This afternoon I went to the field with Anne, one of the CHE members (the field refers to going into the communities of Mathare and visiting homes or doing community projects). Today we were to meet with community leaders from Area 2. Despite the fact that I have been here for three months, this was my first time to visit area 2. We walked through a few different communities before arriving at our destination. it always impresses me, those people who can navigate the slums, because it is an intricate maze of twists and turns, small passageways and narrow bridges. But of course, because I travel with a Kenyan, I never get lost.
The meeting place for this particular meeting was different than any other. The building was made of poured concrete floors, cinder blocks for the walls, and transparent sheets of sturdy plastic for the roof. As impressive as the building was, more spectacular were the men inside. They were self trained acrobats who were practicing and exciting routine.
Nothing but pure shock painted my face as I watched in awe. Within this tiny make-shift gym men tumbled, flipped, and contorted their body into obscure positions. Five men jumped through hoops, balanced on heads, balanced on their friends' heads, and built pyramids as high as the ceiling would allow. Amazement lit up my eyes as I watched spectacular displays of strength, flexibility, balance, and agility. Was I really in the middle of the slums right now? What these men had was talent, that was plain to see. But beneath the raw talent, the thing that made their show truly spectacular, was their perseverance and attitude towards a hobby that has changed their life.
I listened as Anne spoke of the type of men they once were -thugs, thieves, drug addicts, but I saw none of the displays of aberrant behavior. Instead I saw joyous faces and easy laughter. These men came together five years ago to instigate a change. And changed they are. They have met to enhance their routines and strengthen their bodies, but in the process they have also strengthened their character.
I marvel at their trust in each-other, the respect they have for one another. There is no way anyone could do those moves without having full confidence in their partner. Men are doing flips and landing on someone's arm. They are doing ariels and back flips with a power jump over the group of men arranged in a pyramid. SMACK! one of the acrobats lands flat on his feet. He doesn't flinch. In-fact, he doesn't even seem phased. A few seconds later one of the men is jumping rope from his back. He is literally bouncing on his back on the concrete floor! Men are jumping off the top level of the pyramid at least 9ft high, and nothing, no pause to grab shins, no massaging of the feet. They just keep going. And I am reminded that their performance is not all that different from their lives -
Indeed, their lives have never been cushioned. They have never had the protection of being padded from every blow. In this one room of concrete and cinder blocks, things are learned the hard way. Every mistake would have hurt, but eventually the sting wears off and you must move on. You have to be tough. Those who stop and feel sorry for themselves get kicked out of the show. You have to move on with the performance and deal with the sting of blows as they come along.
The performance of these men was one of excellence and perfection. Not perfection in the sense of timing or unison, or even body composure, but perfection because these men were perfectly executing life. They had been thrown hardships and instead of feeling sorry for themselves, they decided to turn their lives around. They decided to excel and pursue a passion against all odds.
Is anyone thinking about booking an acrobatics team for their next function? I know a great group of talented guys for cheap hire!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Never will I ever
 |
| Don't eat it!!!! |
Incase you were wondering as to why this is such a bad idea, I will share my personal experience/pain.
Last week I ventured to Mombasa, a lovely costal town in Kenya. It is any vacationer's dream, with it's white sandy beaches and tropical festivities. The sun is always shining, the temperatures always boiling, and the people undoubtedly friendly. But what you don't want to do when you travel to Mombasa, is trust local restaurants to provide you with clean quality food. I have lived in Africa for almost three months now, so I should know by now that our pampered stomachs are no match for the roaring African bacteria. Personally I would encounter a lion any day over a microscopic bacteria, but that may just be personal preference.
 |
| beautiful beach paradise |
whirl wind
What in the world is going on? One minute I am in the slums of Mathare, and the next thing I know, I am riding a train through the sky scrapers of down town Chicago. "Where am I?" That is the only phrase I could conjure as giant structures of steel cast shadows across my train window.
