For the first time in my 2-year Peace Corps service I didn’t
write for a week.
This past week I was working with the NGO Quechua Benefit in
a medical campaign.
I was translating for an Australian team of eye doctors,
general physicians, pediatricians, and surgeons. It was a week of everything
and by far my favorite campaign I have ever worked.
Every single one of the doctors was inspiring. We worked
every day of the week from 7am in the morning to 7pm at night, usually without
a lunch break-just stuffing our faces with fruit and cookies on-the-go to get
by. They wanted to see everyone they possibly could. I think the final numbers
came out to 70ish a day with the 2 eye doctors, 30+ a day with the general
physician, and 30+ a day with the pediatrician. There were +/- 10 cataract or
trigium surgeries a day as well, and the surgeons followed up every morning
with the patients from the day before. They were ruthlessly loving doctors
committed to providing for the need. They bathed in cold showers and got no
comfort from the food provided by the locals, every single one got sick with
diarrhea or vomiting at some point, but they complained not. They smiled and
were appreciative of the opportunity to help.
One of the doctors I became good friends with by the end of
the week said, “This has been the hardest week of my life.” And, when I took a
moment to reflect I realized the profoundness of his statement. Could I say the
same? I don’t know.
We had everything in the patient grab bag. The emotional
push and pull is indescribable.
To put free glasses on a woman who couldn’t see more than
three meters in front of her her entire life.
To remove the bandages from a man who had dense cataracts in
both eyes and watch him observe color for the first time in twenty years.
To medicate a 5-year-old who’s eyes had been infected for
more than 2 years and were so swollen they thought she might have downs
syndrome… fixed, with a drop.
One man came every morning. Blind and half deaf with a limp
he begged the doctors for anything. As the translator, it became my job every
day as he walked in to half shout into his good ear that there was nothing that
could be done.
“But, my daughter lives in Spain, she can buy any drop I
need and send it to me.”
“I am so sorry sir, but the damage to your eyes has been
untreated for so long, that now it is too late, there is no drop in the world
that can bring back some of your vision.”
This patient brought tears do mine and the doctors’ eyes.
During one of the cataract surgeries one woman’s retina
collapsed and the doctors had to get out as quickly as possible, unable to
replace the lense in her eye. The woman will need another surgery, and will
probably not be able to see much better than she could previously. I was not
present for the surgery. Imagine for a minute, as the doctor is explaining the
outcome to the family, they understand nothing. The have their intense
listening ears on, but don’t understand the English as much as they want to. As
the doctor speaks, and I begin to understand what happened, I can’t react. I
wait for her to finish, take a deep breath, and translate to the family that
that tiny risk factor before the surgery that we explained, happened. At no
fault to anyone, the surgery was unsuccessful. Not fatal, but with the amount
of cataracts this woman has in the other eye she will not be able to recognize
anything but figures anytime soon, if ever. The renound surgeon then walks away
to allow her self to tear and I stay nearto explain post op instructions to a
silent crowd.
It was a beautiful week. I am proud to have been able to
help and I send a sincere thank you to Quechua Benefit for how much I learned in the process.
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