Earlier in the week, I had seen the multi-colored bed sheets hanging over open windows in order to keep the sun out, but this was the first time I had been on the other side of those sheets. Unsupervised children dart back and forth across the hall from one room to another. Patients and their families are stuffed into undersized rooms. I am having trouble discerning a system of organization. If there is one, it seems to be provided by the patients' families rather than imposed by a hospital and its staff. There is a small office in the middle to the hall. I knock on the door and find three young adults in white lab coats. They seem to have been swallowed up by the swells of humanity. Maybe they are just hiding, grossly outnumbered. They are friendly and helpful. They quickly direct me to Tariktu's room.
The families of the patients bring their own bedding and are responsible for staying with their children overnight if necessary. It is a common site to see laundry drying in the courtyards and clearings just outside the hospital walls. The Black Lion Hospital seems more like a campground than a hospital. You select a campsite, haul in your gear, and set up camp. Maybe there are a few rules such as not playing music after ten, but otherwise everyone happily fends for themselves. Siblings? Cousins? They're all running the halls, letting off steam. They have been there for hours or days, huddled around the campfire waiting for the doctor to call.
Tesfa is noticeably fatigued. She's been on a vigil most of the week. She has a daughter in the hospital who is very ill. She brings me to see the child. I immediately notice that the girl has an adema (swelling) on the right side of her body. She makes a feeble attempt to lift up her right arm and communicate her pain and discomfort. She is limp and drawn. She moans and manages a half smile with the side of her face that isn't swelled up like a party balloon. I can tell that my friend needs a break. Tesfa needs to go home and regroup, get some tea and a quick nap. But she has hours to go before her work is done here.
I leave Tesfa to go check in with the surgical team. I promise to keep her in the loop. I begin my long walk down the hallway through the children's ward. Unexpectedly, I see Tariktu lying still in the middle of the hallway in his rusty metal bed escorted by a woman in white hospital clothes. Could it be? Did word come up from the OR? It's 6:15 in the evening. The doctor has been operating all day. Tariktu's surgery will take at least two hours in the best of conditions. Tesfa follows quickly behind me. She is already talking to the nurse. A smile comes across her face. She appears nervous yet relieved. The surgery will be tonight. The long wait is almost over.
We stand in the hall for a few moments. Waiting for something, someone to call us down. Possibly hand signals or flashing lights because I don't see a phone nearby or a walkie talkie, and I haven't heard an intercom since I got here five days ago. All of a sudden, she begins pushing the bed down the hall. We follow, each grabbing a bar on his little metal cage as if holding on to the side of a moving boat in fear of being left behind in a drifting sea.
We get to the end of the hall and stop at a set of dilapidated green elevators. Up until now, I thought these elevators were out of order. They don't even close properly. I'm somewhat horrified by the idea of packing in to one of these things. A couple of women stop when they see Tariktu and Tesfa. They seem to know them. They appear to be congratulating them. I can feel a positive energy coming from the group, a sense of hope. He's about to set sail. The elevator doors part and an invisible current pulls Tariktu's little boat into the small space. Everyone flows in behind him. To my relief, there isn't quite enough room for me. "I'll meet you on the fourth floor!" I cast them off and race down the stairwell through drifting masses of people. There are people everywhere.
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