What was this country where everyone listened to their ipod, so engrossed in themselves that they didn't notice the artistry of the changing colors just outside their window. Nature was beautifully displaying the elegance of fall, but no one would look up from their self-absorbed state. How was everything here so clean, so spacious, so perfectly calculated for efficiency? What would the lowly mutatu driver think if he took a ride on the Chicago metro? would he be impressed by the speed, the organized stops, or perhaps the roominess of the cars? where he would be used to cramming 20 people in a 9 passenger van, here was an entire train with less than 5 people per car. How is anyone ever to make any money? And where is the noise? No obnoxious m-tot music videos blared from the speakers, no incessant street clatter from the vendors, no angry drivers nor talkative pedestrians. There were no chickens littering the floor, no smells of rotten trash to make one hold his or her breath, and most surprisingly, no one close enough to feel the bead of sweat as it rolls down your arm.
But this is America. Sterile, cold, like the temperature outside as I stepped from the train station. My sandals and shorts that I had boarded my plane with in Nairobi were now insufficient for the American November day, even if the temperature was above average.
I walked down the streets of Lawndale knowing full well that this was the rougher part of the city, but still I was in awe of the architecture, the cleanliness of the roads, and the consistency of the buildings. It had been so long since i had seen structural planning. The streets were paved, and while I am sure most people would find the potholes unforgiving growing problems, I saw them as nothing more than minor imperfections in a road as smooth as glass. I had never thought about how roads were really made, but at this particular moment, I reveled in the artistic beauty and pure craftsmanship that went into the construction of this masterpiece. Two lanes, a consistent painted yellow line down the center, stoplights, no speed bumps -there was order. I felt at peace as I rolled my luggage down the smooth asphalt.
I knew, somewhere in the recesses of my mind that this wasn't Naperville, this wasn't Downers Grove or any other nice suburb, this was Lawndale. I saw the chain-linked fences, the unbridled weeds and unkempt houses, but it was beautiful. America is beautiful. Leaves swirled around my legs as a gust of wind burst from around the street corner. The sky was heavy with deep grey clouds and there was a warmth that was quickly fading with every passing second. America is beautiful, but something is missing. As I watched the sun disappear behind the clouds a brisk breeze stirred me and sent goose bumps down my legs. There was no one to greet me at the airport, no warming smile to melt the tension of a long day's travel; there was no one to help me find my train, no one to lend a hand with my luggage. I am reminded of these things as I walk down this cold, smooth street. America is beautiful, but something is missing.
What was this country where everyone listened to their ipod, so engrossed in themselves that they didn't notice the artistry of the changing colors just outside their window. Nature was beautifully displaying the elegance of fall, but no one would look up from their self-absorbed state. How was everything here so clean, so spacious, so perfectly calculated for efficiency? What would the lowly mutatu driver think if he took a ride on the Chicago metro? would he be impressed by the speed, the organized stops, or perhaps the roominess of the cars? where he would be used to cramming 20 people in a 9 passenger van, here was an entire train with less than 5 people per car. How is anyone ever to make any money? And where is the noise? No obnoxious m-tot music videos blared from the speakers, no incessant street clatter from the vendors, no angry drivers nor talkative pedestrians. There were no chickens littering the floor, no smells of rotten trash to make one hold his or her breath, and most surprisingly, no one close enough to feel the bead of sweat as it rolls down your arm.
But this is America. Sterile, cold, like the temperature outside as I stepped from the train station. My sandals and shorts that I had boarded my plane with in Nairobi were now insufficient for the American November day, even if the temperature was above average.
I walked down the streets of Lawndale knowing full well that this was the rougher part of the city, but still I was in awe of the architecture, the cleanliness of the roads, and the consistency of the buildings. It had been so long since i had seen structural planning. The streets were paved, and while I am sure most people would find the potholes unforgiving growing problems, I saw them as nothing more than minor imperfections in a road as smooth as glass. I had never thought about how roads were really made, but at this particular moment, I reveled in the artistic beauty and pure craftsmanship that went into the construction of this masterpiece. Two lanes, a consistent painted yellow line down the center, stoplights, no speed bumps -there was order. I felt at peace as I rolled my luggage down the smooth asphalt.
now that's odd
Do you ever find yourself doing things that seem so uncharacteristic of yourself? In those moments of boredom, when your brain starts to shut off, and your body just tends towards whatever bad habit that it wants to pursue? Tell me, do you ever have those moments where you catch yourself doing something so odd you hope others never see this side of you?
