Asiya

Asiya  

Asiya has always been so happy to see us, always smiling and reaching to me for a hug, but this day was different. As I was taking attendance in Kainga women's class this morning, Asiya approached me, eyes and head  lowered, looking down to the side. There was no smile so I knew something was terribly wrong. 

Then I noticed the pain in her eyes as she slowly pulled her hand from under a ragged cloth. One of her fingers was swollen double its normal size and the fingertip was an angry pink and red mottled white and oozing infection. I asked if I could pray for her. She immediately dropped to her knees.  I joined her there, asking God to bring healing and for Him to reveal His love to her. 

Before I continued my lesson, I promised her that after our work was finished in the villages, we would come by to take her to a private hospital near Machinga. We learned that her mother also has an infection on her hand, but she was not willing to go with us and would not accept medical treatment. Prayer and medical treatment was the best offer we had, so although we wanted to help her, we let the decision rest with her mother.  

About an hour and a half later we pulled into a yard near Asiya's house and learned that she was at home resting. Her neighbor, Chrissy,  and I went to get her and walked her to the truck. Chrissy asked if she could accompany her.  We told her to jump in, and we were on our way.

Especially this time of year, during the rainy season, the roads are a series of deep ruts and deep, mud-filled potholes interspersed with craggy rocks. So, as the truck jolted and swayed, Asiya lifted her wounded hand in the air to minimize the impact to her throbbing finger. 

We would have under no circumstances taken her to a public clinic or hospital, and the doctor George and I see at a private clinic here  in Zomba is not in his office on weekends. So, we were happy that Samuel knew of a private clinic, one sponsored by the Anglican Church, which he could recommend. It was some distance away, near Machinga, but we were committed to the best care we could get for Asiya because she was running a fever and it was obvious that her infection was very serious. 

When we arrived, the hospital campus was dark and looked deserted, so we sent Samuel ahead of us to find admissions. He came back in a few minutes and led us to the women's ward. One ward lined with beds was labeled Chronic Infections. At least a dozen women were there, but there was no one, however, at the front desk. So we waited. 

Eventually, a nurse came and leafed through Asiya's medical book.  She had not seen a doctor since 2008. The nurse told us to sit down and wait because the doctor had been paged and was with another patient at the time. 

Asiya was walked to a room with an examination table, and soon, an intern came by with a pain killer and gave her a shot in the hip. This took some of the edge off the pain,  enough for her to close her eyes and rest a bit.

Then, we sat and waited. We walked the campus and waited. Eventually, a robust looking young Malawian dressed in tan cargo shorts, sandals, and a red Emirates soccer team shirt, entered, greeted us briefly in passing, then went directly to Asiya's examination room. He lifted his hands and grabbed the bar that held the curtain, and leaned toward the bed to ask her a few questions. Who could this be? It was the doctor. He came with a small entourage of attendants and interns.  I followed them in to be with her during the procedure. 

The doctor must have skipped hand washing class in medical school,  because he swiped on a pair of latex gloves and proceeded to examine Asiya's finger. 

First, he wet swabbed her entire hand with mercurochrome and gave her a shot in that finger. She winced a little when the doctor began to poke and prod at it a bit, so he gave her another shot in her finger.

 Without so much as a small interval, he slid a bowl under her hand, took a lance from a small paper package, lanced her finger, and began to squeeze. He extracted some of the poison, but evidently not enough. He made a bigger incision, then again squeezed. As her brow tightened and the pain overwhelmed her, the brimming pools beneath her eyelids overflowed and poured down her face. 

Although she did not make so much as a small whimper,  she was obviously in deep pain, so I quickly crossed the room and took her other hand in mine and held her. She leaned in, placing her head on my shoulder. By this time, tears were  flowing down my cheeks as well. Within minutes, the surgery was over, and the doctor was tying on a strip of gauze bandage.  The doctor unrolled another strip of gauze, wrapped it around her neck and wrist to create a sort of sling to help immobilize her hand. 

We were asked to wait again at the nurse's station for the accountant to arrive so we could pay the hospital bill. Within 20 minutes or so, he arrived, looked over the doctor's notes in Asiya's medical book and asked us to follow him to his office. There he banged out a few numbers on a calculator. Totaling the charges, including medications, doctor's consultation, surgery, and prescriptions for both Asiya and her mother, the bill came to a grand total of 4700 kwacha, which is $11.24 US. 

With receipt in hand,  we were directed to the dispensary in an adjacent building. He assured us that the pharmacist would be coming, then snap, click, he locked his door and left. From the accountants office we could see that the dispensary door was gated and padlocked, so we asked Samuel ( thank God for Samuel) to go to the nurses station again and ask her to send for the pharmacist. In a short while, he returned with the news that the pharmacist was at home and was gone for the day. That answer was not acceptable  because the sun was already low in the sky, and we knew that there was no possibility of getting the needed medications that evening in Zomba. We also knew we were not willing to take her home without the pain medication and the antibiotic. We asked again, and the nurse said she would call the pharmacist back to work. Chrissy and I sat with Asiya, weary from lack of sleep and food as well as all the trauma she had been through in the past hours, sat on a wooden bench outside the dispensary and waited. And waited. Half an hour later, George went to check the status and learned that the pharmacist had arrived and was on his way.  We know that "on his way" is a relative term, but within five minutes we had what we came for and were on our way back to the village.  

We only stopped long enough to purchase food for us all. John ran with 1000 kwacha and came back with a bag of yeast rolls and bags of salted peanuts for us all. We were hoping to get our friends back to Kainga to get Asiya settled in and us back to the paved road before dark. We knew that might be a challenge because we only had about 45 minutes before  the sun was completely down when it began to rain. At a dip in the road where rainwater streamed across, the truck's back tires began to slide toward a flooded ditch and some young girls standing nearby. George, being the skilled driver he is, was able to right it and to avoid what would have been a disaster.  

With about 20 minutes of daylight to spare, we pulled into Kainga. What a sight!  Many of the women and children lined road at the entrance to the village, smiling and waving. They were so happy and sincerely expressed their grateful hearts. 

Asiya and her village know we love them and care about their needs. I once told them that the love I feel for them is so much bigger than me. In fact, the love is so big that it floods me and must overflow, so I am certain that it must be God's love. 

That morning, I had been praying that God would use us to show His love.  Well, on this wonderful day devoted to serving the lowest, this is the way He chose to do it.