Posts Tagged With: world harvest mission

Neil Young, Papal Yogaphobia, and the Power of Prayer

As I intimated in my last couple of post, I’ve been going through a down patch, experiencing some discouragement and burnout.  In our pre-deployment training, we had lectures and sessions on this, and they were helpful, but when you’re in the middle of it, it’s a little tough to see an obvious escape route.

One belief in Christianity is that we often get in the way of our own relationship with God.  The image is one of a door, with you on one side and Christ on the other.  He’s knocking to come in, but the door only has a handle on your side: God’s side of the door is blank.  We often shut the door, and then complain bitterly that God is absent, or doesn’t exist, or doesn’t care.  God is always present, waiting for us to open the door, but it doesn’t work if we close the door, close off the relationship.

Slightly cheesy Bible picture

Reaching for that handle, opening the door, re-establishing relationship with our creator, can be difficult.  Difficult not because it requires knowledge of a certain denomination, or sacrificial practice of an esoteric spiritual discipline.  Difficult not because the key to that door belongs to a certain sect, and not because one needs a mantra or wisdom from a gnome-like guru sitting cross legged in his mountain cave, or in his palace in Rome.

The opening of that door is difficult, because to grasp the handle, we must let go of what we’re holding on to.

From the Gospel of Mark:

As Jesus started on his way, a man ran up to him and fell on his knees before him. “Good teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”…

 Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

 At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.”

I don’t think this passage was meant to say that everyone is supposed to go out and sell everything and give it to the poor.  If you look carefully, an unusual sentence is inserted into the passage:  “Jesus looked at him, and loved him.”  In his day, Jesus was a hugely popular and controversial figure.  He attracted crowds of thousands wherever he went.  But over and over again in the Gospels, we see Jesus as very “one on one.”  On only a few occasions does he address large groups of people.  Rather, he spent three years wandering around from town to town, engaging individuals deeply.  Touching lepers, dining with people we might despise, confronting the possessed, really “hands on”.

And in this particular circumstance, he stops, looks at this rich young man, looks into his soul,and sees what is preventing this particular person from experiencing God.  In this particular instance, this man cannot reach up and open the latch on the door because he is clinging tightly to his wealth.

The current Roman Catholic Pope Francis is a rock star.  The press loves him, mainly because he embraces humility, poverty, and authenticity, over the trappings of his office.  There was a recent flurry of concern over his comments on yoga!  Is the Pope yogaphobic?  Is he prohibiting Christians from using yoga for core strength or to get those six pack abs? If you take the time to look at what he said, you’ll find this non-controversial statement: “You can take a million catechetical courses, a million courses in spirituality, a million courses in yoga, Zen and all these things. But all of this will never be able to give you freedom”.  The Pope tells us that only the Holy Spirit can “move the heart” and make it “docile to the Lord, docile to the freedom of love”. If we are seeking a zen-like peace from yoga meditation, or wealth, or security, then we are seeking peace from the wrong source.

So the supposed papal statement on yogaphobia also includes a warning that Catholic theology classes (catechetical courses) aren’t the way to go!  It turns out that the path to peace in your heart is just letting that door open, and experiencing God directly.  But again, to do that, you have to put down what you’re grasping.

One of the great poet-sages of our time, Neil Young, captures this pretty well:

Workin’ hard every day
Never notice how
the time slips away
People come, seasons go
We got something
that’ll never grow old.

I don’t care
if the sun don’t shine
And the rain keeps pouring
down on me and mine
‘Cause our kind of love
never seems to get old
It’s better than silver and gold.

I used to have a treasure chest
Got so heavy that I had to rest
I let it slip away from me
Didn’t need it anyway
so I let it slip away.

I don’t know what Neil Young’s spiritual beliefs are, but his song “Silver and Gold” captures exactly the same point.  Holding on to wealth, pride, security, pain, whatever is in our “treasure chest”, gets very tiring.  It’s okay to rest, put down whatever you’re holding on to so tightly, and reach up for the handle on the door.

So I think the Pope and Neil Young would agree:  if what you seek is peace, no amount of striving can get you there.  If you’re burned out and discouraged, trying harder, working harder, wishing people would just see your vision and fall in line, just isn’t going to put you on your zen mountaintop.

One of the advantages of living in a village in Africa is that you can get away from people pretty quickly.  Yesterday afternoon, I was in such a black hole that I couldn’t stand myself.  I put on my running shoes, and within five minutes of old man shuffle, was on a muddy twisty mountain road with dense bush on all sides.

This is a great place to talk with God without looking like a crazy person.  No one to judge you but baboons.  I shouted, I pleaded, I got angry, I let Him know exactly what I thought about my current situation.  But the door was firmly shut.  He was nowhere to be found.  Great.

Just when I need Him, He’s either not paying attention, doesn’t care, or doesn’t exist.

The only thing listening were the baboons, and they had nothing helpful to contribute.

I expected to come back from that run rejuvenated and energized.  After all, I had done my part, I had “gone to the mountaintop”, spent some quality time with God.  It was time for him to do his part.  So why did I still feel so black?

Last evening, we had a dinner engagement at our house with some of my favorite people in Kijabe.  Chege is one of our senior trainees, and his wife Evalyn is a nurse in the operating theatres.  They have a beautiful four year old boy named Nimwell.  They are gentle, loving, kind, amazing people.  Chege is in the middle of a spine surgery fellowship in Egypt, and so hasn’t seen his family in a couple of months.  He’s spending a short break back here in Kijabe, and they were good enough to agree to have dinner with us.

We had a great dinner of Irish stew and mashed potatoes, which, it turns out, is very similar to Kikuyu cooking.  No surprise that mashed potatoes and beef with gravy are everyone’s comfort food.  Great conversation, hilarious stories, just one of those nights of fun and relaxing relationship.  As we stood up to say our good-byes, Chege asked if he could pray briefly.

I’ve heard Chege pray and preach before, and he is a gifted speaker.  But he was moved at this moment to pray for me, to encourage me, to lift me up, to allow me to let go of my treasure chest of pride and insult.

As he prayed, I could feel the anger, resentment, burnout, begin to melt.  I went to bed, and woke up this morning, with the blackness gone, and the enthusiasm and energy returning.