Well, despite embarrassment, I will delve into my personal experience.
In my defense, it has been a busy week (its only Tuesday, but I feel like I have been living in a whirlwind). This evening my brain decided to shut off partially -it was strong enough to encourage me to do what it wanted, but not working well enough for me to be completely aware of what I was doing.
So you might be asking what I was doing. Hmm, well about the time my roommate walked in the room I was sitting on my bed staring off into space. Not exactly strange, except for the part where I had a huge swiss army knife plunged into a tub of peanut-butter that was sitting on my lap. "Listening" to my music which was on mute, blankly staring at a FB screen that was failing to load due to slow internet connection, I must have looked ridiculous. And then I saw the fruit snack wrappers strewn across the floor (all 4 of them), the candy bar wrapper, and the remnants of mango peels and pits that were neatly nestled in the corner of the room. When did I eat all that and why?!?! The majority of my secret snack stash was gone in one night! It was like my brain decided it wasn't getting enough glucose, so it did something about it.
Well, after cleaning up the remnants of my eating spree and removing peanutbutter chunks from the intricate crevices of the knife, I have realized that however organized I am, at some point, chaos will surface. No matter how much I conserve and ration, there will be a breaking point. I hit that breaking point this evening. The damage is almost too much to bear. Almost half of my bees knees American honey peanut butter is gone!!!! I know, devastating.
Despite the tragedy, a lesson should be learned. Don't restrict yourself on the things your brain craves, or if you do, make sure that those precious possessions are locked away where it takes significant brain power for extraction.
Well, despite embarrassment, I will delve into my personal experience.
In my defense, it has been a busy week (its only Tuesday, but I feel like I have been living in a whirlwind). This evening my brain decided to shut off partially -it was strong enough to encourage me to do what it wanted, but not working well enough for me to be completely aware of what I was doing.
So you might be asking what I was doing. Hmm, well about the time my roommate walked in the room I was sitting on my bed staring off into space. Not exactly strange, except for the part where I had a huge swiss army knife plunged into a tub of peanut-butter that was sitting on my lap. "Listening" to my music which was on mute, blankly staring at a FB screen that was failing to load due to slow internet connection, I must have looked ridiculous. And then I saw the fruit snack wrappers strewn across the floor (all 4 of them), the candy bar wrapper, and the remnants of mango peels and pits that were neatly nestled in the corner of the room. When did I eat all that and why?!?! The majority of my secret snack stash was gone in one night! It was like my brain decided it wasn't getting enough glucose, so it did something about it.
Well, after cleaning up the remnants of my eating spree and removing peanutbutter chunks from the intricate crevices of the knife, I have realized that however organized I am, at some point, chaos will surface. No matter how much I conserve and ration, there will be a breaking point. I hit that breaking point this evening. The damage is almost too much to bear. Almost half of my bees knees American honey peanut butter is gone!!!! I know, devastating.
Despite the tragedy, a lesson should be learned. Don't restrict yourself on the things your brain craves, or if you do, make sure that those precious possessions are locked away where it takes significant brain power for extraction.
Monday, October 25, 2010
One tough job
I wouldn't necessarily classify my job as difficult, technically my job isn't even a job, more like a voluntary position. But there are moments, even days, where I wonder whether or not I will be able to continue. I wonder if God gave me enough strength to be in the position that I am.
Friday was one of those days where I questioned my endurance. Friday was a clinic day -the last day of a five day temporary clinic at Mathare North. For four days doctors, nurses, and residents had devoted their time to attending to the needs of the community. People flocked in the hundreds to the school where we had set up camp. It was a simple set up, one tent for triage, a courtyard for waiting, 3 consultation rooms, and an office that was set up for pharmacy. Each tiny consultation room was divided into two sections, each hosting either a kenyan or american doctor and a translator. The rooms were dimly lit, with the only light being the few rays that filtered through the cracks in the door. The clinic by any American standard would be scoffed at, but for these people of Mathare, it was the best care they would probably ever receive.
