nights with no AC and no fan, only a wet shirt and frozen water bottle between my legs.
Several hours after doing laundry (and by laundry I mean washing every piece of clothing by hand, in a bucket, with blue powder that people here call soap but I'm not convinced actually cleans anything, and hanging my clothes on a clothesline in the bathroom), I find that several hundred mosquitoes have invaded the bathroom and I empty half a bottle of deet in the toilet, sink and air to scare them away enough that I can use it.
I'm tired of being the celebrity in town. I'm tired of people staring and staring... and staring. Maybe they're just curious, but where I come from that's impolite. I miss being able to run down the street and not have people stop what they're doing and come out of their houses to stare. I miss being able to sit in a coffee shop and read with twenty other people and still be alone. I miss the order, organization, precision and timeliness of the U.S. operating room. I miss feeling clean. I miss my garbage disposal and my jeans and tank tops and my yoga class and my $1500 bikes and my grocery store and my Starbucks and my air conditioning and my car (or the abstract idea of my car since I don't actually own one) and even my cell phone.
As much as I hate to admit it, I realize I have become yet another victim reliant on the many conveniences of the western world. I may not spend hours a day watching TV or surfing the internet, but I'm just as guilty as those who do.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
"women's" day my ass
Today is international women's day, apparently. I don't think it exists back home or at least I had never heard of it, but ironically, here in Cameroon, where women have essentially no rights or freedoms, it is made to be a huge day, celebrated with festivities all week long and concluding today with a parade and evening gala. Women spend weeks getting ready for this day, making dresses out of special 2008 Women's Day fabric, which they wear for the parade.
I never thought of myself as an extreme feminist, but here I probably seem like one to most people. I have almost gotten into several fights over such issues and am surprised at how angry I can get. A few examples...
--I am generally the only female in the OR; the rest of the staff are male, and they have tried, on multiple occasions, to make me sit down during long cases, shoving a stool at me and repeatedly yelling at me to sit. No one else is sitting. I feel like it is because I am a female and they don't think I can handle standing for six hours. I blatantly refuse and kick the stool away. I am (or will be) a surgeon and surgeons stand. I will stand.
--After Chrissy and Jessie left for the U.S., one of the male nurses told me I should walk home from work with one of the female nurses so I didn't have to walk the two blocks by myself (in contrast to Douala, Kolofata is a very safe village). Thanks, but no thanks.
--A Cameroonian journalist was trying to argue that Hilary Clinton cannot be president because her husband was already president and they are the same person. Wives have to agree with their husbands on everything and are not free to have their own ideas. I wanted to punch him in the face so bad...
--No one can understand why I'm not married with five kids already.
Most women here don't go to school and never learn French (they only speak their tribal language). Boys and young men play soccer, while women stay in and cook for them when they're finished. Polygamy is common and accepted. When I ask why one woman couldn't have multiple husbands, I just seem to get puzzled looks. "There are just more girls than boys here." Right. I could go on and on, but basically women here are slaves to their husbands.
And so as I sat and watched the parade go by today, I couldn't help but wonder how long, if ever, it will be before a woman will be able to play soccer or run or drive her own motorcycle or not get married if she doesn't want to or go to medical school or wear pants or argue with her husband and not be punished for it or just be able to have her own ideas, and concluded that this day was faux and all the work put into making their beautiful dresses was just in vain.
I never thought of myself as an extreme feminist, but here I probably seem like one to most people. I have almost gotten into several fights over such issues and am surprised at how angry I can get. A few examples...
--I am generally the only female in the OR; the rest of the staff are male, and they have tried, on multiple occasions, to make me sit down during long cases, shoving a stool at me and repeatedly yelling at me to sit. No one else is sitting. I feel like it is because I am a female and they don't think I can handle standing for six hours. I blatantly refuse and kick the stool away. I am (or will be) a surgeon and surgeons stand. I will stand.
--After Chrissy and Jessie left for the U.S., one of the male nurses told me I should walk home from work with one of the female nurses so I didn't have to walk the two blocks by myself (in contrast to Douala, Kolofata is a very safe village). Thanks, but no thanks.
--A Cameroonian journalist was trying to argue that Hilary Clinton cannot be president because her husband was already president and they are the same person. Wives have to agree with their husbands on everything and are not free to have their own ideas. I wanted to punch him in the face so bad...
--No one can understand why I'm not married with five kids already.
