Monday {01.11.10}

I wake up fitfull, groggy, covered in chilly sweat from a vivid dream about a woman I am enamoured with. I think it over as dawn comes over the mountains. The room is faintly pink. There were tarantulas, and arguments, trucks and hoardes of people. Half dream, half nightmare. I wait as long as possible to get up, the morning is cold even under two goose down blankets lent from the witty British lady who runs the clinic. I walk upstairs to the kitchen, where the other doctor is re-heating the chickpeas the cook made us for breakfast the night before. I pour some hot water, ready to sit for a few minutes and wake up with instant coffee, powdered milk.
Two monks climb up the stairs, one tall and one small. The little one is holding his shirt up over his belly where there is a swollen wound. Tears and snot are running down his tiny face. He is maybe 5, 6 years old. "Can you help?"
I wake up faster this way than coffee could have done it and sit the boy on the bench in the kitchen. His belly is bleeding from a golf ball size swelling just under his ribs. The monks tend to get boils, really big gross boils filled with more pus and blood than you would think holy. It could be that. Then again, it could be an intestinal hernia. Never having seen a hernia before--in the flesh anyway--I ask any questions I can think of to differentiate. Neither of them speak enough english to answer. We go downstairs to the pharmacy/aid room. Joel, the dharma man in residence happens to come by and helps me ask questions. It is likely not a hernia, thank Buddha or Vishnu or whomever you like, as I have no desire to push anyone's intestines back in their stomach. The little monk squirms and crys as I try to clean his belly, dress it as best I can. I fully realize why little kids generally hate going to the doctor and I wish I had a lollipop or a toy or a something to give him.
I rush back upstairs, still in my PJs to start breakfast. Two spoonfuls of chickpeas in, my ride to the satellite clinic where I will be working that day arrives. I'm still in pajamas, hungry, reeling. We send him to have tea and I set a 15 minute time limit for myself to have breakfast, wash my face, change my clothes, pack a bag of medical supplies and get out the door. Small miracles.
Krishna is waiting for me downstairs, I apologise and we leave to get on his bike and ride to Godawri. He is a beautiful man, as any man named Krishna should be. I have been admiring him for weeks now. He has perfect teeth and almond shaped eyes and skin the color of toasted honey. Riding on the motorcycle to the clinic is pretty much the best way for a Monday to start. Half of me wants to be a Nepali girl in his village, help him look after his cow and rabbits and goats that he's told me about and half of me wants to simply be as handsome as he is. I think about this as we ride through the valley.
There is frost on the grass, this may be the coldest morning yet. I learn and forget the Nepali word for frost. All of me is cold save the insides of my thighs where the touch the bike and my driver. Motorcycles are inherently sexy. We ride sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly as the level of pavedness allows. The sky is completely clear, not a single cloud. The mist hangs in the dips of the valleys and the mountains are illuminated by the sun. Goats are chewing grass, ducks and dogs and chickens run around wildly. We pass two groups of donkeys carrying cloth or tools to till the earth. They are fuzzy and cute and seem to like being donkeys. We pass terraces of fields growing mustard and wheat. Fields of uncooked bricks glow.
Krishna likes to take me for tea at a place called "New Market". He likes to joke that new market is in an old place. The man at the tea-tent is happy to see me again. They generally like foreigners here, probably for the money but maybe because we look strange. His wife makes us 'special tea! special!" Krishna and I talk about places in Nepal. Maybe he will come to Pokhara as well when I am there, maybe he will take me boating on the lake. Back on the bike for another 5 minutes or so takes us to the converted school room that is now our clinic. The walls are a strange shade of green that makes everyone's tongues look purple. The patients, throngs of them it seems, are waiting to be treated. I do my best. Some are appreciative, some are getting better, some are whiney, some are needy, some tell me how to do my job. Mostly they are wonderful, but it is exhausting. One patient tells me where to put the needles, exactly. I do as a teacher had once told and 'follow patient predilection', only to have her complain once they were in, lesson learned. One patient wants me to buy her a magnetic belt to help her back pain. Many want miracles, and I only have tiny swords to chase tiny demons.
Sometime mid morning I realize that I have started my period, and am compeltely unprepared. I ask Sonia, our tiny Tibetan interpreter if she has anything that can help. She hands me a 'panty liner' that is about as big as she is, large enough for a mouse to menstruate on and a DIY OB tampon the size of my thumb, compressed. Considering the bathroom consists of a hole in the ground with no access to running, or still, water, I opt for the panty liner. I hope for the best at lunch, maybe they've put in a Walgreens next to the woman with her sewing machine in the street.
Lunch is instant noodles and chocolate and pepsi, care of Sonia and the market down the street. I find a pharmacy and buy what essentially feels like a pair of absorbant cotton pants, which is better than the alternative.
I give 25 treatments, drink more cups of milk tea than any sane person should do.
Krishna picks me up to take me home. It is nearly 5pm and the sky is slowly getting darker. He asks me why I didn't call over the last week, he had wanted to 'take me around'. How many answers do I have to this question? I sadly tell him it's my last time at Godawri, that maybe I'll be back in a year. I promise him an email. The snow capped mountains are blazing pink. This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen.
At home, the other doctor, the cook and the woman who cleans are in the kitchen speaking different langauges and making pumpkin and roti (chapati/bread) for dinner. Everyone is giggling and we drink coffee and eat "Lay's Tomato Tango!" chips. The cook tells me I've lost weight (Thanks, Giardia!) and I can't quite tell through the giggling if she takes this as an insult to her cooking, but given her nature I doubt it.
Dinner is ready but I can't bring myself to eat, as pumpkin is one of the many things I had been sick with in the weeks previous to the miracle known as anti-giardia anti-biotics. I lay my head on the table and am terrible company, moaning about being sad to leave.
It is time for the monks' clinic again and I head downstairs. The little monk I saw in the morning comes in again. His stomach looks the same and I decide to bleed it and cup it to help the swelling and pus and pain. Again, he cries and squirms and I feel like a monster.
The littlest ones are treated, and I am standing with 3 older monks-one interpreter and two others. One lifts his robe to reveal some scratches he got when he fell a few minutes earlier. I gasp in mock horror and clean his small wounds. He leaves. Radna, the interpreter says the 3rd monk has 'some problem'. He lifts his robe to show wads of cotton stuck to 4-5 patches of dried pus and blood. I have to tear off the cotton and clean his ridiculously infected leg. He's waited several days to come and see me and I half jokingly scold him. Sarah and I tag team the wounds. She is good with getting out the pus and I am good at cleaning it up once it's out. It may be the worst infection I've ever seen, it takes about an hour to clean and bandage. We are running out of bandaging materials and we only have the scratchy stuff left. We contimplate antibiotics. I decide to give him the strongest anti-bacterial, anti-viral herbs we have, lots of vitamin C, and wait till morning.
There is hot water enough for a shower, and I wash off the day only to find myself having to hunt for the hair dryer which had mysteriously been left behind the clinic front desk.
I crawl into bed generally feeling as if I'd been dropped off in the woods with a brick and a pack of juicy fruit and told to make a phone to call for a ride home.
Tuesday is slightly less dramatic.