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Hope you’re doing well. I know everyone misses you around here.
Best,
Declan
I shoot off a quick reply thanking him and am excited to go to work. There’s obviously no printer here, so I pull up the list and keep it on the screen, knowing making these phone calls is going to eat up all my minutes, but I don’t care. I’ll just add more. It’s not like I spend money on anything else. The organization provides me with food and shelter. Occasionally, if I’m just tired of the food, I’ll catch a ride into the main city and hit the little grocery store for snacks or meat I’m craving.
Workouts have been near nonexistent and I miss them dearly. My bulk is gone, but thankfully I haven’t added much fat, mainly due to the diet here. It’s been an adjustment, but I’m mentally more focused and don’t ever feel sluggish after a meal. There is no alcohol or any sort of recreational drugs here either, so my mind’s been clear.
Almost too clear sometimes. There are nights I long to drown my sorrows in some liquor, and quickly realize I don’t need it. Even at home, I’m not supposed to drink being on parole. I’m honestly shocked my P.O. signed off on letting me come here. I keep expecting to get a phone call that I’m needed back home and that my parole has been revoked.
But that hasn’t happened yet. She just required that I check in with her by phone once a week and by email as well, detailing what I did that week. At first, I was annoyed, but after the first couple of weeks, I realized it was almost therapeutic, and that by sending her these detailed emails, it was like journaling. I type them in a word processing program titling each one with a date, and send them to her that way so I can keep a copy for myself, should I ever accidentally delete my emails. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. I am not like my sister. Computers hate me.
I pull up the first contact, Anco Pharmaceuticals, and dial the number. It rings three times.
“Mr. Anco’s office, how can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Eric Andrews with Doctors Around the World. Can I speak to Mr. Anco?”
“He’s in a meeting, but I can have him call you back.”
Shit.
“Well, I’m actually in Africa at the moment if he doesn’t mind calling international.”
“That’s fine, sir. Go ahead with the number when you’re ready.”
I prattle it off to her and we hang up with a promise that he’ll call me when he’s done.
Two more phone calls go about the same way, and I pray at least one calls me back. The third one I let them know that we have some urgent patients here in need of life-saving medicines, hoping to appeal to their human side.
We’ll see.
I close the laptop and head to the mess hall, excited to see they have chicken, pasta, and corn. Sometimes we don’t get a really good solid protein. I take the plate the attendant dishes up, and sit at one of the many tables.
I see Clive headed toward me with his plate and a glass of milk.
“How’s it going, mate?” he asks in his strong accent.
“I’m good. It was a good day. How about you, man?” I ask, cutting into my chicken breast when I’d rather pick it up and devour it like a caveman.
“I almost lost a patient, it was dreadful,” he replies, looking sad.
“Wow, I’m really sorry to hear that, but it sounds like they’re gonna live, huh?”
He nods. “Yes, but it’s touch and go, you see. Just like the kid from a few weeks ago, this one also fell off his motorbike but this was an adult. Head injury and broken clavicle, and as you know, nothing can be done for it, so he’s going to be in quite a bit of pain.”
“Did you give him morphine?” I ask.
He nods. “A bit, but we’re running low, so we got to ration it some.”
I cringe. A broken clavicle is very painful and aside from a sling to keep the arm from jostling it, there’s no real treatment but painkillers. I feel a little angry we’re low on meds again. What the hell is taking so long to get this shit here?
“How’s the head injury?” I ask.
“Hard to say, I saw brain swelling on the X-ray but of course, I’d rather an MRI be done. Not going to happen, I know,” he replies, spooning some corn into his mouth.
“Maybe he should be transported to the main city,” I suggest. Of course, if I had my way, I’d have them all sent to the big city for better care. Kwame first.
