Sutures, Songs, and Lost in Translation
*Warning, this story contains graphic images*
November.23rd
“Lord we lift your name on highhh”. The 90s contemporary Christian music strummed in the background, as Paige made an incision in the lower abdomen, humming along. I was standing at the head of the stretcher, and watched the patient’s eyelids blink at the ceiling. He was awake and relaxed. Ready for a prostatectomy.
I think it is the first time…no, I know it is the first time…I have been in surgery with CCM floating through the atmosphere. The anesthesiologist sang along as he took notes, and the patient eventually drifted off to sleep. Whether it was Paige’s inner hand massage, in attempts to remove the prostate, the calming tunes, or he was bored…it wasn’t long before his snoring took bass in the ensemble.
Halfway through the operation, the doors swung open, and Dr. Gonzalez peered in.
“Todd?”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you.” The tools, the music, the snoring…and the concentrated moment where the blood kept pooling. His back was towards the door.
“Sorry” she looked around, as if thinking about what to do. Then she continued….”Umm, there is a little girl here in ER, she had a bird on her dress and tried to eat it. She aspirated, I think. She is in respiratory distress. Should we try to intubate?”
“What?” I looked over confused. Then it registered. Oh, a bur.
“Todd”, I repeated for him. “There is a little girl in ER who aspirated a bur. She is in respiratory distress. Should they intubate?”
“Get David to look at it”, he replied, still concentrated on suctioning the blood in front of him, and finishing the inside sutures.
Before, the next operation, we poked in the OR across the hall, at the little girl who now had an endotracheal tube placed. Two chest Xrays were taken. None should a bur…or bird for that matter. It turns out the family was saying she swallowed it a week ago. The things that get lost in translation. Thankfully, she seemed to stabilize, and the tube was removed.
The next patient rolled into the OR with a bad case of flesh eating disease. The skin on his leg had gone from bright pink, to white and green, and black in areas, in the 24 hours the surgeons had seen him. Cloxacillin would not be enough to fight the infection, making skin debridement necessary.
I stood back, watching the man’s skin slowly cut off, and piled at the end of the OR table. Blood dripped down the side of the stretcher, and they cut, trimmed, cauterized and removed, in attempts to eventually save his leg. Once the dead tissue was removed, they raised the leg, and wrapped it in a “grandma bandage” — one of the 20,000 sheet, wrap bandages made from grandmas back in the United States. (In the wound clinic today, I saw the strawberry shortcake sheets I had as a child; it was wrapped tightly around a hefty leg wound).
In the afternoon, Todd, Paige, Jesse and I inhabited the surgery clinic, where patients came for follow-up, or consult. Sutures were removed and dressings were done, some wounds mending, and others not.
I am glad a smile is universal, as the multiple African languages can make for difficult communication.
“Tell her, she has lymphoma, and will need to come back tomorrow — once have consulted the oncologists” Paige told me, about the tall, thin woman sitting in the examination room.
I turned to my right and translated her message in French to the clinic translator. The translator then stood in front of the patient, and translated it into Anafo — her tribal language. She nodded.
The clock approached 5pm, and we turned off the lights and closed the doors. Work was done for the day.
“What are those?” I asked pointing to the rocks and little hospital carnets lined on the bench outside the room.
“Oh, people line up rocks, to keep track who was first in line.”
I headed home. Tomorrow they would be waiting.
