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1
CEDRICK
The nurse appears in the doorway, out of breath from running.
“Dr. Vanecourt! You’re needed to operate on a trauma patient…”
I give a nod. I’ve seen ten patients in the last few hours for conditions ranging from childbirth to gallstones. Usually this part of the day is a lull, but not today.
The patient on the bed is just waking up from anesthesia. She looks around, seemingly unsure of where she is.
“Your surgery went beautifully, Mrs. Harb.” I’m washing my hands, preparing to get to the operating theater as quickly as possible but trying to give her individual attention as she regains awareness.
She looks around, eying the IV drip and machines in the small village hospital, recognition dawning on her face. “Oh, good. Thank you, Doctor. Am I ready to go home?”
She looks down at her stomach and touches the bandage.
“Not yet, but the nurse will give you instructions for treating the incision. Make sure you come in two weeks to follow up, and call if you need anything.”
“Thank you again, Doctor.”
“Doctor?” The nurse’s face grows more insistent, and I follow her out into the dimly lit hallway. Electricity is scarce in this part of Yemen, and we need to conserve it.
“Tell me about the patient.” I walk briskly, although it’s such a small hospital, it’s only a few meters distance.
“A bomb went off this morning, and a little boy suffered severe shrapnel wounds. He’s seven. We’re controlling blood loss, but there’s a chance his vital organs have been hit. He’s bleeding from the head, too, but we’re not sure how deep the wound is.”
I put on gloves, a cap, and a surgical mask in seconds. The patient on the table is hooked to machines and prepped for surgery.
“What’s the patient’s name?” I ask the anesthesiologist.
“Issa Ali. He has damage to his liver, the back of the skull, and his legs.”
I ask for instruments as the nursing staff holds the skin in place. I can see the metal splinters glinting in the bright lights of the operating area. Based on the blood internally, I know there’s a larger piece to carefully remove from behind.
I suture the organ after extracting the metal carefully, then move to the other, less critical wounds.
An hour later, the patient is sewn up, with twisted fragments of metal in a sterilized tray serving as evidence of the trauma he suffered. He’s stable.
“Are his parents here, Virginie?” I ask the nurse who summoned me. Her hazel eyes bear a new sadness.
“His mother is. She’s out in the waiting room.” She pauses and shakes her head. “The father didn’t make it out of the bombing.”
I nod grimly. “I’ll go speak to her.”
I take off my gloves, mask, and surgical gown, wash my hands, and head to see the child’s mother.
On the face of every child who comes in needing life saving care, I see a small reflection of my best friend Henry in the final moments of his life. I held his hand as he took his last breath when we were kids. From that moment on, I knew I had to devote my life to healing people.
I’ve been a doctor for five years, and I’ve worked in the medical field for more than a decade, since I was fifteen, but it’s impossible to get used to the heart-wrenching sight of a child on the dividing line between life and death.
The agony on the face of their parents is just as bad. I’m just glad that I can comfort some of them. But not all.
“Mrs. Ali, I’m Dr. Vanecourt.”
A small woman with bloodshot eyes and dark hair starts to rise, and I motion for her to sit.
“How is Issa?” Her hand is clutched to her heart, and her eyes start welling.
