#mulagoforyou

I was at Uganda’s “biggest” referral hospital last weekend. Not by choice of course. My sister had a ghastly accident. Let me first detail that.

Her daughter- my niece- was unwell. So my sister Carol hopped into a taxi and onto a bodaboda at the bypass near Kalerwe, on her way to the clinic at Bwaise. It would not go the way she hoped it would. A careless rider, his motorcycle laden with a huge sack of charcoal, knocked the bodaboda on which Carol and the baby were seated, knocking the child to the ground, where she hit her head and lay motionless.

Meanwhile, Carol landed heavily on her backside, but leaped up immediately to check if the baby was okay. And that was when she noticed the blood. Gushing. It quickly formed a pool around her feet. In her panic over the baby and wondering where the blood was coming from because she felt no pain, the quick thinking good Samaritans who rushed to their aid, quickly got another bodaboda who rushed them to the clinic. Luckily, my aunt, who is a doctor, was on duty and performed first aid. She later discovered that Carol had ruptured an artery and sustained a huge tear as a result of the fall.

When she called me at work, I rushed to the clinic and managed to get them to Mulago hospital, where we were referred, as she needed to be stitched up. To ward 5A or 5 Annex. Where “women’s problems” are dealt with. It is meant to be an emergency treatment center- miscarriages, heavy bleeding from abortions- dealing with that kind of stuff.

The baby had been checked and the doctor assured me she would be okay, that she just suffered some fright. Meanwhile my sister was bleeding profusely as we rushed through the stairs and wards, hoping to get the emergency treatment we badly sought. Alas. It was not meant to be.

First, two doctors- one older (with kind eyes) asked us to go back to 3rd Floor, the casualty section, to get admitted. The second doctor-younger and mean-looking- just looked at us. Dr. One informed us that Dr. Meanie was in-charge and if we talked to him “nicely” we would get treated. I didn’t understand what he meant, but anyway, I left my patient with the baby and rushed back to Casualty.

The numbers there were swarming. And the attendants in their “cage” were swamped. How was I to get an admission number? So I went to the one who was not wearing a Red Cross jacket and tried, in my best Luganda (I calculated that if I used English, he would bring in his inferiority complex - they always do), to explain my problem. He asked me to bring my patient. I told him she was on 5th floor and could not walk. He sent me to the uniformed Red Cross official who was listening to a woman begging for help as her patient had been poisoned.

Anyway, the first guy eventually came and helped me, but the way he crouched over the book as he gave me a number, all the while assuring me how he was “just helping me because he was not authorized to book patients” told me he wanted “kitu kidogo”. C’mon man, my taxes are what are keeping your funny face behind that cage!”, I wanted to scream in his stupid face.

Then he instructed me to go “through the corridor and enter the second door on the left”. Why?
Anyway, the sight that met my eyes was something else. The door was slightly ajar. There was a narrow bed smeared with blood and under it, gauze and cotton wool soaked in someone’s blood. I stood outside for a few minutes, contemplating my next move.

As I gathered up the courage to step into the room, a young man carrying an older woman, probably his mother, sidled up to me. Her eyes were in pain, it was so evident. She kept pleading with him to put her down. Down where, I could not see a spot in that filthy corridor jammed with humans. Right opposite was a young man being quizzed by some doctors who threatened they would not treat him unless he told them how and where he had his injuries. His head was wrapped in what was probably his shirt- he was shirtless, and he crouched miserably, refusing to say a word. And he was bleeding from a head wound, or were they wounds? Eventually, the man carrying his mother got down and cradled her in his lap, got out leso and quickly laid it on the floor. Then he placed her on it. She grabbed at her busuuti, unbuttoning it and undressing, in full view of everyone. Like they really cared anyway! When she started fanning herself, I looked away. I just could not imagine the pain she was in and here I was feeling extremely helpless.

I finally gathered the guts to enter the room. More gruesome sights. On my right, a young man, whose face had swelled to twice its size. His chin had a deep gash. His forehead was grazed in many places. He lay on a cot, no sheets, his clothes all bloodied. He looked unconscious. And cold.

I rushed to the nearest person I could see. A sister in a white uniform and red belt. I explained to her my “problem” all the while trying to avert my eyes from the bloodied cots in the room, and willing myself out of it. She told me what I was supposed to do- I can’t even remember what- and I machine-gunned out. Back to 5 Annex.

Dr. Meanie was nowhere to be seen. Another plain-clothed gentleman walked up to me, I told him what I wanted and he asked us to wait and we would be attended to. Shortly, a ‘nurse” wearing a Nytil green uniform- shirt and pants- came up to us and rudely ordered us to make sure we had a kaveera. This I bought for 2,000 shillings.

Then we laid it on the cot in the “annex” and waited. And waited. And waited, and waited. I called my sisters. They eventually came over. But this was after the baby had woken up, and bewildered and hungry, started whimpering. So I bundled her on my back and went down to the canteen near the gate, where I got her a bottle of Fanta and a piece of cake to keep her quiet.

After about three hours, the patient gathered the strength to get up off the bed and walked out of the room. We all rushed to her side, hoping to hear some good news, that she had been treated and we were leaving this dreadful place. That was not to be. Apparently, Dr. Meanie had handed her a small packet- it contained surgical thread- and left her on her own- for about two hours. Just lying there and bleeding away. God help him. In his small jeans and black sandals. Is that how doctors are supposed to dress anyway?

Angrily, I told Carol to pack her stuff and we would go elsewhere, a place where we could fork some money and get proper treatment, and not be treated like some beggars. Actually what struck me was the demeanor of the staff- doctors, nurses, sisters, midwives, cleaners. The downcast look on their faces. No smiles whatsoever. It smelt of poor pay, unhappiness at being forced to work, having no option.

They eventually worked on us. We paid them 20,000 shillings and fled Mulago hospital.

But just as we were leaving, after carefully avoiding Casualty ward, we heard an agonized scream. A man had just got an epileptic seizure and was twitching uncontrollably, his body contorted in pain. And as he writhed like a snake on the ground, his head bleeding badly where he had hit himself when he fell, the nurses and Red Cross officials, who are supposed to offer first aid, just looked on, and continued with their business.

Mulago for you.