James

Someone once told me that reading blogs is like reading someone else’s journal –except its “legal.” This same someone has also read my journal, an action I am sure will not soon be repeated (ahem). But because I love her dearly, I thought I would actually share one of my journal entries. I apologize if it is not well polished, if it is not exciting, or adventurous. It is simply me, what I experience in a day, and describes why I love what I do.

James Mwendwa Mumo; 10 years old; favorite subject math; has two sisters and 4 brothers all under one roof with his mother. He won’t tell me anymore. He is quiet, patiently waiting for his chance to enter the door at the end of the hallway. Already it has been two hours and the line has moved very little; but it has moved, and for that I am grateful. The wait of hospital visits no longer phases me. Instead I am prepared. I’ve brought a pen, and paper, journal, book, and even cards. I usually teach the kids how to play Go Fish.

But James is quiet. I see the pain behind his eyes. Is the pain from his injury or is it from the questions about his family? I don’t keep pressing. I leave him in silence as his downcast eyes fall to the bandana around his leg. I know what it hides and I shudder to think what kind of pain he is in.

I can’t believe we made him walk. He has been missing school for the past 10 days because he has been trying to sleep away the pain. He is certainly not able to walk to school, and now we have made him walk at least a half-mile.

I wonder, have we done more harm than good? Why did I not pack ibuprofen –some help I am! I have to have trust that we will make it to the end of this line. “Dear God please let us see the doctor before they close the clinic.”

Cue –God; a woman walks up to us and places us in the front of another line. Five minutes pass and we walk through the steel door.

After the usual Kenyan greeting and relationship building, the attention is finally directed at James. He is asked to remove the yellow bandana hiding his injury. It’s bad. Dermatitis covers his leg from his ankle to his knee –and it is seriously infected. It causes his dry scaly skin to well up in some areas and ooze pus –not exactly appetizing during the lunch hour. I really wanted to let out a long whistle and say, “dang, now that is and infection.” But since that would be quite inappropriate, I sat in somber silence while the doc quickly glanced at the wound.

           

She wasn’t concerned, and she wasn’t impressed. Could this seriously be so common that it wouldn’t deserve any extra attention? Was James’ case no big deal? Did she mistake his stubbornly strong face for nonchalance? Couldn’t she see he was holding back tears??!?

I took the prescription from her, both relieved and concerned. I was relieved that we had not waited all day in vain. I was excited for this little scratch piece of paper with scribbles on it. I may as well have been Charlie and this piece of paper the golden ticket. But I was concerned for the lack of concern shown by the doctor. What kind of maladies did these doctors see on a regular basis? Did everyone around here decide to wait until it was almost impossible to get out of bed to see a doctor? I also felt concern for James. We still needed to walk to the matatu station and he was looking more tired by the moment.

The rest of the day was kind of a blur. We boarded a matatu, made it back to the center, ate a super late lunch, picked up the Kamau children from school, and then I drove to Kiambu to purchase the medicine. The pharmacy keeps the prescriptions as part of their record, and I was actually sad when she wouldn’t allow me to keep that small piece of pater (its weird, but that little paper was like a token of accomplishment –a trifle that acknowledged that we had succeeded that day)

This is only the first step in James’ care, and James is only one boy from Mathare. What is ahead is a huge process with a spreading vision –medical care for all of the people of Mathare. Medical care that expands beyond free handouts and one-time medicines. I truly believe that there will come a day when the community members will have hope when their small child falls sick, when a little boy gets an infected cut from a piece of tin, when a mother starts coughing up blood. There will be hope. They do not have to suffer through this alone, without any care. There are people in this world who care about Mathare; there are people who want to hold their hand through medical trials or tragedies. It will be a process, but the challenge is worth the fight.

Just one more step in the right direction.