This particular Friday I worked triage, frantically taking blood pressures, height, weight, temp, and chief complaint -trying to smile all the while remembering the key Swahili phrases I had learned. It was a race against the clock to get as many people seen before noon that day when the clinic would close. The doors would shut shortly after noon, the doctors would eat lunch, and then be on their way to get ready for their trip back home. It wasn't until 11 o'clock that I started really getting nervous. We had been triaging patients for over three hours, and there was still a mass of people yet to be seen. We weren't going to make it. The sinking realization swept over me like a heavy shadow, and as I looked into the crowd I couldn't help but pick out the faces of desperate mothers. We would have to send them home, we were going to turn them away. Thirty minutes later the truth that I knew was coming settled on the camp. No one wanted to accept it, let alone inform all of those who were waiting. I don't know how it came to be my job, but before I knew it, I was standing in front of the crowd, "Pole sana (very sorry). Mganga anakwende nyumba (the doctors are going home). The clinic is closing. Tefadali Mkwende (please go)."
There wasn't the uproar that you would expect in the US. No one stood up and shouted at me.... it was worse. There started a low murmur, then when the murmur progressed to the point where more and more people understood what was happening, there were groans, sobs, and women pleading. It wasn't loud, it wasn't rude, it was desperate. I wanted to tell them I would visit them all, I would stay until sundown if it would help, but I could do nothing. Ashamed, and afraid I would bust into tears if I remained any longer, I retreated behind the comfort of the school walls. It was here that no one could see me, no one would notice my frustration, fear or anger.
But, my job was not done, I had to clean up the triage area. Bracing myself, I stepped outside and returned to my position, only to rip the measuring tape off the wall, collect the thermometers, and scoop up the blood pressure cuffs. Somewhere between tracking down all of the alcohol swabs and retrieving the charts, she found me. She was no more than 25 years old, and with her was this precious little girl. "Please, " she begged me. "Just look at her head; just for a second."
I looked. After seeing hundreds of small children with white round patches on their head, I knew exactly what this little girl had -tinea capitis, otherwise known as ring worm. Once someone in the family gets it, usually all the kids get it because the sleep practically on top of each other in their one room shantis. But hers was different. Her head was infected. Sometimes this happens which a child scratches the fungal infection, then a secondary infection sets in, and due to constant scratching and unsanitary conditions, the infection spreads. Well, it had spread alright -all over her head. Yellow puss was weeping from her wounds which covered about a third of her scalp. "Please, will you help her?"
What could I do? I tried to tell her I wasn't a doctor. I tried to tell her that there must be other clinics in the area that she could visit. I was lost for words, and desperate to leave the situation. How could I possibly explain? How could I convey my great saddness that I could not fix her child, how could I tell her I did not wish to be so cold hearted, but one exception would lead to dozens of exceptions which could not happen because the doctors were litterally packing up their bags and leaving.
Once again I returned to my refuge, but this time all the more shaken up. I didn't go unnoticed. Amos, one of the Kenyan nurses approached me and asked if I was having a rough day. Not necessarily prepared to go into detail about how things were going, but not so confident to completely bluff, I summarized with, "yes, it's been a rough day, and turning away people is wearisome." Then, I simply asked what could be done for a small girl who had an infection -should she be turned away. His response was surprising -he told me to get her a card, write down these meds, and stick her in the line at the pharmacy. She wouldn't have time to get in for a consultation, but he knew what she had, I knew what she had, and the solution was simple, and her condition should not have gone without treatment. In a flash I dashed out of the room, grabbed a chart, filled out the meds, signed my name like Amos told me to, then found the woman. I jotted down her daughter's name, pulled them aside, and told them to stand in line. When they got to the lady at the window, she was to hand her this card, and then follow her instructions on how to take the meds. She thanked me, and then pulled out another little girl -with the same problem. "And this one," she asked.
