God in Our Midst: Part 1 - "Lives at Stake."

Sundays are usually nice as we try to enjoy some family time, as well as spend some time writing emails, blogs, and letters back home. However, as with life anywhere in the world, such a plan sometimes turns out to be only that, a nice plan.

This past Sunday, just as we were leaving our home for the Gumuz church service held nearby, we encountered several people requesting our help with various things. The first guy’s mother apparently had had surgery in a larger city and he was asking about medicine for her, of which I knew nothing about and could not help. The second case was a 6-month pregnant woman who had been feeling very sick with stabbing abdominal and back pains for about three days. She and her husband were requesting that we take them not just to the nearby clinic (which has a below average reputation), but to a slightly larger city’s clinic about an hour away. Knowing that this would sacrifice much of our Sunday, we made no promises but instead gave her some Tylenol and agreed to see how she was feeling after church.

As church was finishing, Andrea rushed back to our house to check on the pregnant woman, while I mingled for a little while, not wanting to once again face the question of giving up my Sunday. Little did I know, God had already overbooked my plans and was brewing up something bigger and better, something in which I would clearly see his protection and provision. You see, as I said my farewells and turned toward my house, Habtamu (one of my best language helpers) pulled me aside. “Travis, my sister’s baby is hurt. He has burns on his arm.” Having just been told of how one of the guards (who was standing there with us) had been trained on how to clean and bandage such wounds, I tried to turn it over to him, to which he responded, “This is a really bad burn. Last night, he fell into the cooking fire. I think you should look at it.”

Minutes later, trying to suppress any outward reaction, my insides tightened with fear as Habtamu’s sister unwrapped her 2-month-old baby boy before Andrea and me. Yes, in fact, it was a VERY bad burn as blisters and wounds covered the baby’s swollen left hand, left arm and face. Without hesitation, Andrea went into the house and grabbed her “bush medical” book, which clearly stated that any burn 1) on a small infant or the very old OR 2) which encompasses an entire limb, OR 3) involving the hands, face, etc to a significant extent, shall be referred to a hospital for treatment. With this case meeting all three criteria, we knew that our plans for the day had just changed.

We loaded up our truck with Habtamu, his sister and nephew, the pregnant lady and her husband, Andrea, Micah and me and were soon kicking up a dust cloud as we bounced down the rough, washboard-like road. Arriving at the clinic shortly before lunch and wanting to push our patients through the system, we flicked on our extroverted personalities and struck up conversations with the staff (some of which were fascinated and excited that we knew Amharic, and others of which wanted to practice their English). Micah also helped as he turned on the charm and soon found himself in the arms of the nurse in charge of calling “next” patients. Our collective efforts paid off as both of our patients were seen quickly. The pregnant lady gave samples for laboratory testing which revealed three issues, all curable by medicine (but required Andrea to give intravenous antibiotic injections for the next four days – which is very difficult on a person with small veins tucked under tough and very black skin!).

The baby, on the other hand, was given one look from the doctor and he wisely reached for his referral pad. “This baby needs to go to Bahir Dar today!” he said firmly as he went on to describe how the baby’s hand was burned so completely that if not amputated, gangrene would soon take the baby’s life.

Bahir Dar is a bigger, more-modern city about 4-5 hours from our Gesas home, 1 hour of which we had already covered to get to this first clinic. However, unfortunately, continuing our trip directly from there was not possible. You see, the baby’s father knew of the accident, but he was not with us and his approval and involvement would be needed before going to the next level of medical care. In general, Gmz people are very afraid of Ethiopian hospitals, especially with the possibility of amputation. In fact, I am told that many Gmz parents would rather see their babies die, than to have a limb amputated. Why? I’m not exactly sure. But with that being the case, we could not take the baby to the Bahir Dar hospital without the father’s permission/participation. In preparation for returning to Gesas, I knew that I needed someone who could explain to the baby’s father the reason behind amputation, if diagnosed as necessary. So, I invited Habtamu for a quick cup of tea at the coffee shop nearby the clinic and explained all of what I knew of gangrene and how quick amputation stops it from killing its victims. With him seemingly understanding and convinced, we loaded up our truck and backtracked to Gesas Mountain. From there, Habtamu took off on foot – running for an hour to get to the baby’s father’s home (he was living away from his family to attend school).

My co-worker who has lived in the area longer told me by phone later that day “Sadly, often in cases like these, the fear of amputation is too strong and the patient returns to his village and you never see or hear of him again.” With this statement cycling through my brain, I was happy to see Habtamu at 7am the next morning, walking briskly toward my door, “We are all here and ready to go to Bahir Dar…” Silently I thanked God for granting us passage through this first barrier of fear, I smiled, “We’ll leave in 10 minutes...”