Sharon, the wife of one of the Heritage math teachers, came to Uganda to help serve as a librarian at the school but also came with the distinct desire to become involved in hospital ministry. Since they arrived she has been looking for ways to connect or begin a hospital ministry. This led her to ask her house help, Domilee, about a possible contact with Mulago hospital in Kampala. Domilee responded that several ladies from her Ugandan church would love to be involved and already have a heart for such ministry. Although they can go and pray with patients, they simply do not have the resources to bring care packages, etc.
Domilee and Sharon decided to team up, connecting muzungu (white) women with local women to help minister at Mulago. Sharon and her husband have had people in the States donate money specifically for this purpose, and they have also given quite a bit out of their own pockets. They were able to put together at least 30 care packages, I would guess; crinkled black plastic bags with some essentials that the Ugandan women had suggested. Every care package had at least a bag of sugar, tea, and a bar of soap.
Today was the first time ministering at the hospital. Since it was a maiden voyage, Sharon was looking for several Heritage women to come along. The initial visit would be to see the place, see the needs, talk and pray with patients and speak to staff about the potential of volunteering on a monthly basis. Even though hospitals back in Canada make me a little uncomfortable, I figured I should go as a show of support.
We all met together at Sharon's home at the arranged time: 12:30. The muzungu women were all there promptly, but we ended up waiting around for almost an hour for our Ugandan counterparts. They had to leave church early to come, so when they did arrive they completely outdid us (as Ugandans often do) in their smart outfits compared to our practical "missionary" wear.
All of us -- 7 muzungus and 6 Ugandans -- piled into a matatu, or taxi, and headed to Mulago. Along the way I learned that Mulago is the "public" hospital in Kampala. It's supposed to be free, but, as the Ugandan women put it, "That means you can sit there for free." To get any services or any medication you must scrape together some of your own cash. When you are in the hospital, it is up to your friends and relatives to feed you, bathe you, change your sheets, etc. While the family system in Uganda is strong, of course there are always those who have no one in their lives and are neglected.
When we pulled into the hospital, we saw another matatu by the doors with a wooden casket strapped on top of it.
We decided to visit one of the adult wards, thinking that the children's wards usually receive more care. We were each paired up with a Ugandan woman; my partner was a soft-spoken, but friendly woman named Annette. Armed with our black plastic bags, we entered the ward.
The ward was divided with men on one side and women on the other. In the centre was the nurse's station. The place was crowded. The walls were dirty. You could see that foam mattresses were sometimes soiled. People were sitting or lying on their hospital beds, eating matooke out of plastic bowls or trying to sleep. Mismatched sheets and blankets -- everything from Cinderella comforters to worn fleece -- covered the beds. Relatives held IV drips, or they were hung by rusty chains dangling from the ceiling. Some patients were lying on thin straw mats on the floor between beds.
I have to say, the family support was impressive. Most patients did have people around caring for and visiting them, and we had even arrived at the tail end of visiting hours. Children cared for sick mothers. Parents were there caring for children. Young men and women cared for sisters, aunts, uncles and grandparents. If there wasn't enough beds for patients, you could imagine where the relatives had to sit or sleep. Sometimes when we approached a raised hospital bed to speak with a patient, one or two relatives would pop out from underneath it where they had been eating or resting on a mat.
Annette and I began going around to pray and talk with people. Annette did most of the talking. Even though I could not understand what was being said in Lugandan, it was obvious that her easy smile and genuine care brought comfort to the patients. She tried to translate occasional bits of information, but her own English was limited. For the most part I smiled (patients seemed surprised to see a muzungu there to visit them), held care packages for her, and laid hands on people while she prayed for them. A few people opted not to be prayed for, so we chatted with them and left a care package; Annette would simply explain to me, "They are not born again." Some patients and their relatives prayed with us in earnest, muttering Amens to Annette's petitions. One young woman, suffering from kidney problems, and her mother were there from Kenya so they did not speak Lugandan. Annette asked me to pray with them in English so that they could understand. I couldn't help but think of my own sister, also a young adult, who was in the hospital for kidney problems just a few years ago.
At one point we came to a small figure on a bed under a sheet. I assumed it was a child -- maybe eleven or twelve years old? She was very weak; her eyes were closed and she only moaned softly, turning her head.
Annette spoke with a female relative standing beside the bed.
"She is suffering from the HIV," Annette told me, motioning to the figure on the bed.
"How old is she?" I asked. Annette looked confused. "How many years?" I repeated.
"Ten years," the translation came back.
"She is ten years old?"
Annette turned back to the woman and corrected her misunderstanding. After a rapid flow of Lugandan back and forth she told me, "No. She has been suffering from HIV for ten years. She is thirty-six years old."
This woman was skeletal. Her face and arms looked like skin stretched over bone. Her hands looked too large for her tiny wrists. I was thankful for the sheet, but even through it I could see that thin legs protruded from hip bones and pelvis. Wilted breasts were the only sign, to me, that she was a woman and not a child.
It was surreal, to hear about AIDS on TV and then to be standing over a woman dying of the disease in a stale hospital ward.
Annette prayed softly over her, even though she did not open her eyes. As we walked away she said, "She is not born again. God help us."
Another pair on our team approached a man lying in his bed with his eyes closed. They tried to gently rouse him, and then realized with a start that he was dead. On our way back out of the ward we saw that the nurses had put a sheet over him.
We passed out the rest of our care packages; by the time we turned to the men's ward, we only had a few left. We prayed and spoke with a few of the male patients and I watched Annette discreetly give each of them a crumpled 1000 shilling bill from her purse (about 40 cents US).
I was humbled at the generosity and ministry of my Ugandan sisters in Christ. I had a package of Gorillos (a corn chip snack, about 20 cents to buy) in my purse that I had been saving for later, since I had skipped lunch. I knew I couldn't leave with it, so I sought out a child I had seen earlier to give it to; for myself, more than anything.
We stopped to give the nurses a gift as well. When Sharon had asked the Ugandan women how we could bless the nurses, they immediately responded: "Towels!" The nurses were happy with their bright, fluffy towels and were encouraged by our conversation and prayers with them.
I thought that I would come home and cry -- because I found the hospital much more upsetting than any of the babies' homes -- but instead it was a strangely numbing experience. An "experience" sounds like such a wrong way to put it. It feels a little pathetic to go there, to be a spectator to suffering, and then be concerned about how it has affected you.
Sickness is always -- at home and abroad -- one of those things where you can only sit with people in their suffering, pray with them, and say sincerely, "I'm sorry."
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