Before I knew it mothers were bringing over their children, even fathers were approaching me. They all needed treatment. My efforts to be discrete were in vain, I was soon being swarmed by desperate people. Why had I made the one exception, was I wrong in my efforts to help?
The doctors were done seeing patients, the only people left at the clinic where those in charge of pharmacy and those who were directing people. There was no hope to give these people, and in the pit of my stomach I shared in their desperation. For the last time I retreated, I knew it was over, and this time I did not wish to suppress the tears. I sat in the corner, weeping for these people, weeping that they would not get care today, weeping because there was nothing else for me to do. My nerves were raw, all emotions were exposed.
It wasn't until later that day that I could start to feel again. I had been given some words of encouragement from a very wise friend who has been here longer than me. She told me that God uses our weaknesses to show us something about Himself. God is stronger than any medicine we can give. Medicine can treat, but Christ is the only one who can truly heal us. There is something beautiful about fully trusting in Him to be our savior -our saviour in times of injury, sickness, and desperation. God is provider, healer, comforter, and refuge. All too often I think we rely on ourselves to carry us through, but so much more- no, all of our reliance should be on Christ. Even my own frustration and sadness today came from feelings of inadequacy. I know I cannot heal these people, I cannot even get them to see a doctor, but there is someone I know who can. My hope is in Christ, and my refuge should be in Christ. Strength comes from the Lord, and his power is far beyond my understanding. These are his children, and he cares for each one. It is a difficult concept to consider, and even more difficult to accept, but I must take comfort in the knowledge that He is a just and compassionate God.
As I shuffled through all the charts of the patients that had been seen that day, I noticed one that stuck out. There, scribbled across the yellow slip of paper, was very familiar handwriting ordering Griso 250 and some Clotrine-B. Christina -that was her name. She was one of the 150 who received treatment, and as I added her card to the pile I couldn't help but smile. She is a child of God, a beautiful sweet child.
Friday was one of those days where I questioned my endurance. Friday was a clinic day -the last day of a five day temporary clinic at Mathare North. For four days doctors, nurses, and residents had devoted their time to attending to the needs of the community. People flocked in the hundreds to the school where we had set up camp. It was a simple set up, one tent for triage, a courtyard for waiting, 3 consultation rooms, and an office that was set up for pharmacy. Each tiny consultation room was divided into two sections, each hosting either a kenyan or american doctor and a translator. The rooms were dimly lit, with the only light being the few rays that filtered through the cracks in the door. The clinic by any American standard would be scoffed at, but for these people of Mathare, it was the best care they would probably ever receive.
This particular Friday I worked triage, frantically taking blood pressures, height, weight, temp, and chief complaint -trying to smile all the while remembering the key Swahili phrases I had learned. It was a race against the clock to get as many people seen before noon that day when the clinic would close. The doors would shut shortly after noon, the doctors would eat lunch, and then be on their way to get ready for their trip back home. It wasn't until 11 o'clock that I started really getting nervous. We had been triaging patients for over three hours, and there was still a mass of people yet to be seen. We weren't going to make it. The sinking realization swept over me like a heavy shadow, and as I looked into the crowd I couldn't help but pick out the faces of desperate mothers. We would have to send them home, we were going to turn them away. Thirty minutes later the truth that I knew was coming settled on the camp. No one wanted to accept it, let alone inform all of those who were waiting. I don't know how it came to be my job, but before I knew it, I was standing in front of the crowd, "Pole sana (very sorry). Mganga anakwende nyumba (the doctors are going home). The clinic is closing. Tefadali Mkwende (please go)."
There wasn't the uproar that you would expect in the US. No one stood up and shouted at me.... it was worse. There started a low murmur, then when the murmur progressed to the point where more and more people understood what was happening, there were groans, sobs, and women pleading. It wasn't loud, it wasn't rude, it was desperate. I wanted to tell them I would visit them all, I would stay until sundown if it would help, but I could do nothing. Ashamed, and afraid I would bust into tears if I remained any longer, I retreated behind the comfort of the school walls. It was here that no one could see me, no one would notice my frustration, fear or anger.
