Bernard, part 5
I unwittingly became the very first Uber Eats driver in 1984
I was born with a ‘triage’ mode; when faced with a potentially life-threatening situation, my thoughts focus, fear gets put into a box to deal with later. I can go for hours or days, worried only about what needs to happen or be done next.
Knowing Bernard’s condition was up to me to handle, I raced back to our house to call my mother.
“What do I do?” I cried into the phone to my mom who was working her job at the Embassy.
“I bought a book. It’s on the shelves in the living room, it’s called Where There Is No Doctor,” she sounded proud of herself, like it was one thing she brought with her that would be of some use.
“Literally,” I said, feeling bad about being snarky, but struggling through the emotions of being in a place that couldn’t provide basics to its people and feeling overwhelmed at the thought of trying to do something, anything, to try to make Bernard more comfortable. Would he even survive?
“Take him some of the boiled and filtered water. Don’t let him drink the water in the hospital,” my mom added as I was hanging up the phone. We didn’t even brush our teeth with the tap water, as it wasn’t treated and full of all kinds of microbes and worms. You weren’t even supposed to open your eyes in the shower, lest a bilharzia worm get in. I’m sure Bernard, had he been able to drink, would have been sipping whatever came out of the tap.
I’m not sure where my mother learned about the book “Where There Is No Doctor”. I imagined a number of stories at various times. I think I ended up believing Moms just somehow know these things.
I had recently had tonsillitis, a common illness for me. I would be 40 years old before a doctor recommended my tonsils be removed; another 21 years to go at that point. The UN nurse, our only access to medical care as US Embassy staff/dependents, had given me Tylenol with codeine. I hadn’t taken all of it and still had a few tabs left. I grabbed it out of the bathroom and as I got to the hallway, broke into tears. It was the first thing I could think of to get for Bernard. I don’t think I had even paid for it. Even just Tylenol, without the blessed codeine, would have made a difference. For me such a commonplace item; we buy it by the thousands of tablets for a few dollars. No such conveniences for people in Mozambique.
I grabbed the book and flipped through. It was simply written and illustrated, with basics on first aid and hygiene. Thank goodness it had instructions on managing an ulcer. As Bernard had had half of his stomach removed, the goal was to nourish him and expand the remaining stomach area with bland, protein rich food.
I mixed up the first batch of the concoction that Bernard would eat for the next weeks. Cooked oatmeal fortified with eggs and cream, packed in a thermos. With bottles of boiled and filtered water and the precious Tylenol and codeine tabs, I raced back to the hospital.
I unwittingly became the very first Uber Eats driver in 1984 and it turned out that Howard had had the same surgery, in different surroundings, some years earlier. He became the best consultant on helping me help Bernard get well, with encouragement and recommendations and empathy. Three times a day I cooked the doctored oatmeal and took it, along with the clean water and straight Tylenol, after the good stuff ran out, to Bernard. Howard reminded me how painful it would be for Bernard to consume enough of the mixture to stretch out his stomach. How he would resist eating at all, that he would come to hate the very thing that would keep him alive.
Tuesday at the hospital was Amputee Day
The daily trips to the hospital and Bernard became routine and I began to absorb the sights and experiences in a more casual way. Each encounter in Maputo was novel, disjointed, and I viewed them as an outside observer. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe it was naïve youth, but I always had a sense of detachment; that maybe I was just walking around in a film. And always in the back of my head was a voice saying, “No one back home would believe this”.
Tuesday at the hospital was Amputee Day. On those lunchtime visits the normally quiet scene of the faded green compound of aging British buildings would be surrounded by people dressed in variations on a theme of hospital gown, parading around the grounds. Some walked, most hobbled or crawled, the thin fabric of their hospital issued garb fluttering in the wind. Crutches, slings, wheelchairs for the lucky, accompanied this procession of the broken bodies of landmine survivors.
Landmines. What a wicked, craven, hideous invention. Stealthy and silent thieves of arms, legs, lives and Mozambique was full to the brim with them. Everyone was at risk. The farmer tilling his depleted soil, attempting to stave off starvation in the face of famine; the child walking to fetch water; the fisherman pulling his haul onto shore; the war refugees escaping threats of massacre in the war zones — as I said, no one was safe.
Bernard’s roommate and farmer, Juao (pronounced Jshwow), had stepped on the outer edge of a landmine while planting. It took his leg, his hand and part of his face. Providing for his family cost him any way of life.
Landmines were ubiquitous and deadly, but not the only threat. Typhus, cholera, starvation. Routine infection, as there were no antibiotics. Falling in elevator shafts became almost epidemic; the doors would open, but with no light in the high-rise corridors, how do you know if the carriage is there? Two reporters beheaded on the road to Swaziland, just 20 minutes behind my mom and me. Even those in country to help, couldn’t not wonder if the very act of compassion drew down the specter of death. My friend Mike flew missionary backed deliveries of food and supplies to refugee camps in the north. One delivery was followed by the rebels entering the camp, stealing all of what Mike and his colleagues had delivered and massacring all 600 men, women and children. How do you make a difference in the face of such overwhelming odds?
Bernard got stronger. He stoically and gracefully ate the oatmeal, three times a day for weeks. He withstood the pain of our attempt to stretch his stomach so that he would be able to enjoy a full meal at some point. After about three weeks, he was released and was able to go home to his sister’s house. His diet had progressed to more exciting things like soup and rice. I don’t know, but I believe Steve provided the food Bernard and his family needed after that.
Bernard changed me. Mozambique changed me, but Bernard had a more profound effect. Maybe that’s the difference between societal impact and personal impact, in both directions. How many times in our western lives do we ever think about Tylenol?
