My cousin had indicated to me a few months ago that he had gone to see a doctor. One wishes that that were not so, but what was odd about that? I myself am due for a check-up next Thursday. But when I travelled home a fortnight ago, and his younger sister told me she and some other family members had come to visit him, I decided that perhaps his condition may have worsened , and therefore I should look for an opportunity to visit. The Easter break , I concluded, would provide such an opportunity.
He having taken residence at one of the suburbs of Accra, and with me having managed to visit only once in recent past, greatly aided in the process by forth and back phone calls giving step by step direction as I drove along towards where he stays, I was very apprehensive of successfully finding the house, especially since calls to his cell phone were not being answered. This was yesterday late afternoon. I remembered that I should have made notes of the directions to the house when I first visited. With memory not helping much, I knew I was up to a real struggle to find the place, and I began to shift emphasis from myself onto the grace of God to help me locate the house. That did not fail, for after a few turns and no-go areas, I found the place.
The house was locked from the front side. That was not a good sign. Fortunately there was a woman standing in an alley to the side of the house. I called to her, and she beckoned me on. Reaching the back, I told her of my mission. An older woman with a baby strapped to her back appeared from inside the house, on the back side, and upon introducing myself and my mission, told me in low, sad tones that my cousin had been rushed to 37 Military Hospital two nights previously. The time was about 5:30 pm. The location of the house is Fiise, near Pokuase. She could tell from the expression on my face and my quick glance at my wristwatch that I was contemplating driving to “37” to visit him, so she was quick to add that if I tried, by the time I got there, visiting hours would be over and I would not be able to see him. She further added that his wife had gone to visit and was yet to return, and that they allow early morning visits: from 5:30 onwards. Besides, she could not tell which ward in big 37 Military Hospital he was on admission presently. He had spent some time at the Emergency Ward before finding a place at a ward, I was further informed, and I decided I could leverage on that piece of information when I was able to make a visit early next morning.
So last night I set my alarm watch to 4:30 am to start preparations to go visit. Some time in the dead of the night, I seemed to have had enough sleep. I bent down the side of the bed to peep at the clock on my cell phone only to note that it was 2:30 am. Why was sleep eluding me? Was it thoughts of the illness, or my consumption of a tall glass of fresh fruit juice as part of my dinner last night? Didn't they say fruits are best consumed in the morning, in fact as first thing? Was it the power of its strength and sustainability that was now robbing me of sleep?
I lay still, hoping to catch more sleep, sufficiently relaxed that there was no way the alarm would go off without my knowing. I must have slipped back into sleep for a few minutes after lying down for a long time because by the time the alarm went off, I woke up trying to wipe sleep from my eyes. Plans made the previous day were being replaced by this early morning visit to “37”. Taking a bath, I set off at about 5:25 and arrived at the hospital by 6, having encountered no traffic on the way this time of the morning- and Holy Saturday morning for that matter. On other days, and at a time other than this early, it would have been a different matter.
I breezed through the door of the Emergency Ward, expecting to see a reception desk to make enquiries. No way. I pushed in further and found a doctor attending to a patient. I waited patiently and reluctantly told him my mission: reluctantly because doctors, being eternally in short supply in our hospitals, I was not expecting to engage him in answering administrative questions like " My cousin Kofi Mensah ( not real name) was on admission here a couple of days ago and has been transferred to a certain ward; I presume your records indicate where he has been transferred; could you kindly check the records and help me?" Indeed, he rightly pointed to three other patients who were lying around to be seen, and that I should look around for a nurse to make the enquiries from.
This is the Emergency Ward. At 6 a.m., what do you see? Nurses in civilian clothes wiping patients, stretching their limbs, some combing their hair, and a few looking like administering medication. Did I say nurses? No. Family members who had made their way to the hospital to attend to their loved ones this way. I asked myself what if a person lived at Brekuso as I do and did not have private motor vehicle, what time would she set out to arrive that early in the hospital to offer this service? And in any case, how much do we untrained persons know how to be able to “nurse” a family member who is so sick as to be on admission at a hospital, no matter how well-intentioned?
I did not wait long before a nurse( male) came within hearing shot of me, and I seized the opportunity to put my case across. He asked what my cousin's problem was. After describing it, he gave me the name of the ward, and I trudged swiftly on a corridor towards the place. A corridor in a hospital never looked so long.
I mention that the nurse was male for a reason. Growing up, all the nurses I encountered were females. If you got admitted to a ward, their loving care was such that many friendships were struck just from being a patient, I was told. As even as an out-patient, I could identify with those expressions. I am told that this type is now rare. God have mercy on us.
I entered the ward, met a (male) tall nurse, face to face, and I was relieved when after mentioning my cousin's name he pointed me to his ward. This was shortly after 6. Wouldn't I be disturbing a patient at this time? Well, when I got to his bed, he was awake. He felt weak, and squinted his eyes, but then he recognised me and mentioned my name. I told him my mission, and we managed a little chat.