But, my job was not done, I had to clean up the triage area. Bracing myself, I stepped outside and returned to my position, only to rip the measuring tape off the wall, collect the thermometers, and scoop up the blood pressure cuffs. Somewhere between tracking down all of the alcohol swabs and retrieving the charts, she found me. She was no more than 25 years old, and with her was this precious little girl. "Please, " she begged me. "Just look at her head; just for a second."
I looked. After seeing hundreds of small children with white round patches on their head, I knew exactly what this little girl had -tinea capitis, otherwise known as ring worm. Once someone in the family gets it, usually all the kids get it because the sleep practically on top of each other in their one room shantis. But hers was different. Her head was infected. Sometimes this happens which a child scratches the fungal infection, then a secondary infection sets in, and due to constant scratching and unsanitary conditions, the infection spreads. Well, it had spread alright -all over her head. Yellow puss was weeping from her wounds which covered about a third of her scalp. "Please, will you help her?"
What could I do? I tried to tell her I wasn't a doctor. I tried to tell her that there must be other clinics in the area that she could visit. I was lost for words, and desperate to leave the situation. How could I possibly explain? How could I convey my great saddness that I could not fix her child, how could I tell her I did not wish to be so cold hearted, but one exception would lead to dozens of exceptions which could not happen because the doctors were litterally packing up their bags and leaving.
Once again I returned to my refuge, but this time all the more shaken up. I didn't go unnoticed. Amos, one of the Kenyan nurses approached me and asked if I was having a rough day. Not necessarily prepared to go into detail about how things were going, but not so confident to completely bluff, I summarized with, "yes, it's been a rough day, and turning away people is wearisome." Then, I simply asked what could be done for a small girl who had an infection -should she be turned away. His response was surprising -he told me to get her a card, write down these meds, and stick her in the line at the pharmacy. She wouldn't have time to get in for a consultation, but he knew what she had, I knew what she had, and the solution was simple, and her condition should not have gone without treatment. In a flash I dashed out of the room, grabbed a chart, filled out the meds, signed my name like Amos told me to, then found the woman. I jotted down her daughter's name, pulled them aside, and told them to stand in line. When they got to the lady at the window, she was to hand her this card, and then follow her instructions on how to take the meds. She thanked me, and then pulled out another little girl -with the same problem. "And this one," she asked.
Before I knew it mothers were bringing over their children, even fathers were approaching me. They all needed treatment. My efforts to be discrete were in vain, I was soon being swarmed by desperate people. Why had I made the one exception, was I wrong in my efforts to help?
The doctors were done seeing patients, the only people left at the clinic where those in charge of pharmacy and those who were directing people. There was no hope to give these people, and in the pit of my stomach I shared in their desperation. For the last time I retreated, I knew it was over, and this time I did not wish to suppress the tears. I sat in the corner, weeping for these people, weeping that they would not get care today, weeping because there was nothing else for me to do. My nerves were raw, all emotions were exposed.
It wasn't until later that day that I could start to feel again. I had been given some words of encouragement from a very wise friend who has been here longer than me. She told me that God uses our weaknesses to show us something about Himself. God is stronger than any medicine we can give. Medicine can treat, but Christ is the only one who can truly heal us. There is something beautiful about fully trusting in Him to be our savior -our saviour in times of injury, sickness, and desperation. God is provider, healer, comforter, and refuge. All too often I think we rely on ourselves to carry us through, but so much more- no, all of our reliance should be on Christ. Even my own frustration and sadness today came from feelings of inadequacy. I know I cannot heal these people, I cannot even get them to see a doctor, but there is someone I know who can. My hope is in Christ, and my refuge should be in Christ. Strength comes from the Lord, and his power is far beyond my understanding. These are his children, and he cares for each one. It is a difficult concept to consider, and even more difficult to accept, but I must take comfort in the knowledge that He is a just and compassionate God.
