Poor doesn't always mean poor

doctorwhofan

November. Frost had already happened to my southern town. I was all set to board a plane with a coworker of mine. We were headed to a small town 3 hours from Guatamala City. My plan was to minister with other church members and also to heal. I'd never been more scared in my life about a trip. We'd spent the weeks prior sorting through donated medical supplies while my coworker and I identified the objects to our nonmedical friends.

"That's what you use to intubate - put a breathing tube down someone's throat".

"That's what you use for blood sugars."

"That's a breast pump. Might want to leave that stack alone - ha ha!"

Shipping the supplies can take weeks, even months to get the needed supplies through to the clinic so everything is packed into our suitcases and we were to walk it through. Sounded easy enough. We were instructed to spread out, not walk in as a group, and "look casual". Much easier said than done.

Sure enough, I was pulled over along with my friend. My Spanish is rudimentary at best. Suddenly, my college Spanish seemed so useless. And so very long ago. I had no idea what he was saying to me but I understood he was asking if I had antibiotics. I lied and told the officer "no". I was afraid if he found out I was in fact carrying antibiotics they would confiscate them and I wanted them for my mission trip. I had actually forgotten about the prescribed ones my own doctor had given me for personal use. He again pointed to my very full suitcase. Medical supplies were sliding out.

"Eh? El doctor?"

I explained that no, I was not a doctor but "una enfermera con mi iglesia". That seemed to appease him and I was released. My friend got an inspector that spoke English and asked her for a date. I was not amused.

After basic unpacking we started clinics the next day. I was sent in "the field" with my coworker and a pharmacist. There was a doctor, a native Guatemalan, his nurse Marta, our interpreter, and a local pastor. We traveled for miles daily to meet the local people that had also traveled for miles because they knew that clinic was happening that week. We packed a lunch and left early each morning.

Our first morning when we arrived there were about 50 people waiting on us. The most urgent patient was a young boy with a large laceration to his arm. His mother calmly explained that he'd done it accidentally while working in the field with a machete. The doctor explained to me that the boy had been cutting the cane (sugar cane) and the blade slipped. They'd been holding his skin together with a bandanna and patiently waiting on the doctor.

He took a look, washed it out with some homemade cleanser, and instructed Marta to put some stitches in it. No narcotics. No lidocaine. I asked if she needed my help. She smiled and said, "No." I asked when the boy would go back to work, as in the culture I am accustomed to he would've asked for a week off, and Marta said, "Oh, today." No work = no money.

A woman brought her son in for a rash. It was a simple dermatitis. She casually mentioned that she'd been having headaches and occasional dizzy spells. Last menstrual cycle? Not a clue. "Maybe in the autumn?" she answers with a shrug. Positive pregnancy test. The good news? She got to get prenatal vitamins and knows to come to clinic next time it's available for a check up. The scary part? If her son hadn't had a rash she wouldn't have received prenatal care. Why spend hard earned money on a pregnancy test? You have a menstrual cycle, you're not pregnant. You miss a few, hey, guess what? No need to get a test for that.

We went to an area that had between 50-75 people milling about when we got there. Big smiles, hugs, pats as we walked up to set up our sheets that served as our "exam rooms". When we took lunch I noticed several people using banana leaves as lunch bags/plates.

Miguel, our interpreter, came around at lunch and told us that in our honor, the ladies of the village had cooked us lunch. It's 90 degrees outside. It's about 110 degrees inside the room they call a kitchen. Open flame stove, 60's style fridge, barely big enough to hold people. Yet they were so excited to see us they grilled up fish, vegetables and cooked rice.

A week in this country. Not one person asked me for a stronger medication. No one asked for something for "anxiety". Not one person was angry at my diagnosis - including the guy I had to refer to a cardiologist due to his "dolor de corazon" (heart pain). Every single person I saw hugged me, laughed at me for my terrible Spanish, and some cried with me while I prayed with them. These were some of the poorest people I've ever seen in my entire life and yet they were some of the richest as well. Something tells me that even though we think we've got it all figured out here, I don't think we do.

I came back to the States a happier person and yet saddened. Not at what I'd seen but at what I continue to see in my daily life.

Poor doesn't always mean poor

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