I don’t pretend to understand how prayer works.  I don’t know how Chege knew that I needed prayer to help me let go of my treasure chest.  Theologians could debate paradoxes and mysteries for lifetimes.  But like this laptop, I don’t need to know how it works.  I’m just glad that it does.

I’m heading off on an outreach trip tomorrow, and I wasn’t sure how that was going to work.  The travel, cross-cultural setting, and security measures are all exhausting.  To head into that week depleted looked like a recipe for disaster, and I had contemplated a last-minute cancellation, knowing how disruptive that would be.

But I think that all had to do with what I was holding on to.  And I think my friend Chege saw how firmly I was holding that door closed.  His prayer helped me to just let go of what was bothering me, quit taking myself so seriously, and see the beauty around me.  We hold on so tightly to the chains that bind us, hold on so tightly to what we treasure.  Too often, the peace we seek is right in front of us, but we refuse to accept it.  If you think that might be true in your current setting, I encourage you to pray, find someone to pray for you, let go of your treasure chest, and see what happens when that door opens.

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Annual Review

Ughh.

Tonight was the night for our annual review.  Both Ann and I had to review our job descriptions, fill out self-assessments, and then complete a “stress survey.”  I accidentally tore the stress survey into a thousand pieces, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t need to take it anyway.

In all seriousness, these are really useful exercises.  Living outside your home country, in a place where the language, culture, and work practices are unfamiliar, is really stressful.  Researchers have found that levels of the stress hormone, cortisol, rise abruptly just by looking at a roadside sign in a foreign language.  Being immersed in a culture not your own creates a constant low level of stress, that needs to be acknowledged and dealt with.

Bethany is our amazing Serge team leader.  I think most people’s first impression of her would be that she is a kind, gentle person, probably suited to counseling or teaching.  Which is exactly what she does!  And she is amazing at it.  We are blessed to have her as our team leader, as she combines great leadership and organizational skills with the compassionate heart of a counselor.

Having a team leader, and being accountable to an organization, might seem a bit odd, but is an integral part of the work here.  Nothing we do is independent:  everything is interdependent, and all of it is dependent on God’s grace and mercy to sustain us.

Our Serge team here fills the role that an extended family might have filled in more traditional societies.  We all fall down, look silly, fail at our appointed assignments.  But we have a group of people who know us at our best and at our worst, and for some reason still love and support us.  Our team is an amazing group of individuals, couples, and families, who we can trust to be there when we just need support and someone to be with.

We meet with our team for dinner every Thursday, and get together on a Friday for a discussion every 6 to 8 weeks.  We look forward to these times, to learning how everyone’s week has gone, what joys and successes, disappointments and frustrations have punctuated the days since we last sat down together.

These dinners have a sacramental quality.  We get together at someone’s house, relax, and break bread together.  It’s fun just to catch up, get up to date on each other’s work, follow up on some concern or problem.  We share a casual dinner, prepared by the host, and then sit down for a time of prayer together.  It really feels like the early church must have felt, and how church could ideally work now.  No big ceremony, just people who love God getting together to be friends and support each other.

So we spent the evening discussing with Bethany our roles here, what has gone well, what has been frustrating, and what changes we could put in place to help things go more smoothly.  It’s encouraging to be part of such a great team.

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Difficult Discussions: Flunking Sainthood Day 24

Busy day in surgery today, as well as seeing consults between cases.  The surgeries went fine, but what was really hanging over the orthopaedic resident and I today was a discussion we needed to have with a patient and his family.  Last week, we worked hard to save the life of the man who had a terrible injury to his pelvis and leg.  You might remember a photograph of a mangled leg accompanied by warnings not to look if you would find it disturbing.

Thankfully, he has stabilized.  He has gone from the intensive care unit, to the intermediate care unit, and today was able to transfer to the regular men’s ward.  His blood pressure has stabilized, and we have been taking him to surgery every two or three days to clean out his wounds, and remove damaged tissue.

The leg is teetering on the edge of being salvageable.  The bones and muscles are so damaged that he has little hope of a well-functioning limb.  Though his hip, knee, and ankle are fine, the areas in between are mostly devoid of functioning muscle, and severely fractured.  We have had discussions with him over the last days, but wanted to have a family care conference today so everyone was on the same page.

His social situation is far more complex than I could have imagined.  He is an orphan.  Both his mother and father have died, but we did not discuss how they died.  His father had three wives, two of whom are still living, so we had the discussion with a dizzying array of uncles, in addition to his brother and older sister.  Decision making authority rests with the patient, as he is lucid and capable of making his own choices.  Kenya has a strongly family-oriented culture, however, so group discussions and consensus building are vital.

The relatives strongly recognize that they may be held accountable by other family members for medical decisions, so they made it clear that they would abide by “whatever the doctors decide.”  This puts a little too much authority in our hands, however, as the final decision needs to be up to the patient.

Thankfully, the family had outstanding English skills, and communication skills in general, and the Kenyan resident I’m working with filled in my language and cultural blind spots.  We had a long and intricate discussion, and each person voiced his perspective and concerns.  I’ve been in discussions like this a number of times, and I’m often struck by the patience, careful listening, and gentle pace of the dialogue.  It is vital for the health care providers to understand the depth and breadth of implications of decisions like this.  In the end, we met privately with the patient, who was markedly comforted by the group consensus.  We discussed his options again, prayed with him, and he expressed his decision.

The plan is to do everything we can to save his leg, regardless of cost, number of surgeries, or length of treatment.  If at any point we feel like the endeavor is hopeless, or is putting his life at risk, we will communicate this with the patient and with the family.

For this man, I think this is the best decision.  If things go well, his leg will work a little better than a prosthesis would.  Moreover, his psychological and social situation would make amputation an unusually devastating blow.  He and his extended family realize that this is a real possibility, but they would all rest easier with this decision knowing that every effort had been made.  Remarkably, one of the uncles present is on a disability awareness council, and repeated the mantra that “disability doesn’t mean no ability.”  He is encouraging his nephew that, regardless if he winds up with an amputation or not, he can continue with a productive life.

I feel privileged, if also saddened, to be part of discussions like this.  Kenya is a country with a high incidence of motor vehicle violence, and few doctors to treat the suffering.  We may or may not succeed in saving this man’s leg, but I am pleased that he knows he is cared for by his family and by the staff here at Kijabe.

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French Toast and Trauma: Warning, Disturbing Image

Weekends are hard to predict around here.

