Health Care in Congo

During the last two weeks my husband and I have been preparing for his upcoming surgery in two days, which includes office visits, consultations, viewing a DVD re various types of anesthesia, speaking with the anesthesiologist, getting registered at Beaumont, lab work, an EKG, and another round of antibiotics after a final ultrasound. Insurance benefits were reviewed by the hospital. Questions have been raised and answered. All in all having surgery involves process, education, and procedure.

Congo, on the other hand, is another story. In our driving back and forth from one office to another, an incident that occurred years ago in Congo has haunted me this week. I cannot shake its horror.

I wish it were fiction.

It's not.

It happened at a remote clinic with no sterile conditions. By remote, I mean remote. No electricity--ever. No running water. 450 miles due east from the capital city of Kinshasa, known as the bush. Topography of savannah, plains, rolling hills, no paved roads, no grocery stores, no gas stations, no department stores, no Home Depot, no Target (oh my), few cars, few trucks (ours), no big airports, no hospitals, no pharmacies, no drug stores. I told you it was remote.

The State of Congo owns the clinic. It was the only place the teen could get any "help," She complained of abdominal pain, discomfort, and other symptoms which drove her to seek relief. The clinic was up the hill and down the road from our mission.

Her options: a 2 1/2 day walk to the medical mission of Vanga or a 9 hour truck ride over holey "roads" that her body would not endure. So. . . off she went.

No lab available to check out possible blood abnormalities or clues as to whether she had an infection of any kind. No microscope to examine her blood. No lab tech to even try to make an educated guess.

It was night time. It gets very dark in Congo after 6 p.m. Only 300 miles south of the equator.

She entered the dimly lit room. Put on a filthy robe used by who knows how many other patients preceding her. Climbed onto the table.

The "doctor" in no simple terms told her not to scream. "I don't want any crying. Do you understand?" he yelled at her.

She trembled with dread and fear and promised to comply.

"Shut your mouth, and don't you dare scream," he said.

He turned up the volume of his short wave radio and made an incision in her unanesthetized body. Found nothing wrong with her. Sewed her all up.

No sedation. No antibiotics to fight the infection that would more than likely follow. No bedside manner. No kind words. No advice. No pain pills.

No liability insurance so she could not sue the inept inhumane monster.

To this day I am amazed she survived.

I found myself raising my right hand in the car many a time lately while driving here or there, praising God for the difference between here and Congo, for the blessings of living in America, for the incredible advances medically we benefit from, for the skillful, brilliant doctors and more than competent nurses we have access to here.

We don't deserve the incredible care we get here any more than she deserved the incompetent, heinous treatment she received.

Lord, hasten the day when Laban can build a medical health facility to Your glory, so that the Congolese people don't have to suffer under such dastardly conditions? How many more have to endure such deplorable, abominable treatment? Hasten the day, Lord, when our hospital can be a haven, a refuge, a center of healing physically and spiritually. We surrender to Your will and the mercy of Your people.