Most women here don't go to school and never learn French (they only speak their tribal language). Boys and young men play soccer, while women stay in and cook for them when they're finished. Polygamy is common and accepted. When I ask why one woman couldn't have multiple husbands, I just seem to get puzzled looks. "There are just more girls than boys here." Right. I could go on and on, but basically women here are slaves to their husbands.
And so as I sat and watched the parade go by today, I couldn't help but wonder how long, if ever, it will be before a woman will be able to play soccer or run or drive her own motorcycle or not get married if she doesn't want to or go to medical school or wear pants or argue with her husband and not be punished for it or just be able to have her own ideas, and concluded that this day was faux and all the work put into making their beautiful dresses was just in vain.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
waza
3-1-08
We were graciously granted a day and a half off work to visit Waza National Park, which is about one and a half hours north of Kolofata. Our driver picked us up at the hospital yesterday afternoon and we were off.
Dr. Ellen had told us that going so close to the Chad border means "big men with big guns" will sometimes stop your car, "but they won't hurt you as long as you give them all of your stuff." Great. So I packed my bag, fully prepared to surrender it and all of its contents if need be. I only brought four of my malaria capsules--a few extra in case we were stranded for a few days, but not my whole stash or I'd be screwed later; no passport, driver's license or credit card (they don't work anywhere anyways)--just the minimum amount of cash needed and a photocopy of my passport. I replayed over and over in my head how I would quickly remove the memory card from my camera and hide it in my bra when we were pulled over. Turns out we weren't stopped by any big men with big guns so I got to keep all my stuff.
We stayed at the Waza "hotel" last night and got up before dawn so we could get into the park before it got too hot and all the animals went into hiding. At the park entrance there is a sign stating all the park rules including "vehicles must stay on the road at all times" and "do not get out of your vehicle, especially near waterholes." We hired our guide, paid the extra $5 each to bring in our cameras, and were wished "bon chance" as we drove into the park.
We saw tons of antelope, gazelle, vultures and even a hyena (our driver said he hadn't seen one in four years). Then we spotted the elephant poop. Our guide got out and stood on the roof of our 4x4 and spotted a small herd of elephants on the horizon. After he mumbled something to the driver in French, we turned off the road and started driving through tall brush over seriously uneven terrain towards the elephants. I mean this would have been the ideal car commercial for one of our many improperly-used American SUVs, actually at home in the environment it was made to live in. After bumping along for a half hour, the driver stopped and our guide said "we will now continue on foot." So we got out of the car and started walking towards the elephants. It was almost surreal. We got less than 100 meters away from them before we stopped because "the first elephant will charge if you get too close." On the way out of the park we saw some giraffes and ostriches and another herd of elephants. Pretty awesome.
On our way home, we stopped at the bakery in Mora and bought some chocolate croissants and diet cokes. The vendor made sure we knew those drinks were for diabetics and thought it quite odd that we would buy pastries, bread and chocolate with sugar-free soda. I guess maybe she's right.
Mora is a village that's about a half hour motorcycle ride from Kolofata. They have a big market on Thursdays and Sundays. We took motos there last weekend (I tried not to think about the fact that I was helmetless and wearing sandals, and the frequent moto accident casualties we see at the hospital...), but couldn't find the bakery, so our chocolate croissants today were a special treat.
We were graciously granted a day and a half off work to visit Waza National Park, which is about one and a half hours north of Kolofata. Our driver picked us up at the hospital yesterday afternoon and we were off.
Dr. Ellen had told us that going so close to the Chad border means "big men with big guns" will sometimes stop your car, "but they won't hurt you as long as you give them all of your stuff." Great. So I packed my bag, fully prepared to surrender it and all of its contents if need be. I only brought four of my malaria capsules--a few extra in case we were stranded for a few days, but not my whole stash or I'd be screwed later; no passport, driver's license or credit card (they don't work anywhere anyways)--just the minimum amount of cash needed and a photocopy of my passport. I replayed over and over in my head how I would quickly remove the memory card from my camera and hide it in my bra when we were pulled over. Turns out we weren't stopped by any big men with big guns so I got to keep all my stuff.
We stayed at the Waza "hotel" last night and got up before dawn so we could get into the park before it got too hot and all the animals went into hiding. At the park entrance there is a sign stating all the park rules including "vehicles must stay on the road at all times" and "do not get out of your vehicle, especially near waterholes." We hired our guide, paid the extra $5 each to bring in our cameras, and were wished "bon chance" as we drove into the park.
