Riding in the ambulance (which doubles as staff transport) from the clinic back to the hospital with a semi-conscious old man accompanied by a man wearing a turban and carrying a walking stick, looking like a shepherd from a half millennia ago.
N., a 50 year old midwife whose first uniform--34 years ago in Kabul--was a short sleeved, above-the-knee dress. Who at age 17 was a local karate champion. Who stayed in Afghanistan during the Russian occupation, the civil war, and the Taliban years. During Taliban times, donning a burqa and risking severe punishment she worked in secret at a women’s clinic.
The mother of one of our wee patients in the NICU whose husband was killed last night during the robbery of his car. This woman has been married for 9 months, had premature twins, one of whom died. And now she’s a widow as well.
A good friend, whose husband beat her 9 year old son with a wire for the infraction of going outside to play without his permission. When she begged him to stop, he punched her in the face and gave her a bloody nose. This friend’s kitchen burned down from a gas fire two weeks ago and her father-in-law now refuses to speak to her.
Akbar our ward clerk (infamous for his shiny suits and sunglasses and love of the foreign lady volunteers) spent all day carrying around one of our young patients, and then picked a bouquet of roses for the baby boy’s bedside table.
Walking on to the ward this morning to hear one of my midwives excitedly tell me about resuscitating a baby last night with positive pressure ventilation—a skill she just learned in our NRP class the day before. I was so proud of her I almost cried.
A doctor and staff person switching from Dari to Urdu, surprised when I chimed in with an "accha hai!"
the sugarcane juice man by the mosque by the river downtown
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