Skip to main content

The first time was a chicken

“Come. Now.” The nurse grabs my hand a physically drags me to a cubicle. Inside, three nurses are gathered around a tiny baby. It is emaciated and dehydrated and has clearly a victim of gastroenteritis. And probably HIV.

One of the nurses looks up. “We cannot get an IV line doctor. You must try.” My heart sinks. If these guys cannot get a line into a 6 month old my chances are nil. I have an embarrassingly poor success rate of achieving IV access in babies. In fact, I don’t think I have ever successfully achieved it where the nurses failed.

The child clearly needs fluids urgently. Without any expectation I look at the baby’s hands and scalp. I cannot see anything remotely resembling a vein. “We will have to do an intra-osseous line,” I say. In children the bone marrow is fairly vascular and pushing a needle into it allows fluids to be given in an emergency situation. I rifle through the drawer looking for a suitable a needle and in the end settle on the tiny orange needle used for local anaesthetics.

“Have you done this before?” asks a nurse.

“Yes. Of course.” I do not mention that I have done it once. 10 years ago. In Liverpool. On a chicken thigh. From Sainsbury’s.

I palpate the baby’s leg and feel the tibia through the skin. Taking my needle I twist and push it through the skin. I cannot help myself wincing slightly as I do so. There is a grinding noise as it passes through the bone. Then a sudden give as it enters the marrow. I nervously feel the other side of the bone, suddenly terrified I might have pushed it right the way through the tiny tibia. Nothing there. I let go of the needle and it sticks there solidly, wedged in the bone. I connect a syringe and squeeze fluid through. It goes through. I feel the leg – it seems to have entered the bone rather than the leg. I push more fluid through.

Half an hour later the baby is looking distinctly improved. Hendy our paediatrician pops in. He offers to do a line. I am ashamed that there is a sense of relieved satisfaction when he give up on one hand and moves to the other. If a paediatrician couldn’t do it…

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Otherwordly isolation

I lean across the reception desk and catch the attendant’s eye. “Sawubona,” I say, dusting off my rusty Zulu. I see you. “Sawubona, ninjani?” she replies. I see you, are you well? “Ngiyapela.” I’m fine. She grins at me. “You must be a doctor.” “I am! How did you know?” “It is only the doctors around here who use Zulu. Even if it is only the greetings.” She arches an eyebrow. “I used to work here, at Hlabisa hospital up the road. I have a few other Zulu words, you know like ‘Does it hurt?’ and ‘Take a deep breath’.” She laughs. And then launches into an excellent impression of an elderly Zulu lady rattling off a series of complaints, waddling across the reception area clutching her back in mock agony. She gets it exactly right. I have come up to KwaZulu-Natal for a few days. Tonight I am staying in the Hluhluwhe-iMfolozi game park, 20 minutes or so from where I used to work. Awarded my entry ticket, I drive into the park. The sun is low in the sky, the kills bathed in amber light. I ta...

10 years on

The door flies open. Lele peers in. "You must come out here and see. They are doing a play!" I finish up my case file annotation and come to the doorway. The waiting area is in chaos. A gang of school children are manhandling a couple of marimba's to the space in front of the consulting rooms, a team of nurses and counsellors are creating a stage area. Patients look on mutely. Some with interest, others - presumably feeling proportionately less well - without. "What is going on?" I ask. "It is 10 years since the clinic started. 10 years since MSF first started the HIV treatment programme and proved that it could be done in Africa. So the staff are celebrating. They are doing a show or something." The sister in charge of the clinic has moved to the front of the crowd of patients. She calls for silence and then gives a short introduction. Lele translates for me. "She is saying that this is a very important day. 10 years ago people were dying. And 10...

The first rule about run club

This is what death will be like. My heart is pounding, chest constricting, I can barely lift my foot from the ground. The sweat pours from me and my head pounds. It is Thursday run club. An hour ago Ibby was rounding us all up, exhorting us to get a move on, and allocating us to vehicles so we could lurch through Freetown’s commuter traffic to Lumley Beach on the west side of town. Half way there, the traffic solid and the heat stifling we hailed a street trader and we bought packets of drinking water (improbably branded “CLIMAX”) and biscuits (incongruously labelled “made in the UK for Aldi”). A King’s Sierra Leone Partnership tradition – started by Ibby some years ago – the whole team go beach running after work every Thursday. “The route’s fine” they tell me. “Flat, and you can 5k or 7.5k”. It started well enough but it’s 28 degrees and my pale body is unprepared. The route is straightforward but weaving in and out of other runners, stray dogs, unexpected ga...