I’m on trauma call for the hospital, so I need to stay close to home and close to my phone.  But beyond that, life goes on as usual.  Saturdays and Sunday are great family days, we try to sleep in, make coffee, and I’m on breakfast duty.

Saturday morning French Toast, Bacon, and Hot Coffee

Saturday morning French Toast, Bacon, and Hot Coffee

The kids get “screen time”:  Finding Nemo for Jane, Minecraft or reading books for Michael.  It’s the cold and rainy season, so a roaring fire and fuzzy PJ’s are mandatory.

Contented and Cozy

Content and Cozy

It’s great not having to rush off somewhere or have anything to do.  I make my way down to the hospital storage room to organize some donated equipment and get rid of a huge pile of useless junk.

The kids have friends within walking distance, RVA has high school rugby games to go watch, and dinner plans with great friends round out a perfect Saturday.  A peaceful start to the weekend.

Organizing the Store Room

Organizing the Store Room

Sunday is another story.  My phone jars me out of a sound sleep, the screen tells me it is the ortho resident calling.  I don’t really know what time it is, I just know it’s dark.

“28 year old guy on a piki (motorcycle), hit by a bus about 4 o’clock this morning.  Pelvic fracture, bad open floating knee.  Has had 4 units of blood, his BP is 100/50, and we’re on our way to theatre. His Hemoglobin level is 5 after the third unit of blood”  To translate, this man is bleeding to death, he has already lost at least two thirds of his blood volume.  Only healthy young people survive such blood loss, but they can die very quickly once their ability to compensate is overwhelmed.

Okay, I’m awake now.  I volley back some questions:  is the pelvic fracture stabilized with a binder, does he have two IV’s flowing wide open,  is more blood available, is he alert, can you feel a pulse in his leg, have antibiotics been started, has he gotten a tetanus shot, any chest or abdominal trauma, has his c-spine been cleared?

Yes, yes, yes, yes….The systems have worked, protocols have been followed, and this young man is going to have the best chance he can at survival and keeping his leg.  I’d like to repeat that sentence 10 more times, because it is amazing.  At this little hospital clinging to a muddy hillside in rural Kenya, this patient is receiving world class trauma care.  This is all down to the excellent work of the junior residents who met this man in the emergency department.  We don’t have a sophisticated lab to know his acid-base balance, we don’t have invasive monitoring to know his exact fluid resuscitation status, but within our abilities, every possible thing has been done, and is being done, to save this man’s life and limb.  In medical parlance, we move into “damage control” surgery.

The goal of damage control surgery is to stabilize the patient, quickly clean wounds, stop bleeding, and  get him into the expert hands of the intensive care unit doctors.  Damage control does not involve meticulous repair of wounds or fractures, just quickly trying to move him out of a life-threatening situation.

I gulp down a cup of instant coffee to clear my head and walk into the pink sky of the breaking dawn and down to the operating room.  The patient is just being wheeled into theatre, and I introduce myself and talk to him, in as reassuring tones as I can, about his injuries.  I’ve had more than one patient here with these same injuries never wake up from surgery, but he doesn’t need to know that right now.  “Your blood pressure has stabilized, things are looking good, we’re going to clean up your wounds and begin stabilizing your broken bones.”

With that, the nurse anesthetist gets him off to sleep while we stabilize his neck.  He hasn’t yet gotten an Xray of his neck, and has no pain there, but could easily have a broken neck and not know it.  The pelvic and limb fractures are painful enough to mask the pain of other injuries, so we always assume the spine is broken until proven otherwise.

The leg looks bad.  The thigh bone (femur) is broken and sticking out the front.  A large segment of the tibia bone is missing beneath the knee, and there is a clot of blood behind the knee.  Through my gloves, I can feel a pulse behind his knee, so we know the main artery to his leg is intact.  With a doppler probe, we can see that he has good blood supply to his foot.  So the leg is probably salvageable. But that clot behind the knee looks ominous.  We leave it alone, to be looked at more carefully a bit later.   Before he went to sleep, we had tested his ability to move and feel his toes, and this was normal.  Some reasons for optimism.  But the clot worries me.

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Floating Knee:  Open Fractures of the Femur and Tibia

Floating Knee: Open Fractures of the Femur and Tibia

We wash debris, paint chips, gravel, sand, and pieces of his trousers out of the wounds.  The fractured ends of the bones are tattooed blue from the paint on the bumper of the bus.  We meticulously clean everything, excising dead tissue, until the wounds look clean.  The residents and I install an external fixator, a stabilizing device which uses pins inserted into the bone to attach to a carbon graphite frame.  This can be applied in a matter of minutes, from his upper thigh to just above the ankle, to provide some stability to the leg.

The patient is getting cold.  Hypothermia, or below normal body temperature, is a common and ominous sign in severe trauma.  We get hot water bottles and blankets to cover every square inch of the patient that is not being operated on.  A cold patient can have severe metabolic disruption, including losing the ability to clot his blood.  This can be irreversible and fatal in a severely injured patient.  We turn the room temperature up to 86 degrees Fahrenheit.  While garbed in hats, masks, gowns, and lead vests, this becomes very uncomfortable, but is standard trauma protocol.

The wounds are clean, the fractures stabilized, and now it is time to go back and look at that clot.  I carefully place retractors to hold the surrounding tissues out of the way, and gently remove the clotted blood.  Before the case started, I had insisted that everyone in the room was wearing eye protection.  And this was why.  As I removed the clot, bright red blood began spraying out of the wound.  We had found the reason his hemoglobin blood levels were so low.  As the bumper of the bus hit his leg, one of the bone fragments had torn a hole in an artery in the back of his leg.  Gentle fingertip pressure stopped the bleeding, and we called for the talented general surgeon, Dr. Jack Baraza.

Jack was waiting in the wings, and quickly arrived to calmly explore the vascular injury.  There are three vessels which supply blood to the lower leg, and two were still intact.  So the repair was a simple matter of isolating and tying sutures around the offending blood vessel.  We rechecked the blood supply to the foot, and after a few tense moments, were rewarded with pink toes and a visible pulse on the doppler ultrasound screen.

