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Pus

There is a satisfying give and I feel the rush of hot brown pus over my gloved finger. I work my finger a little more, widening the hole I have made in the man’s chest. He winces a little but the morphine and diazepam given a few minutes ago have spaced him out somewhat. As I injected them he said to me, “Doctor, what makes this fluid in my chest.” I told him it was the same bug that had caused his TB. “So it is not my food or drink?”

"No," I said, "that is very unlikely." He nodded and dozed off.

As I enlarge the hole the pus runs faster soaking the sheets. Sister is watching and looks a little put out, but says nothing. She hands me the drain tube and I push it through the hole between his ribs until 15cm or so of tube has passed into his chest cavity to drain the TB-infected fluid that has been sitting around his lung. Sister connects the tube to a bottle on the floor. I start suturing the tube to the man’s skin to prevent it dropping out and he begins to wake as the diazepam and morphine levels drop. “Done already?” he asks. I nod. He looks at the drain with interest. “Doctor,” he asks, “What makes this fluid in my chest.” I tell him it was the same bug that caused his TB. “So it is not my food or drink?” No, I say, once again, that is very unlikely. He nods.

Sister returns with the dressings for the drain. I have finished stitching. She looks with interest. “Doctor,” she asks, “What makes this fluid in his chest.” I tell her it is the same bug that caused his TB. “So it is not anything he eats or drinks?” No, I say, once again, that is very unlikely. She nods.

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