Headache Revisited

The smell was awful.  Some combination of rotten fish, spoiled fruits and vegetables, burning trash and the general musk of the dominant cooking oil seeping out through the pores.  The latter was probably me as my body has pretty much acclimated to the local cuisine.  Still.  Everything was nauseating.  The exhaust was wafting in front of my eyes.  The horns blazed around me and the driver had never seen a brake light he didn't want to accelerate into.  My head was throbbing #Thunderclap.

Couple this with my hypertensive crisis that I had created a mere half hour earlier when I nearly got myself arrested out of frustration with everything about Haiti.  Over the past week we have made four trips to Port au Prince only to be told that the "paper" isn't there, "Someone else has it," and it will be here tomorrow.  We've gone to the city of Arcahaie and heard the same story.  Everyone wants to pass the buck.  I've offered bribes.  I've applied guilt.  I've tried intimidation with wild gestures, loud noises and curse words that mean absolutely nothing to anyone, including my translator.  I've considered threatening to take $1000 U.S. to a voodoo priest and cursing their penis, but I don't want my behavior to reflect too poorly on my organization #StillNotABadIdea.

My blood pressure reflects my frustration #CaptainObvious.  My frustration at John for not getting all the appropriate information, for not being able to function without me holding his hand, and for not having a good enough vocabulary to copy my outlandish tirades (Okay, the latter is probably for the best); My frustration at my patients for continually making us late in getting to Port-au-Prince; And worst of all my frustration with everything about Haiti.  It's rough.  The constant, unnecessary bureaucracy that impedes every step.  The lack of accountability that makes it impossible to figure out where we are in the process and what needs to be done.  The lack of accountability that makes it so easy for them to say "someone else has the paper.  They'll bring it tomorrow."  Knowing full well that they don't have a freaking (#Censored) clue where the paper is or when it will arrive.  The mentality in every passerby that I'm a cash cow just ready to hand out money to everyone who asks for it.  The same thought from all of the modes of transportation, shop keepers, and even my translators who expect me to pay premium prices for everything because I'm white and I have infinite money.  Sorry guys, no cheat codes in this game.

I'm whining.  Just venting my frustrations for no other reason other than to tell myself I'm not an alcoholic for truly feeling like booze is what I need to calm my mind tonight.  And then my story could be about my morning headache #CAGEPositive.  But neither of these are my title's inspiration.

While I had John trying to figure something out with the Archived Birth Certificate (total waste of time sending him by himself) I was across town at St. Damien's hospital with Julmis, my new translator, and the hydrocephalus girl trying to get her in to see a neurosurgeon.  We got to the gates at about 1230 pm after spending 20 minutes haggling with a taxi driver to bring us there and return us to the tap tap station #JustAnotherRipOff.  After dropping off my camera at the security booth (top secret stuff inside, ya know) we made our way towards the pediatric clinic.  The sign out front said that clinics shut down at 1pm, so I knew we would be pushing it.  Turns out we were 'too late'.  It was a quarter till and the woman out front said the doctor would be leaving soon so we'd have to come back tomorrow.

If you can't tell, I'm tired of the 'coming back tomorrow'.  I certainly don't feel entitled to exemplary treatment.  When it comes down to it do I push more because I'm white?  Absolutely.  I don't expect it to work all the time, and I pick and choose my moments.  When I'm facing a hard deadline and need to get all the steps accomplished so these two little girls can receive the treatment they need you can bet I'm going to push to the brink of arrest.  And I also don't have a problem name dropping Rigan, who is going to be CHI's first full time employee if he can step aside from his role at St. Damien's.  Name dropping only helps if the person is knowledgeable enough.  This lady wasn't.

Rigan wasn't around and he wasn't answering his phone.  I was stranded.  I continued to push and the time ticked past 1 o'clock.  I knew my odds of getting the girl seen were sliding away from 'slim' towards 'none'.  I could only hope that John was having better luck across town (he wasn't).

I went to the front desk and explained the situation.  And then I did the usual 'loud with wild gestures' to hammer home the point.  She said someone would see us if we went to the clinic.  Yet another person trying to pass the buck.  I didn't fall for it.  I called her out for sending us to a clinic she knew wouldn't see us.  She wasn't impressed.  Probably because my tone didn't translate well.  Then I tried a completely different tactic.  I tried pleading.  I calmly apologized if she was offended by my previous tone.  I explained that all I want was for this girl to get into the system.  I know she can't get the surgery today.  I don't even know if the neurosurgeon will want to attempt anything given her age.  But I just want a doctor to evaluate her, schedule her for an appointment with a surgeon, and go from there.

She understood.  But it still didn't look like it was going to help us today.  Maybe she just didn't have enough clout.

And then it hit me.  The girl has a huge head.  This is not something you see every day, even at a hospital.  I know what it is, but I've also had medicine drilled into my head for the past 3 and a half years #TalkAboutHeadache.  The women I've been talking to have zero medical training.  I play the trump card.  "Julmis, I need you to talk to the mom for me.  I need you to tell the mom that her child has a headache.  We're going to go to the emergency room, we're going to tell them that the girl has a headache, and we're going to get seen."  He explained it to the mom and we walked towards the emergency room.  The lady at the front desk tried to call us out.  Again, she referred us to the clinic.  I pushed back.  "The baby has a bad headache.  Look at her head.  There is something wrong.  Are you a doctor?  Can you evaluate her and say this isn't an emergency?  Didn't think so."  #Asshole  #YouBetcha.

It worked.  She wasn't pleased with my tone.  But she sent us to the ER.  Julmis went with her.  The triage nurse there sent us to the clinic where we finally sat in a line to be evaluated.  Success.  She was posted up next to a couple of kids on IVs, so I knew there was some level of care being administered here.

At this point I left to tend to John and our paper work.  Julmis worked the St. Damien's task.  It wasn't until I had suffered through the two mile stretch of rotting and burning trash in a densely populated area of PAP that I finally met back up with Julmis and got the update.  The girl was seen.  She has to return tomorrow, but she was evaluated.  They think they can help her.  It may not lead to a ventriculostomy, but she will be seen by a skilled physician.

It wasn't an Excedrin.  And it wasn't an Anheuser product.  But knowing that with a little more effort this girl was going to be evaluated by a trained physician provided a little redemption to a crappy day.  It's exhausting.  I've said it before, the lows can take you low, but hold on to the highs as best as you can.  And sometimes you'll be fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of innocence that can help refill your tank.  Even if it's a few extra fumes, that's something to help you get out of bed the next day for another headache.