Dr. Baraza checking the blood supply to the foot

Dr. Baraza checking the blood supply to the foot

Thick dressings are applied, a plaster splint reinforces the external fixator, some other wounds are quickly sutured, and the patient is ready for transport to the ICU.  He has a long and difficult struggle ahead of him.  The next 48 hours will show us how much reserve he has left.  As he stabilizes, we can begin to plan reconstructive surgeries to fix his pelvic and femur fractures, and restore the bone missing from his leg.

I walk back home to an empty house.  Ann and the kids are enjoying Mother’s Day by going on a hike at Crescent Island with some friends, so I have some breakfast and get ready for a nap.

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Of Fibonacci, Logos, and Chaos: a Theology of Surgery

I believe our world is broken.

I believe our reality includes suffering, chaos, loss, and death.

I believe it wasn’t meant to be this way.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.

WB Yeats “The Second Coming”

Anarchy is loosed upon the world.  As in every age, this age seems ruled by the headlines.  ISIS, Leukemia, divorce, war.

Partisan hatred, global warming, spiraling health costs, corrupt institutions.

Young men so devoid of purpose they grasp at fundamentalist straws.  Crowded cities conceal suicidal loneliness.  Young women defined by ad agencies, dying to be thin.

Those south of the equator dying from too little food, those north of it from too much.

I believe it wasn’t meant to be this way.

The falcon spins away from the falconer in the widening gyre.  Society, decency, kindness, gentleness, overwhelmed by division, violence, hatred, ignorance.

But I believe it wasn’t meant to be this way, and Yeats catches himself in a contradiction.  The falcon turns away in an ever widening gyre.  Let’s back up a bit.  A gyre is a spiral, extended into space in three dimensions.  A gyre has structure, mathematical perfection, elegance.  A gyre is the opposite of anarchy.

If we look at the falcons’s gyre, or the arrangement of petals on a flower, or the shell of a chambered nautilus, we find a numerically perfect order, or logic, which in mathematics is called the Golden Proportions.Fibona52  Fibona50 Fibona51

The golden proportions are defined by a simple series of numbers:  0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89…..  Add two numbers together, and it creates the next number in the sequence.  This series of numbers is called the Fibonacci sequence.  Divide any number by the number before it, and the result comes out approximating an infinitely long number that starts with 1.618033988749894848204586834.  This number is the golden proportion.  The further out you go in the sequence, the closer the ratio comes to the golden proportion.

What does the golden proportion have to do with chaos, a broken world, and surgery?

It turns out, the Fibonacci sequence and resulting golden proportion are more than a mathematical curiosity.  If we look to nature, we find this order, this organizing principle, everywhere.  Subatomic particles arrange themselves according to the golden ratio.  Galaxies rotate in values proportional to the Fibonacci sequence.  Plant leaves arrange themselves, nautilus shells spiral, pine cones, roses and sunflowers all dance to the music of tFibona48he golden proportion.  Computer programs and search engines rely on the Fibonacci sequence.  Most remarkably for me, the length of the bones in our hands follows a Fibonacci sequence, so as we make a fist, we echo the grace of the spiraling nautilus shell.

The bones of the hand describe a Fibonacci sequence

The bones of the hand describe a Fibonacci sequence

So the falcon, even as he ascends away from the falconer, even as things fall apart, describes an arc which betrays the underlying grace and structure of his being.

How can this be?  How can this world of chaos reveal an underlying structure, an underlying organizing principle?

I believe a clue to this mathematical marvel can be found in the Bible:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning.  Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.  In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

This beautiful poem was originally written in Greek, and is the opening verse of the Gospel of John.  The word “word” was originally written as the Greek word “logos.”  We don’t have an exact translation of “logos” into English, but it is the word from which we get logic.  The idea of logos is structure, order, the premise upon which everything else follows.

You’ll notice that the opening verse of this poem is identical to the opening of the Hebrew book of Genesis, the opening words of the Bible:  “In the beginning…”

This puts us intentionally at the beginning of time, the beginning of existence, physicists would say at the moment of the big bang.  And the author of the Gospel of John tells us that God was there, in the form of order, in the form of an organizing principle, in the vibration and spin of the subatomic particles that would give rise to galaxies, stars, planets, earth, and life.

The Logos was there at the beginning, and the darkness has not overcome it.  The falcon’s gyre is ever widening, he cannot hear the falconer, but even in his betrayal, he cannot escape the inherent order of his being as he ascends in a graceful spiral.  This world was created, by whatever means you may believe, but I believe it was created for order.

The Jewish and Christian faiths share what anthropologists call their “creation myth.”  Myth in this sense is a technical term which means a story of ancient and important truth.  We tend to use the term to mean untrue, mythical, like bigfoot.  But anthropologist recognize that creation myths hold great truth for their culture.

The Judeo-Christian creation myth began as an oral tradition, and was eventually written down as the book of Genesis.  Christians believe it is inspired revelation, and there are various interpretations as to how it should be read.  Regardless of interpretation, we see a world created in Logos, in order, in perfection.  Only when mankind chose pride, knowledge, and power over kinship with the Logos did things fall apart, and mere anarchy was loosed upon the world. 

So I believe our world is broken.  It was created for logos, for order, for perfection, for shalom.  But separation from the Logos, the creator, leaves us with mere anarchy.

This would all seem a bit dark, but for one thing.  Christians also believe that the Logos, the organizing principle of the universe, returned, and entered human history, entered time and space, as a human being.  He entered this world of anarchy, and by perfect Logos, perfect order entering this world, he redeemed it.  He began the process of restoring it to its rightful state.  He didn’t come only to save souls, to redeem individuals, but to redeem creation itself.

What would this look like, a redeemed creation?  I can’t begin to imagine.  It’s easier for me to imagine what it is not: it is not suffering, it is not loss, it is not loneliness or death, it is not painful separation from our creator.

From the standpoint of a surgeon, a redeemed creation does not include broken femurs, shattered pelvis’, or children with bone infections or incurable tumors.

There is no doubt in my mind that we live in a dark world, but I take hope in the fact that “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Yeats stumbles again when he declares that “the best lack all conviction.”  I believe this is precisely where he was wrong, and I believe this is precisely how the darkness cannot overcome the light.  God calls us to be that light, to work with and be part of the Logos, the redemption of this broken world.  He calls us not to lack conviction, but to stand convicted.  To struggle in the chaos,to lose our way, but in our efforts describe the breathtaking spiral of love, compassion and beauty we were created for.