As I shuffled through all the charts of the patients that had been seen that day, I noticed one that stuck out. There, scribbled across the yellow slip of paper, was very familiar handwriting ordering Griso 250 and some Clotrine-B. Christina -that was her name. She was one of the 150 who received treatment, and as I added her card to the pile I couldn't help but smile. She is a child of God, a beautiful sweet child.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Medical Clinic
Thus far on this adventure in Africa, my favorite days are clinic days. More precisely, I enjoy the short term teams that operate in different communities within the Mathare Valley. Each week, short term missions teams bring medically trained professionals willing to devote their time and talent to the people of this region. Schools, churches, and even meeting rooms are transformed into temporary clinics and the US staff joins arms with Kenyan professionals in a cohesive effort to meet the medical demands of the community.
Within a matter of a few minutes, a classroom becomes a consultation room, an office a pharmacy, and the small "courtyard" outside hosts triage. Members of the community flock to the center. Some are sick, others wish simply to take advantage of medical attention while it is available. Mothers come with their children -often a half dozen of them, all with the same ailment -tinea capitis (ringworm on the head).
I usually hang out in triage. Generally I aid in collecting hight, weight, temp, BP, and then with the aid of a translator, I dictate chief complaint. After the patient has been through triage, they are off to consultation with either a nurse practitioner or a doctor. While they wait for the pharmacy to fill some scripts, generally there is someone going over some health education. This is the area of medical clinics I wish to see grow. While distributing medication may relieve some of the symptoms and perhaps treat disease, it can do nothing to change the perspective of the people. If the same habits and attitudes about health are maintained, then the reoccurrence of whatever brought them to the clinic in the first place is highly likely. Prevention is key, and education is power.
I fear that because health education does not have immediate results like a bottle of antibiotics, it is considered less effective and less pertinent to the rotation of these clinics. Specific focus needs to be aimed at education if we hope to make a change in Mathare. Bandaids only soak up the blood after the wound, but would it not be much more effective to avoid injury? Can not the education of one individual spread exponentially? But what good is knowledge if it is not shared? What power do idle lips carry?
What I have come to learn is that I do not need my doctorate to open my mouth and share medical knowledge. While my knowledge may be minimal compared to a professional medical worker, the truth is that I have something to offer. In-fact, anyone who grew up in the US had medical knowledge that should not be taken for granted. How many people know how to wash their hands? How many people know how to clean a cut? How many people know to cover their mouth when the cough? How many people know to drink water when you have diarrhea?
Education -it really is the key to change.
Within a matter of a few minutes, a classroom becomes a consultation room, an office a pharmacy, and the small "courtyard" outside hosts triage. Members of the community flock to the center. Some are sick, others wish simply to take advantage of medical attention while it is available. Mothers come with their children -often a half dozen of them, all with the same ailment -tinea capitis (ringworm on the head).
I usually hang out in triage. Generally I aid in collecting hight, weight, temp, BP, and then with the aid of a translator, I dictate chief complaint. After the patient has been through triage, they are off to consultation with either a nurse practitioner or a doctor. While they wait for the pharmacy to fill some scripts, generally there is someone going over some health education. This is the area of medical clinics I wish to see grow. While distributing medication may relieve some of the symptoms and perhaps treat disease, it can do nothing to change the perspective of the people. If the same habits and attitudes about health are maintained, then the reoccurrence of whatever brought them to the clinic in the first place is highly likely. Prevention is key, and education is power.
I fear that because health education does not have immediate results like a bottle of antibiotics, it is considered less effective and less pertinent to the rotation of these clinics. Specific focus needs to be aimed at education if we hope to make a change in Mathare. Bandaids only soak up the blood after the wound, but would it not be much more effective to avoid injury? Can not the education of one individual spread exponentially? But what good is knowledge if it is not shared? What power do idle lips carry?
What I have come to learn is that I do not need my doctorate to open my mouth and share medical knowledge. While my knowledge may be minimal compared to a professional medical worker, the truth is that I have something to offer. In-fact, anyone who grew up in the US had medical knowledge that should not be taken for granted. How many people know how to wash their hands? How many people know how to clean a cut? How many people know to cover their mouth when the cough? How many people know to drink water when you have diarrhea?
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