The same old spinning confusions of frustration twinned with resources, ability and will to change. Watching – like a passive witness brought in for a few hours a week to return to a ‘safe’ bubble of relative reality. Work at the station dispensary has taught me a great deal from the practical to the philosophical. I have learned how to bandage wounds properly, clean deep infections and entertain scared children, but perhaps the most profound lesson has been the endurance of the human mind to deal with the deep and unrelenting pain of the human body. I have had the luxury to watch tremendous suffering and to sit uncomfortably with the realization that it is a consequence of the unacceptable conditions which too many of our brothers and sisters do not live with but rather have no choice but to deal with – to die with.
The majority of the patients who come to Sealdah dispensary have injuries to their lower limbs – mainly ulcers. The majority are men, but women and children come to. The kids usually live at the station and are dealing with self-inflicted injuries. A huge problem for the boys living on the streets is 'membership' of belonging to their new family; of proving their resilience. One way to 'prove' themselves is to take a razor blade and cut their forearms. Many are high on glue so seem immune to the pain, but if it becomes infected they might appear at the dispensary, backed by their curious gang, all bearing the thick pale scars on their soft young skin. Another risk for the street kids are their station games – running along the tops of the trains, or jumping into a moving train and then leaping out of the other side. These kids do not usually make it to the dispensary, but last year I met a survivor who was in rehabilitation. The boy was thirteen. He was learning to live with one less arm than his remaining friends.
The other kids who come to the dispensary are just keeping their mothers company – one little guy watches me from the doorway, scared to come closer but staring intently as his mother as she sits down opposite me. His nervousness softens after I hand him one of the bananas hidden in my apron, and the little piece of fruit consumes his wandering attention.
His mother is younger than I am, and she is beautiful – glowing with energy through her red sari made of cotton and washed soft. We study each other carefully and sporadically, while she tries to explain her affliction. She has just been to the government hospital and hands me her report and prescription. The report describes the “human bite on right middle finger” and the prescription is for oral and topical antibiotics – neither of which she can afford. She motions for her son to join her and he quickly walks the few paces to her side and stands as close as space allows, banana tightly clasped in his fists. I muster a tone of non-judgment and hidden curiosity, as I do not need to know who bit her in order to dress her severely infected finger, but I ask anyway. She replies with a look, then a gesture than a word, 'husband'.
Some people who come to the dispensary are healed. Others (according to the registrar) have been coming for more than ten years. But the dispensary is not a hospital, or even a clinic – we simply clean and dress wounds and where possible provide basic medication. We have a store room full of antibiotics and fancy dressings, but they remain 'stored' until they go out of date and then perhaps are thrown into the rubbish for the rag pickers to use. At the moment none of the volunteers who work there are trained medics. The Sisters who supervise our work are more paranoid about guarding the entrance from drug users and turning away anyone who comes after closing time. Over Christmas the supply of gauze and saline solution was used as a base on which to build the nativity scene, and we had to either creatively look for alternatives or surrender and pay a visit to the local chemist. At that time the dispensary closed for two days out of the three days in the week which it is open, and in protest Bruno and I opened our own little makeshift clinic outside. The Sisters never knew, but the patients gave us deep and humbling Namaste’s, providing me with a renewed sense of purpose and Bruno with a deeper sense of anger at our part in a machine which refuses to benefit those which it exists to serve.
As the months have passed I have made 'friends' with people I can hardly say two words to, but who have allowed me to try and relieve their suffering and done so with total acceptance of their situation and with no expectations. Sometimes I cry empty tears full of frustration, as the same old men and women will religiously come into the dispensary and flash a huge smile at me before rolling up their trousers or saris to show me their severely painful and infected wounds, which continue to refuse to improve. I have no other medical knowledge other than what I have learned in a first aid course and from what I have accumulated while working in India. But I am able to excuse my lack of training by knowing that even if I were a doctor, to try and administer antibiotics to patients who come some days and not the rest, or who have undiagnosed medical conditions such as HIV or TB, or who will walk outside into the filth with a clean bandage wrapped around their foot and no shoes, would be a even greater challenge. Even trying to change the attitude of the Sisters or long term volunteers requires infinite patience and determination. Theirs is a sense of defeat, or rather a dangerous acceptance that this is the reality, and it is and will remain impossible to change. I watch as some volunteers dress wounds without the blink of an eye; without discussing taking the patient to a hospital, or of paying for a diagnosis. I listen to myself feebly argue and then wallow in disappointment as not even the patients have the will to fight and it is just easier to surrender to the system.