For a surgeon this means working to restore the order of the human body, approximating the way the Logos intended it to be.  It means healing those who can be healed, and comforting those who cannot.  It means teaching others to view their job as their calling, as a priesthood, as a privileged servant-hood allowing us to shine the light of God’s love into the darkness of suffering.  It means being the light to those overcome by the darkness as we cling to the hope of the redeemer, the centre that will always hold.

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Mountain Bike Safari (Flunking Sainthood Day 9)

One of the great joys of living at Kijabe is living on the Rift Valley Escarpment, a 2,000 foot ridge which drops from the alpine forests above us to the semi-arid plains below.  There are no level surfaces here:  every road, driveway, and forest sits on a steep pitch.  Combined with the heavy foot traffic and herds of cows, sheep, and goats, the area is interlaced with world class ready-made mountain bike trails.  Over the years, different people living here have pieced together routes to nearby villages, as well as faraway towns and lakes, entirely on trails.  We decided to set out today on a mountain bike safari.

There are a handful of bikes and bikers here, and we have two skilled mountain bikers visiting, Thomas and Meghan Higgins.  They live at 6,000 feet in Salt Lake City, and love to mountain bike, so they are looking forward to the challenge.  Both Thomas and I are not on call this weekend, so we decided to put together an adventure.

We’re grateful for the loan of David Shirk’s mountain bike, as he is back in the US at the moment.  Four of us assembled at our house, got tires pumped up, found helmets that fit, and packed enough food and water to get to our destination, a small hostel called Longonot Lodge, about 20 miles away.  This lodge sits on a stunning plateau, surrounded by plains full of zebra, Thompson gazelle, hartebeest, and the occasional giraffe and buffalo, and ostrich.  The lodge was originally built by Ernest Hemingway for his wife, and is now run by a German/Kenyan couple as a guest house.  We had called the day before to book lunch at their outdoor restaurant.

We set out mid-morning, a brief climb followed by a high speed descent on a twisty, muddy road which descends through dense bush to “Old Kijabe Town”.  This is the real Kenyan village, Kijabe Hospital being a later addition about a hundred years ago.  As we reached the village, Michael suffered an early set back, a flat tire.  We spent a good bit of time getting this fixed, as we went through two spare inner tubes which had holes in them, a pump which didn’t work, and finally used the wrong-size tube for his tire.  Any port in a storm.

We continued the journey, climbing up above the village to bypass a deep ravine filled with stinging nettles.  A brief, twisting descent on cow trails brought us to a broad, rolling trail called “old railway bed.”  A non-imaginative name, as this trail represents the remnants of the colonial era Mombasa-Uganda railway, otherwise known as “the Lunatic Express.”  This railways features in movies such as “Out of Africa” and “The Ghost and the Darkness”, and is best known for the two male lions of Tsavo which ate many workers and nearly halted the railways construction.  As we ride, we are journeying over dark history, as the railway represents the worst of colonial ambitions.

We make our way down the fast paced, twisting trails.  Segments of mud, spectacular vistas over the Kenyan planes, deep ravines where we form a human chain to transit bikes and each other to the far side.  Thumping drum beats from local village churches , squealing groups of children, intimidating cacti lining the trail, dodging herds of cattle, goats, and sheep, and finally we arrive in the heat and humidity of the valley floor.

The trail is a major route for herders.

The trail is a major route for herders.

Meghan makes some friends

Meghan makes some friends

Next, we pass across the current railway, underneath a two lane highway, and set out alongside Mt Longonot, a dormant volcano that the Higgins family climbed several days ago.  With Mt Longonot on our left, we wrap around its flank on dirt roads, climb up a thin steep road through a lava flow, and then a blazing descent onto the plain nestled between the heights of Mt. Longonot to the south and the glistening expanse of hippo-laden Lake Naivasha to our north.

We come to a crude gate, manned by no less than three “guards” who are a bit startled by our arrival.  In a halting mix of swahili and English, we struggle to understand each other.  Ann has passed by here an hour earlier with both ours and the Higgins children in the car, so we are eventually ushered onto the property.  This gate marks the boundary of a massive land holding, Kedong Ranch, which itself is part of the bloody history of the Lunatic Express Railway.  We descend further onto the plain, and enter paradise.

We are many miles from the nearest building, the nearest paved road, or any other signs of civilization.  As we pedal across the plain, we are surrounded by herds of hartebeest, Thompson gazelle, and zebra.  The many giraffe and buffalo in this region are nowhere to be seen today, and the ostrich are hiding somewhere as well.  A short climb brings us to the top of the hill, where Ann and the children are already enjoying the peace of Longonot Lodge.

We sit down to a lovely lunch of locally caught tilapia (fish), buttery potatoes, and slivered carrots.  Not bad for the middle of nowhere!  The lodge uses solar water heating, and has a small wind farm for electricity.  Hot coffee washes down the delicious food, and helps energize us after the long and tiring ride.  The fatigue, gentle heat, lazy breeze, and overwhelming vista lull everyone into a state of relaxed contentment.

But the inevitable time for departure arrives, we load the bikes onto the car, and head back to Kijabe.

Bikes loaded up for the trip home.

Bikes loaded up for the trip home.

The trusty rig, ready to take us home.

The trusty rig, ready to take us home.

A quick check shows that the patients for tomorrow include the man who suffered a machete attack with multiple fractures who needs his wound covered with a “flap”, two women with broken legs, one with a broken ankle, and the lady with a broken wrist who was cancelled last week due to high blood pressure.

Weekends like this really allow us to dive into the week ahead with enthusiasm and energy, hopefully giving the best to our patients and staff.  Family time, laughs with friends, and enjoying the amazing creation surrounding us fill our souls and make us all thankful for the work we’ve been called to do.

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The Big Fig

Saturday, a break in the rain, blue skies with serrated clouds, brilliant sunshine.  Time for a hike!  The Big Fig is a famous tree near Kijabe, with huge roots winding through boulders, perched on the edge of a 200 foot drop into a small canyon.  The tree is about an hour’s hike through the bush from Kijabe.  We gather our friends the Heins and Higgins families, load back packs with snacks and water bottles, and head out.  Our first stop is at our friends the Davis’ house, where Rich bluetooths the path from his gps to mine.  Once you’re in the bush, it’s difficult to follow the correct twists and turns to the Big Fig, so now we have satellite navigation!  The Davis’ dog Radar decides to abandon his family and join us on the hike.

