Me and JFK

Act I: Thursday

After a third bout with ‘the sickness’ I decided it was time to give in to the idea that my body is harboring a refugee! I’ve been admittedly stubborn to give in to this with the mind-set that as long as I’m living in Africa I will probably have some sort of something hanging out somewhere internally causing little troubles (mostly of the intestinal variety) every so often. But since this bugger seems persistent I decided to make an attempt at improving my quality of life by seeking the assistance of trained medical personnel. I decided to go big and visit JFK Hospital – from the road it looks well-established and I’ve heard they have white people working there so the odds of me receiving Western medicine are good. Too bad the place looks like a dump once you get up close! After a painful process of trying to find the right person to register with (from my experiences Liberians have no training in customer service or even basic manners when dealing with others). I asked to use the toilet while waiting for the doctor and they gave me the key but as soon as I entered I wished I hadn’t! Luckily I had carried my camera with me to the hospital just in case something unbelievable needed to be documented, so I took a picture of myself in this rotting bathroom because I couldn’t believe it was in a medical facility!

Eventually my name was called and in the ‘waiting room’ I proceeded to describe my symptoms to a man that I presume has a degree in medicine. He said he would send me to the lab to be tested for malaria and tyhoid fever. I explained that I take my anti-malarials daily and have been vaccinated against typhoid and really think perhaps it’s a parasite causing me this intestinal distress. He elaborated that I might still have a mild strain of malaria or typhoid (it was like a flashback to college – every girl ever who went to the on-campus health center, for sore throat or twisted ankle, was immediately asked about symptoms of pregnancy to the point where you start to believe it yourself that maybe your throat/ankle is sore because you’re with child). So to the lab I went (pondering my new prognosis as a patient with malaria and/or typhoid) – this is where the traumatizing part took place. The man who was playing ‘nurse’ was busy about the lab wearing latex gloves as he worked, then he proceeded to take blood from two people before telling me to sit down. I observed the lack of glove changing that was taking place and asked him politely to change them before pricking my finger. He said, ‘there’s no blood on them, if there was i would change them’ so I persisted in my request and was met with gruffness in his tone and what I believe was unnecessary force when stabbing my fingertip! Our relationship only deteriorated as he told me the cost for the labs and demanded payment right then, although he had no receipt to give and I hadn’t seen the two patients before me pay him. Already a little flustered I inquired about all this and finally he raised his voice and said ‘I only speak Liberian English, I don’t understand you’. Feeling the edge of reason leaving my body I worked hard to keep the tremor from my voice. I told him that he still shouldn’t be rude to me and as he’s the one treating me he has the responsibility of explaining things to me. Finally after he shouted some more and pointed in my face as he spoke to me so I just gave him the money and went outside to wait 30 minutes for my results. $175 Liberian Dollars later, they were both negative, of course, because my symptoms are that of a parasite – even my Aunt who lives in Texas spotted this coming via email dialogue! The doctor proceeded to tell me he thinks I’m fine, everything is well with me. I told him no. There is obviously something not fine with me considering how I feel! So I told him I wanted checked for parasites and foolishly asked if they have a container to bring my stool sample in. He recommended using an empty matchbox.

Act II: Friday
Oh life, when you want something you can’t find it! Such goes the story of my poop on this blessed day.

Act III: Saturday
So this morning me and my sample, packaged tidily in a baggie in a matchbox within another baggie placed inside a small grocery bag, walked to the junction to get a car. Not gonna lie – I grabbed a donut along the way and then couldn’t help but laugh as I strolled down the road munching on a donut with one hand while swinging said sample from the other! On this particular morning I also benefitted from a little thing I like to call ‘white lady magic’ and while waiting for a cab that wasn’t jam-packed, a car with two well-dressed older men stopped and offered to take me to JFK, along with two other random passengers that were fortunate to be passing by as I got in the car. This test only costs $25LD so that made me happy, and it didn’t involve dealing with the angry ‘nurse’ man who I hope to never encounter on the other end of a sharp object again! The woman appeared a tad cranky when I presented the doctor’s order and my sample. But after waiting 10 minutes she returned with the slip of paper and told me to go back to the doctor. Clearly, I unfolded the paper immediately and was gravely disappointed to read that the results were negative. I ran into my doctor from Thursday on my way out and showed him the results. He said ‘’you’re healthy!’’ and shook my hand...I’m still not convinced though! Haha If there is indeed a refugee within me I’m going to have to find a different set of medical practitioners to locate it. But for now I guess I’ll just have to keep on keeping on.