On saying no
Every time our medical team holds a clinic, we have to turn people away. We give out 70 tickets in the morning, and 70 tickets after lunch. Usually, a handful of urgent cases show up with fevers or severe diarrhea, and our numbers climb to about 150-170 patients per day.
But there are many who don't get a ticket. As the days of the week pass by, and word spreads, more and more patients are waiting for us in the mornings when we arrive at the clinic site. Often people will start standing in line at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. We don't get there until four hours later.
They call out to us as we unload the boxes of supplies and medicines from the truck. "Please, Doctorita, please," they say, "My baby is sick, my grandchild has worms, my aunt can't walk." They pull on our clothes, stand in our way. They plead with us.
Sometimes they come up to me more quietly. "I have a question," a young woman will say softly, "I didn't get a ticket, they are all gone, but I need someone to help my little boy."
We look at them. We feel for a fever, give them a quick run over. But unless it's an emergency, we have to say no.
Maybe they can get a number tomorrow. Maybe. But no, I'm really sorry, no for today. We say a lot of nos.
Fridays are the worst. Sometimes 300 people will show up, and we can only see half of them. Friday is the last day of mobile clinic, and in the morning the crowd is frantic to get their tickets--pushing, shoving, butting in line in front of their complaining neighbors.
I find this so frustrating. We are here to serve them, to offer free, quality care, to give to the community. Why can't they serve each other? Why can't they wait their turn? Why can't they have patience?
But I don't know what it is like to be them. I don't have to worry about my baby, who is ill, when I don't have a single cent to buy medicine for her. I have never experienced a disease where I didn't know what to do, or where to turn for help. I don't know what it's like to live in a malnourished, parasite infested family. I have not experienced the burden of the unavilabilty of healthcare.
We can't see all of them because we need quality time with each patient. Each patient deserves the best of our time, our best smile, our most patient explanation, our kindest encouragement. There is not enough time in the day for the need. We can't herd them through like animals.
Where, then, is the balance? How can we say no, and yet, how can we not?
But there are many who don't get a ticket. As the days of the week pass by, and word spreads, more and more patients are waiting for us in the mornings when we arrive at the clinic site. Often people will start standing in line at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning. We don't get there until four hours later.
They call out to us as we unload the boxes of supplies and medicines from the truck. "Please, Doctorita, please," they say, "My baby is sick, my grandchild has worms, my aunt can't walk." They pull on our clothes, stand in our way. They plead with us.
Sometimes they come up to me more quietly. "I have a question," a young woman will say softly, "I didn't get a ticket, they are all gone, but I need someone to help my little boy."
We look at them. We feel for a fever, give them a quick run over. But unless it's an emergency, we have to say no.
Maybe they can get a number tomorrow. Maybe. But no, I'm really sorry, no for today. We say a lot of nos.
Fridays are the worst. Sometimes 300 people will show up, and we can only see half of them. Friday is the last day of mobile clinic, and in the morning the crowd is frantic to get their tickets--pushing, shoving, butting in line in front of their complaining neighbors.
I find this so frustrating. We are here to serve them, to offer free, quality care, to give to the community. Why can't they serve each other? Why can't they wait their turn? Why can't they have patience?
But I don't know what it is like to be them. I don't have to worry about my baby, who is ill, when I don't have a single cent to buy medicine for her. I have never experienced a disease where I didn't know what to do, or where to turn for help. I don't know what it's like to live in a malnourished, parasite infested family. I have not experienced the burden of the unavilabilty of healthcare.
We can't see all of them because we need quality time with each patient. Each patient deserves the best of our time, our best smile, our most patient explanation, our kindest encouragement. There is not enough time in the day for the need. We can't herd them through like animals.
Where, then, is the balance? How can we say no, and yet, how can we not?
posted by Ansley at 5:54 PM
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