The hike down is a little muddy, but the footing is good.  Monkeys stalk us in the trees, giant centipedes wiggle across the trail, black ibis, hawks, and colorful song birds punctuate the walk.  An animal skin on the trail is animated with a lacy white fungus.  The gps takes us straight to the big fig, where we take a welcome break in its  cool shade.

The tree is remarkably large, and precariously set.  Roots more than a foot in diameter snake their way through 10 foot boulders, leaving the trunk hanging out over a precipitous drop.  We herd the kids, all kindergarten to fourth grade, away from the edge so the adults can relax.  Michael and his friend Noah impress each other by getting ever closer to the edge, pretending to slip.  Somehow we don’t find it as funny as they do.

The tree’s rocky home provides comfortable seating as we take our break.

Mara family, On the Edge!

Mara family, On the Edge!

The canyon opens up to farmers fields planted with maize and kale, and lazy cows drift from one field to the next in the valley below.  Red-garbed Masai herders dramatically decorate the lush green vegetation.  Rock hyrax duck in and out, resenting our invasion, and Jane finds an 8 inch lizard.

Heading back up, the heat kicks in, but we make good time and relax in the cool of the house.  Jane heads up to a friend’s house, I make grilled cheese sandwiches for Michael and Noah, and Ann takes Bosco out for a walk.  He’s getting a bit old, and we don’t take him on big steep hikes anymore, but he hates to be left behind.

Tonight, we’re looking forward to having the Higgins family over for dinner.  Meghan is cooking, which is a sure sign of Ann’s friendship with her.  Normally, it takes years before an Irish “mammy” will allow another woman to lift a finger in her kitchen, so they must be tight.  Either that, or Ann is just really sick of cooking dinner every night.

I had the pleasure of running into my good friend, Dan Galat, today.  Dan is my doppelganger at Tenwek hospital, about three hours west of here in Bomet, Kenya.  Dan is an orthopaedic surgeon from the US, who came to Kenya straight out of his residency at the Mayo clinic.  We are twin brothers, both sharing a passion for providing orthopaedic care and teaching Kenyan surgeons.  Dan recently started an orthopaedic surgery residency at Tenwek, and we are finding ways to collaborate for better care and training.

It’s nothing short of miraculous that I can sit here in a muddy little village in Kenya, and be working alongside talented Kenyan surgeons such as Dr.’s Muchiri and Wamae, as well as surgeons from the US.  If defies logic, but you have to get used to that once you quit living on your own power and trust that God will provide what you need, and when you need it.  You might not know what tomorrow will bring, but you can have confidence that God has it covered.  And He never fails!

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What Protestants think about Catholics (Flunking Sainthood: Day 3)

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Please share this post as widely as possible, because it relies on audience participation.  At the end, I want you to “comment” and give me some of your thoughts.  Protestants only please:  Catholics, you’ll have your turn.  Please re-blog, post on FB, share anyway you can.  I’m really interested in the feedback.

Growing up in a devout Roman Catholic family, I think it is unlikely that I draw a breath or have a thought in my head not seasoned by my rich upbringing in the Church.  A family of eight, Irish Catholic, all six children’s names from the mother land (Maureen, Shannon, Michael, Sheila, Kathleen, Colleen), all six children attended Catholic grade school and Catholic universities.  Dad was president of the parish council and church historian, mom with a masters degree in theology and another one in adult spiritual development.

The rhythm of our life was mass, the sacraments, prayer, and study.

It’s been years since I attended mass regularly or participated in the sacraments, but the reasons for this are  pragmatic as well as theological.  As a result of our upbringing, Ann and I have both had the opportunity to feel loved and loving, accepted and accepting, in both Catholic and Protestant settings.

I am not oblivious to the fact that some on each side of this divide have strong feelings about the heathens on the far shore, but I have also had the opportunity to see loving, humble servants in each camp.  My gut feeling is that “God”, whatever we make of him, is having a good chuckle at any party that thinks they have Him completely contained in their particular box.

About six times a year, our team here at Kijabe gets together to have a discussion on a Friday night.  One member leads a discussion on a topic of personal interest.  We’ve talked about Islam, spiritual disciplines, and Biblical justice.  The evenings are social, low-key, fun, and interesting.  This Friday, I’ve volunteered to talk about my upbringing in the Catholic church.

My reasons for this are several.  I have fond memories of spiritual mentors, the comfort of liturgy, and unforgettable direct experiences of the divine.  But perhaps more than this, I’ve come to understand that most Protestants’ understanding of Catholicism comes from their Protestant pastors.  These pastors, in turn, get their understanding of Catholicism from their reformation history classes in seminary or bible school.  These classes, in turn, are taught from the perspective of 16th century Church corruption and scandal.  Missing are the counter-reformation, the Council of Trent, true Catholic theology, Vatican I, Vatican II, and the fact that billions of Catholics over the last two millennia have served Christ humbly in the best way they knew how.  Once the cobwebs of the last 500 years are cleared away, the two camps look very much like earnest, truth-seeking followers of Christ.

Here’s where you come in:

I’m looking for open, honest, uncensored, thoughts, questions, opinions, conclusions, and vitriolic diatribes regarding Protestants’ views of Catholics or Catholicism.  Here’s your chance!  If it’s too nasty or profane, I won’t “approve” it to be read on the blog, but my intent is to find out what people are thinking.

To get you started:

Catholics worship Mary, pray to dead people, the Pope is perfect, and you can party all you want on Friday as long as you go to have your sins forgiven by a priest on Saturday.  The whore of Babylon, the Pope as antichrist….

Many, but not all of these ideas have kernels of truth which give them credence, and are great starting points for discussion of commonalities and differences.

Please respond, engage, participate.  And remember Catholics, you’ll have your turn!

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The New Normal

A little less than three years ago, the Mara family drove away from our house in Bend, Oregon, with a mixture of excitement, fear, sadness, and anticipation.  Ann and I had lived there our entire married lives, brought our newborn babies in through the front door, and we shared a little fear that we would never feel quite as “at home” again.  As I walked to work this morning, however, I realized we now have a new normal.  Things which would have seemed bizarre, exotic, or even frightening three years ago now simply add to the richness of life here.  Over the last three years, we have experienced close encounters of the best kind:

Murit, Jane's adopted baby elephant.