It was not a comfortable sight. Actually, as soon as I got there a young doctor (inferred by the stethoscope around his neck) was walking away from his bed. I seized the opportunity to ask if there was any help I could provide. He said he might go for surgery today and hence should not eat, and that he needed “bed sheets and macintosh”. He must have thought I did not understand what macintosh was from the puzzled expression on my face as he proceeded to describe it to me. Indeed, the cover cloth which was covering my cousin was the only piece of cloth on the bed, serving as bed sheet as well; it was wet, had visible blood stains in some parts, etc.
My cousin struggled to pull out an address book from a bedside cabinet to read out a phone number, and proceeded to make a call. First one did not go through, and I offered to assist by dialing for him on my phone the alternative number he was making efforts to call with great difficulty. He got through and gave out the message. Bed sheets. When were bed sheets going to travel from Fiise around Pokuase to 37, I asked myself?
In my adopted " can do" attitude, I asked the nurse whether there was no where I could find bed sheets. He mentioned a “Mart” right on the compound, and I was impressed when upon my doubtful enquiry he added that they do 24 hour service. So off to the Mart I went, to purchase bed sheets. I was happy I had taken some money along with me when setting off in the morning, just in case. You never know, you know.
I found the shop and entered. It was full of general goods, manned by a young man. With ear phone in his ear, you could tell that that had been helping him keep awake. Or maybe not exactly. Why would a shop on hospital compound open 24 hours unless it is all " cash and carry" all the way, people dropping in at odd times , day and night, looking for one thing or another for a loved one on admission. The next sight of a woman buying pampers costing GHC3 and feeling frustrated in the process was hard to take. The shop keeper said he did not have GHC2 change to give for the GHC5 the woman was holding, so he was not going to serve him. And the woman proceeded to walk away.
" You don't have change so the woman should walk away? Can't you ask her to come back later for it?" I must have looked and sounded like somebody from Mars. Anyway, I looked into my wallet and fortunately had GHC3 on me so that solved the problem for both the shopkeeper and the woman taking care of a sick loved one. Ordinary change too frustrating the dispensing of medication? Dr Wampah, Governor of Bank of Ghana, can you help?
I was happy to find bed sheets ( and pillow cases) , at prices which I thought were reasonable, and I added a set of pyjamas. They had no one piece top-down gown which would have been more ideal for my cousin in view of his condition. But I reasoned that he could wear the top of the pyjamas and wrap the other sheet around his lower part as needed.
Hurriedly, I returned to the ward and looked for the nurse. He had brought around a bucket of water. He told me he would need " Dettol" , and later a bucket. So back to the shop I went. " Do you have Dettol?" The shopkeeper pointed me to a spot. It was not Dettol, but Dettol has come to stand for disinfectant fluid. I picked a large bottle. And I got a bucket too, and on my own asked that he adds a towel. Later when the nurse dipped the towel I just bought into the bucket of water in which he had poured a generous amount of the disinfectant, I began to wonder whether he might not have sent me back to get a towel!
He proceeded to clean my cousin, and oh, what professional job! I moved away when he was carrying it out. When I returned, my cousin was a new man: new pyjamas top, fresh bed sheets, cleaned up, no flying insects, fully rested, and boy- was I thankful!
Meanwhile two of his church members also dropped in to visit, plus a grandson who also did some rounds looking for gloves. On my way out, I met his wife who had arrived with a basket containing bed sheets and hopefully macintosh as well.
I walked away contented that I had managed to play some part in restoring some dignity to my cousin, but I also wondered: so does it mean that for as long as a family member was not showing up, he would be lying in his wet cloth? How much should a patient expect from the medical team, and how much should his or her relatives undertake to provide? Was my feeling of gratitude justified? Of course, gratitude is a virtue that must be practised by all and sundry at all times, but my question is: at what point do the nurses have a JOB to do?
Times have changed. Tremendously. From the days when as a patient you dare not bring your own bedding ( sheets etc.) to a hospital. I recollected a patient being scolded for that years ago at Korle Bu Hospital: the idea was that you were likely to bring germs from home to contaminate clean things in the hospital. That was the reason d'être. Then.
The earlier I came from the past to face realities today the better it will be for me. Such feelings of gratitude sometimes express themselves with giving tips to the medical personnel impulsively. This often leads to an expectation syndrome on their part whereby those who are not that responsive, or plan to show appreciation when their loved one is finally discharged, appear ungrateful and could affect the attitude of some of the medical staff.
This is only the beginning of what I hope will be a short stay at the hospital. Or it could be long. Whichever way it turns, my prayer is for good and speedy recovery, and my additional prayer is for all the sick persons on admission at our hospitals, and the family members who take it upon themselves to provide all the help that is needed, including bed sheets and macintosh, and of course for the medical staff who have to provide relief to sick persons under constraints and circumstances only they understand.
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