I like to play the pretend game. I like to pretend that the red smudge on the floor next to me is not dried blood. I like to pretend that my mom has cleaned this hospital and the paint chipping off the beds is not because of old age and wear, but because she has scrubbed the germs away so hard. I like to pretend that my Asha sister B is not having surgery here.
I’m freaking out a bit about leaving because I love B, and this is not the kind of place I leave people I love. Fortunately Cassie is bolder than I am and simply says, “I stay. I sleep here tonight.”
I say I want to stay too. And that’s that.
B was supposed to have surgery last week, but the doctor wasn’t there. She is admitted this morning, but only after a lot of waiting and a lot of going here and there.
We go to lunch near the hospital. The streets are lined with little shops that provide everything you’ll need for a hospital stay. Nightgowns flutter for sale in the wind. Grey foam sleeping pads are rolled up on display on the sidewalk. We go to one shop and purchase everything B needs for her surgery: the needles, the medicine, everything.
B is given a bed in a room with 17 others. “Pre Operative Ward” is written on the door in permanent marker. We sit and wait while saying silent prayers for the other women in the room. The girl in the bed next to B is very sick. She’s wrapped in a blanket, and you can tell she’s in bad shape because nurses actually attend to her every now and then. Nurse sightings are rare in this room.
12:44 AM
I am sitting on the floor of a hospital in Kathmandu. On. The. Floor. (If you want to talk about God giving me grace to handle stuff I would never be able to handle in America, now would be a good time).
Twenty plus Nepali women are sleeping on thin mattresses on ancient metal beds. Rusty IV poles stand watch next to most of them. The tubes are swaying slightly in the breeze generated by the ceiling fan. Any air circulation is coming from those fans, which in the two months I’ve been on the race have become my favorite appliance. The woman in the bed next to B’s has opted for no fan, so the thick hospital air is leaving a film on my skin and is creating a general icky feeling. I should be asleep I suppose. I had been lying next to B in her bed, but something, I’m not sure what, was eating me alive, and I have the bites to prove it.
5:30 AM
The whole hospital seems to wake up at 5:30. Cassie and I have been sleeping in an empty bed, or trying to sleep, for most of the night. We are blessed, because B’s sister brought two sets of sheets, so were able to sleep on one. If you don’t bring a sheet you have the privilege of sleeping directly on the sheet the sick person before you was laying on, including any bodily fluids they may have left behind.
If you want anything at this hospital, you better bring it yourself. Nobody is delivering fresh water. There is no call button for the nurse. Whoever you bring with you tends to you, so choose your hospital buddy wisely.
There is a line for the bathroom. But trust me, nobody would be lining up for this bathroom in the US. I go twice the entire time I’m in this hospital, and we’re here for 30 hours.
Back in the room, I catch a glimpse of the woman they brought in last night. She is beautiful, with rosy red cheeks. She is very young, and appears to be in a lot of pain. Cassie hears something about an arranged marriage.
They call a group of women to head to the surgery area. B makes sure her ID bracelet (a piece of cloth tied around her wrist with gauze) is in place. We walk through the filthy hallway. I am going to pretend that the marks on the walls are just scuff marks or dirt, and not something worse. I carry B’s medicine, needles, stuff she’ll need for her iv later, etc, in a blue plastic sack as if I was simply carrying fruit home from the market.
B walks through a set of doors in the dingy hallway, and she’s gone. Asha sister K, Cassie, and I sit in the cement waiting room. Waiting, waiting, waiting for them to call K and say that B is out of surgery.
About two and a half hours later we get word that B is back in her bed. She’s lying there, not quite awake but obviously uncomfortable. She says she feels like she needs to throw up. One of the nurses puts a blue plastic sack, probably the one we’ve been carrying her medicine in, next to her mouth. She puts a disgusting bucket, stained from all the use it’s endured already, under her bed.
The nurses don’t wear gloves. They leave needles lying around on tables all day. I have never wanted my older sister (who is a nurse) on the Race more than I have in this moment. I want her to come and take care of B. But she isn’t here, and it’s time to go. And that’s how I left my B. Not quite awake, lying in a rusty bed in a government hospital.
Update: God did something amazing! Sister B wasn’t supposed to get out of the hospital until after we were already gone from Asha Nepal, but she arrived back home today! And she’s looking good! Praise Jesus!