I am left hoping that despite the refusal of the Missionaries of Charity to employ a local doctor or even to filter through a volunteer doctor, or to responsibly use the thousands of pounds worth of donated medicines, that small and continuous improvements can be made. Perhaps if the dispensary continues these small changes, such as to disinfect the tables after each patient or giving everyone some fruit to encourage them to return on the next session, then eventually larger improvements can be instigated. Larger improvements which will provide a service for those who most need it - a simple, free and effective medical treatment with the goal of alleviating the suffering of people no different from you and me. People no different from you and me but who just do not have the money or the means to pay for their health, so instead do what only they can do – accept.
The majority of the patients who come to Sealdah dispensary have injuries to their lower limbs – mainly ulcers. The majority are men, but women and children come to. The kids usually live at the station and are dealing with self-inflicted injuries. A huge problem for the boys living on the streets is 'membership' of belonging to their new family; of proving their resilience. One way to 'prove' themselves is to take a razor blade and cut their forearms. Many are high on glue so seem immune to the pain, but if it becomes infected they might appear at the dispensary, backed by their curious gang, all bearing the thick pale scars on their soft young skin. Another risk for the street kids are their station games – running along the tops of the trains, or jumping into a moving train and then leaping out of the other side. These kids do not usually make it to the dispensary, but last year I met a survivor who was in rehabilitation. The boy was thirteen. He was learning to live with one less arm than his remaining friends.
The other kids who come to the dispensary are just keeping their mothers company – one little guy watches me from the doorway, scared to come closer but staring intently as his mother as she sits down opposite me. His nervousness softens after I hand him one of the bananas hidden in my apron, and the little piece of fruit consumes his wandering attention.
His mother is younger than I am, and she is beautiful – glowing with energy through her red sari made of cotton and washed soft. We study each other carefully and sporadically, while she tries to explain her affliction. She has just been to the government hospital and hands me her report and prescription. The report describes the “human bite on right middle finger” and the prescription is for oral and topical antibiotics – neither of which she can afford. She motions for her son to join her and he quickly walks the few paces to her side and stands as close as space allows, banana tightly clasped in his fists. I muster a tone of non-judgment and hidden curiosity, as I do not need to know who bit her in order to dress her severely infected finger, but I ask anyway. She replies with a look, then a gesture than a word, 'husband'.
Some people who come to the dispensary are healed. Others (according to the registrar) have been coming for more than ten years. But the dispensary is not a hospital, or even a clinic – we simply clean and dress wounds and where possible provide basic medication. We have a store room full of antibiotics and fancy dressings, but they remain 'stored' until they go out of date and then perhaps are thrown into the rubbish for the rag pickers to use. At the moment none of the volunteers who work there are trained medics. The Sisters who supervise our work are more paranoid about guarding the entrance from drug users and turning away anyone who comes after closing time. Over Christmas the supply of gauze and saline solution was used as a base on which to build the nativity scene, and we had to either creatively look for alternatives or surrender and pay a visit to the local chemist. At that time the dispensary closed for two days out of the three days in the week which it is open, and in protest Bruno and I opened our own little makeshift clinic outside. The Sisters never knew, but the patients gave us deep and humbling Namaste’s, providing me with a renewed sense of purpose and Bruno with a deeper sense of anger at our part in a machine which refuses to benefit those which it exists to serve.
As the months have passed I have made 'friends' with people I can hardly say two words to, but who have allowed me to try and relieve their suffering and done so with total acceptance of their situation and with no expectations. Sometimes I cry empty tears full of frustration, as the same old men and women will religiously come into the dispensary and flash a huge smile at me before rolling up their trousers or saris to show me their severely painful and infected wounds, which continue to refuse to improve. I have no other medical knowledge other than what I have learned in a first aid course and from what I have accumulated while working in India. But I am able to excuse my lack of training by knowing that even if I were a doctor, to try and administer antibiotics to patients who come some days and not the rest, or who have undiagnosed medical conditions such as HIV or TB, or who will walk outside into the filth with a clean bandage wrapped around their foot and no shoes, would be a even greater challenge. Even trying to change the attitude of the Sisters or long term volunteers requires infinite patience and determination. Theirs is a sense of defeat, or rather a dangerous acceptance that this is the reality, and it is and will remain impossible to change. I watch as some volunteers dress wounds without the blink of an eye; without discussing taking the patient to a hospital, or of paying for a diagnosis. I listen to myself feebly argue and then wallow in disappointment as not even the patients have the will to fight and it is just easier to surrender to the system.
I am left hoping that despite the refusal of the Missionaries of Charity to employ a local doctor or even to filter through a volunteer doctor, or to responsibly use the thousands of pounds worth of donated medicines, that small and continuous improvements can be made. Perhaps if the dispensary continues these small changes, such as to disinfect the tables after each patient or giving everyone some fruit to encourage them to return on the next session, then eventually larger improvements can be instigated. Larger improvements which will provide a service for those who most need it - a simple, free and effective medical treatment with the goal of alleviating the suffering of people no different from you and me. People no different from you and me but who just do not have the money or the means to pay for their health, so instead do what only they can do – accept.
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