Murit, Jane’s adopted baby elephant.

Michael and Jane with two new friends

Michael and Jane with two new friends

Simba and her litter

Simba and her litter

We have become patients ourselves:

Prayers for Jane with her surgeon and anesthesiologist

Prayers for Jane with her surgeon/dad  and anesthesiologist Dr. Newton

Ann, very stoic as she gets an IV in casualty.

Ann, very stoic as she gets an IV in casualty.

Mike going in for the first of his two surgeries at Kijabe.

Mike going in for the first of his two surgeries at Kijabe.

My friends and I have had multiple bike wrecks:

My friend Andy:

My friend Andy: “I feel cold. Tell my wife I love her” (He had sprained his shoulder)

Adam attracts a crowd after his bike disintegrated beneath him.

Adam attracts a crowd after his bike disintegrated beneath him.

We’ve gotten used to driving three hours round trip for groceries, not being able to understand most conversations around us, and sometimes feeling like a novelty or curiosity.  Happily, we also feel embraced by a culture which values time spent face to face, gentle suggestions over confrontation, and family life over consumerism.  I’m slowly learning that relationship is more important than achievement, love more important than efficiency, and compassion more important than titles or degrees.

Sadly, the most constant rhythm of life at Kijabe is the incessant flow of very sick and badly injured patients.  Some of these patients are too injured, or come to the hospital too late, for us to be able to give them a good outcome.  But the thing that amazes me the most about Kijabe Hospital, is how miracles happen on a weekly basis.  I’d like to tell you about two recent patients that demonstrate this.

Ahmed broke his leg when he was struck by a passing “piki piki” (motorcycle) in a remote and lawless area of Kenya.  With no access to health care, Ahmed’s family did the best they could, taking him to a local bonesetter.  He was quite malnourished at the time of injury, and the forced bedrest in his hut led to huge ulcers, bedsores, which covered his back side and injured leg.

When Ahmed was finally brought to Kijabe, he was semi-conscious, with foul smelling pus and bodily fluids contaminating his wounds.  He was in marked pain, with his unstable fracture allowing his damaged leg to flop around during the long car ride over bumpy roads.

I must admit, when I first saw Ahmed, I wasn’t sure he would survive, and I even wondered briefly if the most merciful thing would be if he passed away quickly.  But of course, that’s not why we’re here.  A team of compassionate nurses, pediatricians, pediatric surgeons, plastic surgeon, and orthopaedics took him under their wing.  Intensive nursing care helped heal his wounds and improve his nutrition.  Hospital chaplains came and poured love and prayers over Ahmed and his family.  The paediatric surgeons performed a colostomy to avoid his wounds being soiled by bodily fluids.  And our talented plastic surgeon managed finally to close the gaping wounds in his leg and buttocks.

Due to the gross contamination of Ahmed’s wounds, we could not risk operating to fix his fracture.  But due to his huge wounds, treating him in traction would worsen his life-threatening bed sores.  The solution was unusual, but we placed him in traction after rolling him onto his stomach.  For four weeks, he had to lie on his stomach while his femur and wounds slowly improved.

And then, remarkably, he was healed.  And several weeks later, he walked into clinic!

Ahmed, gravely ill, and now walking under his own power!

Ahmed, gravely ill, and now walking under his own power!

I didn’t recognize him.  He wasn’t even limping.  Instead of the poor, dying, semiconscious, badly infected patient, he was a happy, energetic, funny young man.

Some things can never be the “new normal.”  Joyce’s story is one of those situations.  Last week, in the midst of our busy orthopaedic clinic, with 90 patients waiting to be seen, one of the clinical officers came over from “casualty” (the emergency department).  “Dr. Mara, could I show you an MRI scan”  This is a common request, usually patients with back pain who have gotten a scan done in Nairobi and want someone to look at it.  I always ask the clinical officer to describe the patients history and physical exam before we go over the scan, to emphasize that careful history taking and examination are really more important than expensive tests.

“This is a 7 year old girl.  She was healthy until 10 months ago, when her legs became clumsy.  Then she became paralyzed.  She hasn’t been able to walk for five months.  Now she can’t move her arms or legs.  And since this morning, she’s having trouble breathing.”  A quick glance at the MRI scan in the CO’s hand showed an extremely rare condition which is fatal if not treated.  Due to a birth defect in her upper spine, her head was not properly attached to her neck.

Joyce's MRI, showing severe compression of the spinal cord

Joyce’s MRI, showing severe compression of the spinal cord

This creates instability which had progressed to the point where her spinal cord was severely compressed at the base of her skull, at the junction between her spinal cord and her brain stem.  We ran over to casualty.

Over the last months, the spinal cord damage had progressed to paralyze her legs, then her arms, and finally, that morning, was beginning to paralyze the muscles which allowed her to breathe.  She was within hours of dying from respiratory arrest.  We put her on oxygen, and I ran back to clinic to get Dr. Muchiri, our spine specialist.

We left 90 patients waiting in clinic, to quickly put Joyce in traction.

Joyce lying comfortably with the life-saving traction applied to her head.

Joyce lying comfortably with the life-saving traction applied to her head.

Michael and Jane on their way to visit Joyce.

Michael and Jane on their way to visit Joyce.

This is a medieval-looking but painless procedure, done under local anesthetic, which pulls the skull away from the damaged spinal cord and allows healing to begin.  Within minutes, her breathing improved, and she required less oxygen.  Dr. Muchiri and I were breathing a little easier too.

I came home from work that night and shared Joyce’s story with Michael and Jane.  Without hesitation, they adopted her, and decided they needed me to take them to the hospital that night.  Michael went and got a favorite blanket he’s had since he was an infant, and Jane collected a stuffed bunny, an embroidered pillow, a story book, and another blanket.  We went to the children’s ward, prayed for Joyce and her mother, and delivered the gifts.

Joyce, a little scared, but comfortable, and awaiting her life-changing surgery.

Joyce, a little scared, but comfortable, and awaiting her life-changing surgery.

This past Monday, Dr. Muchiri and our neurosurgeon combined their considerable skills to decompress and stabilize Joyce’s spine.  This involved removing some of the bone from the upper spine, and base of the skull, and then using metal plates and screws to fix her skull solidly to her neck.

