Tanzania, June, Part 3

Thursday: Last Day of Clinic

I am diminished this morning. My inner voice,  silent. I consider that it might be a headache coming on but I decide that I am just weary.

When I arrive at clinic, I am greeted by the 18 month old baby and mom whom I had been treating all week. I wrote about them on Monday. First thing each clinic morning, Mom has returned so we could see if what we were doing was having an effect. Each morning, the baby buried her head under Mama’s shuka and wailed when I tried to assess her. Yesterday, the right eye was clear of drainage and less swollen. The left remained stuck shut but the discharge was no longer gooey; it was now dried. Her inner lid was still swollen and angry red. Today, she is still irritable and vigorously resisting care but there is no drainage though the swelling remains. We decide to have mom apply a warm compress and have her return to me every hour for another.

As the clinic continues, so does my slowness of spirit. I wash my hands and read Psalms 42:1

1 As a deer pants for flowing streams,
so pants my soul for you, O God.  
2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?   (Psalm 42:1-2, ESV)

I realize my diminished spirit is drawing me to prayer. “When shall I come and appear before God?” And my spirit says, emphatically, “Now!”
I am reluctant to leave my team in a lurch but if God is calling me to prayer, He will fill the gap.

I walk up to the lodge near the place where I prayed for Peter on my original trip here. It was only a parcel of land back then. I sit facing the mountain and with my head in my hands I pray. I can hear the music of sheep bells approaching and I look up to see a Shepard leading his flock toward me. He is wearing brilliant red against the green backdrop and he is beauty in motion and sound.

As I pray, I am overwhelmed by tears that come in forceful waves. I am wordless, panting, wet and dripping. As if outside of myself, watching, I consider that this feels like grief level sobbing but without a trigger or target. I wonder at this but do nothing to interrupt. As tears come up from my toes and wrack my body with shaking, I offer them to God, knowing His Spirit is translating every one of them into groans that are too deep for words. The silent inner voice that began my day, is finding its expression.

As my flow ebbs, I peak out from my own swollen eyelids. The Shepard in red has stopped his journey and sits under a tree with his musical sheep, watching me. It is a picture of My Shepard watching over me, the one of the 99 who has wandered off to pray.

Upon reflection, I feel sure that this grief was not about me or my personal journey. This grief was attached to the grimace of my first encounter with my eye baby. What started as contempt for my patient’s suffering has found deeper expression in these wordless tears. I do not imagine that my groanings will affect the suffering I see but it is not about me. My obedience is all that is asked for.

I return to clinic with my own swollen, red eyes in time for another warm compress.

I have several unusual cases.

A 10 month old darling arrives screaming in his Mama’s arms. He is as strong as they come and will not allow anyone to even glance his way. It takes all I have to look at his head. He has a firm knot with a red pinpoint center.

Upon investigation, we decide it could be: Furuncular myiasis, a parasitic skin infestation where fly larvae burrow into healthy human skin. I am advised to shine a bright light on it for 3 minutes. If there is something in there, it will be drawn to the light and emerge. I know full well that if it is a positive test, I will vomit where I stand. I brace myself with a firm stance and join Mama’s grip on the child’s head. For three minutes, I sway back and forth against the child’s fierce will. I sing and speak softly but have only momentary success in settling him. In the end, the test is negative and we all breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Next, I have a case of orchitis, a condition found in men. I consult with Dr. V which leads he and I to remember a case in Haiti. Back then, our pharmacist handed our patient a disposable ice bag. She told the patient to “squeeze it til it pops and shake it til it’s cold”. The patient, with horror, thought she was talking about his body part and was fantastically relieved when he realized it was the ice bag instead. It is one of our favorite shared memories.

As I clear my station at close of day, I hear the goat bell ring. Our last station of clinic is Spiritual Counseling. When they lead a patient to accept Jesus, they ring the loud bell so everyone can hear and celebrate. I look up to see it is my eye baby’s Mama accepting Jesus as her Savior. I hurry over and hug her. What a lovely ending, I think.

A while later, when it is time for another warm compress, Paulo finds me to ask if my eye baby and Mama can go home or if I want to give another treatment. He points at the front row of chairs where they are sitting. I look over and with an audible gasp of surprise, I see my little darling standing on her Mama’s lap, playing with her Mama’s phone. Her eyes are open and bright and she is smiling and calm! Mom smiles back at me and waves, visibly relaxed. This child has been clinging tightly to her mother’s chest, taking refuge beneath her shuka; responding wildly if disturbed all week… but now she is transformed! I can’t believe my eyes!

It makes me think of a scene from “The Chosen”: 
“I was one way and now I am completely different. And the thing that happened in between was Him.” Jesus. Now this is an even better ending!

Hallelujah!