By the time the six days were done, the bill had hovered very near the 3 million shillings’ mark. Luckily, my sister had medical insurance and the money was paid. Her employer questioned the expense. But that’s a story for another day.
About two months later, my Dad was admitted to this same private hospital, with an illness that was later discovered to be cancer. He was there for two weeks, but when he was finally discharged, after endless urging from his family who had seen considerable improvement, the bill was 8 million shillings plus.
I spent my leave looking after my Dad, urging him to eat, rubbing his arms to ease the pain of the cannula, walking him to the numerous tests he was being subjected to, sleeping by his side.
Each end of the day I asked for the bill to be able to calculate the costs and pass the information on to my sisters so we could deposit what money we had. By the end of the first week, the accountant was counting 3.5 million shillings. Everything from Panadol, unused gloves, cannulas, bedpans, were on that list. I was also keeping an inventory, but would occasionally lose track.
I knew that if it was Mulago hospital, we would have been discharged after one day, just like the case five years ago, when he and Mum were attacked by greedy land-grabbers. (First, their house was set alight. When the dealers got frustrated that they hadn't died, they came back five days later, this time determined to chop off someone’s head. And they nearly succeeded, just that the attacker stupidly misfired and ending up chopping Dad’s left cheek and upper back, and then took off. But again, that’s a story for another day.)
He was rushed to Mulago’s casualty unit via ambulance that we first had to buy fuel for. The driver was in no hurry as he casually announced, "Ambyulansi temuli mafuta!". By the time we veered through the traffic (the niiinoooo- niiinoooo! was not working) and arrived at the hospital, the duvet covering the wounds was soaked in blood. It was another 45 minutes before he could be attended to. And here we were thinking that this was an emergency!
We had to drive to Nakasero Blood Bank with a note. Dad's wounds were sewn up without an anesthetic, but he said he felt no pain. I guess it was the shock. The suture thread was bright blue, and in spite of the doctors trying to stop the blood, it had seeped through the heavy bandages by the time he was wheeled out after two hours.
We were admitted to a packed ward on the fourth floor where we stayed for two nights. On the third day, in the morning, the doctor announced we were good enough to go home as the bed was needed by another patient.
“I’m sure you can get a clinic near your home where you can regularly change the dressing.”
I do not recall getting any tablets or injections, there was no drip, nothing. Except being provided with a bed and we were gone. No charges, but… the service left a lot to be desired. We bought all the drugs during his brief sojourn there.
In 2011, I was operated upon in International Hospital Kampala. It was an emergency life-saving operation, and I was fortunate to be on medical insurance, courtesy of my job. The surgeon was a good, warm, human-being who treated me with a lot of respect, checked on me regularly and promised me that I would feel no more pain. And indeed there was no pain. I had a nice bed, nice meals, a kind Kenyan nurse with acrylic nails, who carried me to the bathroom and preached the gospel in between sheet-changes. And when my time was up, and I was strong enough to walk on my own, I was discharged and asked to report for regular checks. No cost at all. And I felt like a little queen of sorts all through my stay.
My aunt who lives in the village woke up with an earache one morning. She had felt it coming for days and had tried all sorts of local remedies- onion, raw garlic, ginger, blackjack leaves. The pain persisted. So she walked the one mile to the health-center in Kasangati. The administrator asked her to go to the health-center kiosk and buy a 32-page exercise book for 500 shillings. Then she stood in line. Behind women breastfeeding their babies, children coughing and crying and a man with a massively swollen foot.
The line moved slowly but she eventually got a seat on the bench. Inside the dispensary it was like a market. People shoving others aside, elbowing them, jumping the queue. Cries of “musaawo” whenever they saw a white-coat in the corridor. Nurses being nepotistic and helping their friends and relatives go in first. Bedlam. When eventually her turn came, the doctor-cum-medical assistant half-listened to the complaint about her ailment. He did not check her ear but prescribed Panadol and scribbled in the exercise book.
The dispensary’s pharmacy was empty. They had not been supplied for the last two months.
Some Ugandans are lucky enough to afford treatment for a stubbed toe at the Nakasero or Kololo hospitals. Others can afford to do 100 scans and x-rays, and schedule elective Caesaren sections and pay in cash. Then we hear tales of trips to Germany to have babies delivered, and MPs and government officials being allocated hefty allowances to enable them seek medical treatment abroad.
So, there you are- the stark differences in our health services. We have heard so many complaints about drug stock-outs, even for “necessaries” like TB, AIDS, and for coughs, colds etc.
The stories about rude nurses who feel they are doing the patients a favor and yell at them; the doctors aka medical assistants who report late for work and have three-hour lunches; patients who come from as far as South Sudan and Pakwach and have to spend days at the Cancer Institute waiting for treatment and not getting it anyway. What are poor people supposed to do? What option do low-income earners have? They are caught between costs going out of the roof, and the false comfort of going to to a dispensary--- but end up having to buy the medicine themselves.
When a fellow Ugandan cannot afford a single tablet of Panadol! What irony.
No comments:
Post a Comment