Joyce is now able to move her arms and legs!  She has a long way to go, but there is every chance she will be able to walk and use her arms normally again.  Children have such amazing powers of healing, and the care she got at Kijabe Hospital has given her the best chance possible for a full life.

Our new normal involves some challenges, but also allows us to witness miracles like Ahmed and Joyce on a regular basis.  As a family, we feel incredibly fortunate to be part of showing God’s love to the thousands of people who come to Kijabe.


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Managing Surgical Emergencies

One of the greatest blessings of living and working in Kenya is getting to be a teacher of surgery.  My work at Kijabe Hospital involves working daily with trainees.  Some are senior level orthopaedic surgery trainees, honing their skills before embarking on their new career.  Some are clinical officers, like a physician’s assistant, who don’t do major surgeries but will be on the front lines of diagnosing and providing crucial early treatment to the injured.  Almost every patient we see, and every surgery we do, involves teaching young Kenyan professionals.  In a country and a continent with a heart- breaking shortage of trained medical personnel, it is incredibly exciting to watch young trainees grow into confident, and competent, professionals.

Much of the teaching we do here falls under the auspices of the College of Surgeons of Eastern, Central, and Southern Africa (COSECSA).  Through COSECSA, I have the privilege of working with and training young surgeons from Burundi, Ethiopia, Kenya, Malawi, Mozambique, Rwanda, Tanzania, Uganda, Zambia and Zimbabwe.  South Sudan and Somalia have also applied for membership in the college.  This is a college without walls, a huge group of surgeons from Africa, Europe, the UK, US, and Australia, who come together to teach the next generation of African surgeons.  Thought leaders in surgical education from around the globe strive to provide advanced training and assessment.  The testing and assessment process is in some ways more thorough than the board examinations I went through in the US.

Amazingly, much of the funding and intellectual firepower behind COSECSA has come from the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland (RCSI).  Visiting faculty from both Ireland and the UK come regularly to conduct courses and administer examinations.  In accordance with ideal development practices, the European influence lessens each year while the African surgeons take authority over this African college.

Beginning last year,  I’ve been privileged to participate in a course called “Managing Surgical Emergencies” (MSE).   This is a week long course, aimed at teaching a core set of surgeries that can save life and limb using low technology and limited resources.  The course is intricate, and extremely fast paced.  The orthopaedic surgery module was designed by my great friend Dr. Yogesh Nathdwaralawa, an orthopaedic surgeon from Wales.  The longest lecture is 12 minutes, followed immediately by hands on application of the surgeries taught.  A very large pig is euthanized so junior surgeons can learn how to drain blood from a bleeding brain, save the life of a baby and a mother with a rapid C-section, stop bleeding in an abdomen traumatized by a car wreck, recognize life threatening infections and fractures, and other vital procedures.

The course is set in a remarkable surgical skills laboratory located on the University of Nairobi campus.  Professors from England, Wales, Scotland, the US, and Kenya teach the different modules.  To date, most of the funding and teachers have been from the UK, but with the class we held last week, this ends, and the African staff take over completely.  This is an historic and exciting moment in African surgical training.

One of the most remarkable things about this course is its practicality.  The students return to their hospitals and immediately start performing these life and limb saving procedures on a daily basis.  I feel if only one surgical course could be taught to medical students and interns in Africa, it should be this one.

In the few days since we finished the last course, I have had two patients who demonstrate the vital nature of the MSE course.  The first is tragic, the second encouraging.

Victor is 10 years old, the same age as my son Michael.  He has been an orphan since a very young age.  About four years ago, he developed swelling and then pus coming from his ankles.  One of the things we teach in the MSE course is how to recognize and treat osteomyelitis, a common, dangerous, and crippling bone infection.  Osteomyelitis strikes the most vulnerable:  the very young and old, the malnourished, those with AIDS.  Likely because of malnutrition and sickle cell disease, Victor had osteomyelitis in both feet and ankles.  The bones of his foot were destroyed by infection, to the point where his tibia, or leg bone, was protruding through the skin.  He is a social outcast, unable to go to school, due to the smelly pus and disturbing appearance of his ankles.  Xrays showed complete destruction of the bones of the foot.  Despite multiple consultations looking for a better answer, the only way for him to survive, go to school, and one day work and have a family, is to amputate both legs below the knee.  With prosthetic legs, paid for by our vulnerable patient fund, he will be able to walk, run, go to school, and rejoin society.  We met with him, prayed with him, and performed the surgeries this past Monday.  Within several weeks, we’ll begin the process of getting him new prosthetic legs.  The silver lining of this awful tale, is that he has discovered his faith while in Kijabe Hospital.  He is reading a Bible, and wants to commit his life to following God’s will for his life.  This has given him a purpose and hope as he faces life with prosthetic legs.  Amazing how God can work through even the most miserable of circumstances.

This could have all been prevented with some simple training in recognition and treatment of osteomyelitis in children.

Our second patient yesterday could be diagnosed from the hallway.  A 45 year old man had been hit by a motorcycle on Sunday, suffering a moderately severe wrist fracture.  A local hospital had put on a full tight cast, something we teach never to do in the MSE course.  Overnight, the swelling had progressed to the point of cutting off the circulation to the arm, a condition called compartment syndrome.  The excruciating pain and numbness brought him to our casualty department (ER).  The astute clinical officers rapidly removed the offending cast, but the cascade of events had progressed too far.  As the arm lost circulation, the pain became intractable, and we could hear the poor man screaming from the hallways by the operating room.

Thankfully, the well trained clinical officers recognized the urgency of the situation, contacted the orthopaedic team, and we rushed to casualty.  Cases were cancelled, we pushed the trolley rapidly through the halls to Operating Theatre 1.  One of our recent junior trainees from the MSE course was by my side, and I asked him to do the surgery he had just learned.  He completed the job beautifully with little guidance, saving the man’s arm.  Though he will have some scarring, he can plan on having normal function once he heals.  I was so proud of our junior clinical officers and doctors, rapidly recognizing and treating this surgical emergency.

These types of disasters and near disasters are a daily occurrence in most of Africa.  So much more work needs to be done, but we can already start to see the benefit of basic surgical training.  If we could take the MSE course to every corner of this continent, many many thousands of lives would be saved, and even more people saved from a life of crippling pain or disability.   It is a great privilege to be part of this process, and we thank God every day for bringing us here.

 

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