free to be

Last Day of Clinic
The least, the lost, the last.

…back at clinic for our 8th and final day. Morgan and I were told that we could triage 100 patients that morning. After a break for lunch we would then try to see some of the pastors and their family members who were not able to register due to the conference. Our plan was to be completely done seeing patients by 3:00 pm, pack up the supplies, and go to bed early so we could leave at 0400 for the game park and some African wildlife!

Oh, how plans change.

As Morgan and I were triaging the last two patients that morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about the people waiting outside the door. I wondered what their chief complaint might be…how long they had waited…did they come from far? Hasn’t someone told them yet, that this is it? Why do they still sit and wait: patient; hopeful; expectant? As we sent the final two on their way to see the doctors, I closed the triage door and accidentally made eye contact with what would have been patient #101. As Morgan and I packed up our stethoscopes and papers neither one of us spoke. It wasn’t until the triage door closed behind us that I realized she was crying too. We linked arms and did our best to move forward through the people; our eyes fixed on the ground in front of us. I wasn’t about the make the mistake of locking eyes with someone else.

Self protection. Even after everything, I couldn’t look the people who were left waiting, in the eyes. The thing is, no matter what...whether we were there 1 week or 2 weeks, there would always be one more. And I cannot tell you how awful it feels to walk by...to look away.

At lunch, I didn’t have much to say. We were out of jelly so I couldn’t tell if the lump in my throat was from the tears that were walled up within me or from the peanut butter that just wouldn’t go down. One of the clinic workers spoke with a member of our team. She didn’t think it would be wise to bring the pastors in to us, with people still behind the gate hoping to be seen. To avoid any risk of rioting, they made the decision to allow 50 more patients—a combination of local people and the pastors. And so, that afternoon, #101 came through the triage doors after all.

Just as were closing up for what would in fact, be the last and final time, I stepped outside the triage room and was met by a small crowd of men, one yielding an AK 47. “Sister, sister, please. This man is seriously ill”. I looked down and there was a man, lying in a make shift stretcher with a blanket covering his face. I kneeled on the ground beside him, and removed the fabric. He was emaciated and hot to the touch. I could tell by his appearance that he was indeed dying-likely from AIDS-and while I knew we could do very little, I had them follow me to the treatment room. Unlike hospice patients in the US, there were no morphine drops to offer him for comfort. Instead we gave him a few liters of fluid with hopes that it might lower his fever and make him more comfortable for at least a short period of time. Through the aid of our interpreters we learned that he was a prisoner-hence the AK 47. We offered to pray with him, and he refused. And so, we waited while the fluids trickled in. As I sat on the bed beside him, Scott looked at me and said, “it’s ironic, isn’t it, that he’s our very last patient.”
Since day one we were reminded by our director over and over again of why we were there…to serve and love the least, the lost and the last.
He was all three.
But I wondered what his cup of cool water looked like.
Maybe it was enough just to sit in silence.


As we finally packed things up late that day, I again, felt void of any and all things. Later that night I would become sick…the plans to go to the game park would be put to rest…no 0400 departure. thank you, Lord! But things were stirring in my soul. I craved the very thing I came to offer.