We saw tons of antelope, gazelle, vultures and even a hyena (our driver said he hadn't seen one in four years). Then we spotted the elephant poop. Our guide got out and stood on the roof of our 4x4 and spotted a small herd of elephants on the horizon. After he mumbled something to the driver in French, we turned off the road and started driving through tall brush over seriously uneven terrain towards the elephants. I mean this would have been the ideal car commercial for one of our many improperly-used American SUVs, actually at home in the environment it was made to live in. After bumping along for a half hour, the driver stopped and our guide said "we will now continue on foot." So we got out of the car and started walking towards the elephants. It was almost surreal. We got less than 100 meters away from them before we stopped because "the first elephant will charge if you get too close." On the way out of the park we saw some giraffes and ostriches and another herd of elephants. Pretty awesome.
On our way home, we stopped at the bakery in Mora and bought some chocolate croissants and diet cokes. The vendor made sure we knew those drinks were for diabetics and thought it quite odd that we would buy pastries, bread and chocolate with sugar-free soda. I guess maybe she's right.
Mora is a village that's about a half hour motorcycle ride from Kolofata. They have a big market on Thursdays and Sundays. We took motos there last weekend (I tried not to think about the fact that I was helmetless and wearing sandals, and the frequent moto accident casualties we see at the hospital...), but couldn't find the bakery, so our chocolate croissants today were a special treat.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
2-21-08
Internet access has been extremely limited--I appologize, so most of my stories will probably have to wait until I get home...
Today I did my first trauma case. A man was shot three times while trying to defend his cows--once in his leg, once through his chest and once into his abdomen, but without an exit wound. We sat on him for a day and a half until he developed an acute abdomen, hypovolemic shock and acidosis before we decided to take him to the OR. There's no such thing as a CT scan here. Once we decided to take him to the operating room "emergently", we waited around two more hours for a make-shift chest tube to boil. We removed a section of bowel that had been perforated by the bullet and closed him back up.
Surgery here is somewhat different than back home. Ketamine is the standard anesthetic and patients are not intubated. Sterile technique is attempted, but not always carried out well. During the operation, the patient was frequently semi-awake; he even tried to sit up and look at his guts spilling out of his abdomen at one point. He occasionally would spit blood across the room from his hemothorax. He started talking about yams. Near the end of the case, the electricity went out and we had to finish in the dark. It was a miracle he made it off the operating table alive.
The prime minister is coming in two days for the ribbon cutting ceremony at the hospital in Kolofata, 17 years after the hospital actually opened. He was supposed to have come many times before, but for one reason or another, the plans would always fall through. The concern this time is that there may be too much dust in the air for his plane to land in Maroua, where there is no radar at the airport. Everyone is super excited about the event and cleaning the hospital like crazy. All the staff get new white coats to wear. We have been designated official photographers for the day...if he actually shows up.
Today I did my first trauma case. A man was shot three times while trying to defend his cows--once in his leg, once through his chest and once into his abdomen, but without an exit wound. We sat on him for a day and a half until he developed an acute abdomen, hypovolemic shock and acidosis before we decided to take him to the OR. There's no such thing as a CT scan here. Once we decided to take him to the operating room "emergently", we waited around two more hours for a make-shift chest tube to boil. We removed a section of bowel that had been perforated by the bullet and closed him back up.
Surgery here is somewhat different than back home. Ketamine is the standard anesthetic and patients are not intubated. Sterile technique is attempted, but not always carried out well. During the operation, the patient was frequently semi-awake; he even tried to sit up and look at his guts spilling out of his abdomen at one point. He occasionally would spit blood across the room from his hemothorax. He started talking about yams. Near the end of the case, the electricity went out and we had to finish in the dark. It was a miracle he made it off the operating table alive.
The prime minister is coming in two days for the ribbon cutting ceremony at the hospital in Kolofata, 17 years after the hospital actually opened. He was supposed to have come many times before, but for one reason or another, the plans would always fall through. The concern this time is that there may be too much dust in the air for his plane to land in Maroua, where there is no radar at the airport. Everyone is super excited about the event and cleaning the hospital like crazy. All the staff get new white coats to wear. We have been designated official photographers for the day...if he actually shows up.
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