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Monday AM

“So when did the diarrhoea start?” I ask the mother, and then pause. A lone female voice is lifted in song in the outpatients waiting area. Others join in beautiful harmony and syncopation. I look at the nurse who is helping me: “I love the singing – let’s go and see?”

“You want to join in?”

“May be another time – just watch today.” She leads the way out and there, lined up in front of the doors to the consulting cubicles are the OPD day staff singing songs of praise. The patients who have been sleeping in the department overnight join in. Some may have arrived too late to be seen yesterday. Others had to wait for the morning for transport. The harmonies echo off the high ceiling and reverberate around the room.

At the end one of the male nurses, Ziggi, says “Let us pray” or at least I assume that is what he says. A low muttering fills the room as everyone prays under their breath. A couple of the nurses catch my eye and grin.

Then, after a brief silence, the line breaks up and it is back to work. It is 6:30am. I had a good sleep and was woken only to see a baby with severe diarrhoea – the nurses had already stuck in an IV line (just as well because I have yet to succeed in sticking drips into 2 month old babies) and given fluids even as I was hopping around my room in the pitch black trying to find my clothes in a power outage.

I see a couple of other patients and then nip to the office for the tearful Monday morning reunion with my colleagues, my mood of cheerful euphoria at seeing them after 60 hours a stark contrast to their classic Monday morning monosyllabism. I sigh, sit back and contemplate my next Weekend of Fun.

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