Incomplete thoughts 3b: a health crisis — A Funny Kind of Obedience

Part two continued... this will be longer than my usual posts, but hopefully tell the story. So, we lift up Micah's sleeve and it looks like an inch worm. I almost passed out. My husband jumped into action and tried to reduce it after Micah had passed out from the shock of it. He barked orders for me to make a splint. The waitresses are grabbling cloth and we run to a place where banana tree branches have just been cut. My husband quickly splinted the arm and we rush to the dock where a boat ride would take 20 minutes to bring us back to shore. As we are leaving, a sweet Canadian family is coming for holiday. We exchange pleasantries and they happen to have children's ibuprofen. I breathe a prayer of thanks for unusual and timely provision. We have never encountered another western family on that island, much less the convenience of children's medicine. In total shock, we make the boat ride and the twenty minute drive over steep hills and hairpin turns and feel every pothole. The weight of uncertainty of my son's future is heavy for us both. Aaron called ahead to the doctors and we go to the government hospital where there is an X-ray machine. Strangely, the president of the country is making a visit and the hospital workers and patients, and well, everyone is running to the helicopter. ( This photo is from an Easter visit when Museveni came to our town for Easter services. I was NOT taking pictures that day.) So, in slo mo, we make our way to a hospital that is emptying in seconds. This is surreal on every level because you are NEVER alone in Uganda. It felt like the world was emptying and would we get help?

We confirm what we knew, but it is worse than we thought. Both bones are broken and don't appear aligned. We make our way back to Aaron's hospital and have to make a snap decision to put Micah under anesthesia and utilize the brand new, but sparsely functioning surgery. The staff would have to try to set the arm so the bones could heal and grow back to avoid a surgery. The attempt was only partially successful. I later found out the person who did Micah's anesthesia was a tech. We were spared complications from anesthesia, my son had asthma. A tech may or may not have known to ask the questions she asked to get the right anesthesia. I can't even think about it and I still feel queasy with this memory. In fact, not long after that, a child did die from that very same scenario. The next week would be like living in tar. It felt long and tedious and dark and silent. No good answers.

We emailed photos back and forth to two different orthopedist in the US. We got conflicting reports and advice from everyone. We had to face a choice of surgery in the U.S or in Uganda. We went to Kampala (8 hours of every pothole from here to Timbuktu, poor Micah) to seek out the surgery options and it was risky. For me, everything was compounded by the utter devastation that we would be total hypocrites. We had moved here to live with and for the people, but the reality is, we could leave if we needed to get better care. For Joe Ugandan, there would not be a choice. That child would be a crippled child for the rest of his life. It is hard to express the difficulty I felt. For both my husband and I, we were very concerned about the message it would send and the unintended consequences of our leaving. For the integrity of his relationships at the hospital, for us in the community and for our philosophy of living with folks. Words are very small to express the pain we felt. Meanwhile, it was a no brainer for our U.S. family and my mom worked tirelessly to get us the help we needed. She asked, "what will it take to get you guys to come home?" We did not know. The next day, she said, "Our church has found money that was given a long time ago to you guys. It was in the wrong place and it will cover the five plane tickets. I have arranged for a free surgery for Micah at the Shriner's hospital in Houston and you can stay with us." That helped. Also, our mentor told us that our children would always remember that we put them above our work and philosophy. So, we left. Our teammates sent us with hearts wondering, would we come back? Before we left, people came and prayed for us and we sang a hymn and they blessed us. Micah got his $16,000 surgery for free from some of the finest surgeons in the world at a premier facility. There are very few more humbling circumstances. I kept thinking, "if I am Joe Ugandan, I am just crippled." We cut it so close for Micah because the bones were starting to set in a crooked manner. Once we got back to the U.S., it was very anti climatic. It was Thanksgiving.

This is my happy son and my sweet nephew who might not be happy I am posting this old picture here ...

We had the opportunity to go the Nutcracker in Houston, so we did.

Then, in two plane rides, we were back again. We came in time for Advent and Christmas and by New Years, we are with friends returning from the Congo (photo below) and Micah's arm is fixed. When we returned, one of the older professors and leaders from the university stopped me. He was a tough old guy and if you have seen the Lion King, Disney, he reminds me of a harsher Rafiki... but just as hard to understand. He would push me and push me to learn the language and say his name right and just very stern. But that day, he was an agent of mercy. He said, "Wendy, we are so glad you went and took care of your son. We were so sorry as a community that this happened. We would have been so ashamed if anything bad would have happened. " We just looked at each other and had a moment and I just received. What can you say or do but just receive? I did learn the value and importance of family. To this day, we say, "Morrows stick together"

Inequality of health care is something that both my husband and I struggle with. We feel so inadequate and helpless with it all. At the end of the day, we returned and life kept on going. It was sobering, humbling and we continued to wrestle with our place in it all.