As I settle in to a daily routine during
my first week of interning and classes, I have come to the conclusion that life
in Cape Town really is a rollercoaster, or a wave, as Vernon would say. Every
morning commute starts off with blasting stereos and lively fare-collecting,
destination-shouting “Bachis,” who have no problem expressing their amusement
with the three American girls riding in the haphazard van, over-packed with
locals. Riding the mini bus taxi certainly sets a chaotic tone at 6:30 am, but
it’s the perfect way to mentally prepare for my mornings at Sarah Fox Children’s
Hospital.
On the first day at our internship,
we were given a tour of the facility before getting thrown right into the
feeding room, where we were swarmed by a small army of “hangry” toddlers and
told to help with mealtime. I spent the rest of my first day doing a lot of
similar tasks while trying to get an idea of how things flow in the workplace. We
wound up in the baby ward after pushing the limits of our patience with the
older children and haven’t left since. Considering today only marked the third
day of being in that ward, I’m surprised by how attached I already am to a lot
of the babies. I no longer anxiously search for a name tag when a nurse asks me
to fetch or feed one of the patients. Along with starting to match faces to
names, I have been trying to learn the background stories that explain why each
of the children ended up there. Yesterday’s excessively long lunch break was spent
reading over charts and notes from social workers, compiled in binders marked
for each kid. Many of the children at the hospital are being treated for
non-accidental injuries or fetal drug and alcohol related issues, in addition
to HIV and TB.
I expected to be saddened by a lot
of the cases, but didn’t anticipate the amount of anger that would accompany it.
I understand that many of the respective parents are already fighting their own
battles against poverty, famine, and disease, on top of not being educated
about maternal health. In turn, I need to practice directing my frustration at
the system that has left so many people and their children in terrible predicaments,
rather than thinking solely on an individual basis. On a less serious note, I’m
really surprised by how differently the hospital is run here compared to those
in the US. There are no gloves in the facility, the play area is full of
choking hazards, and the abundance of medications are thrown about in a simple
cabinet, which is usually left wide open. I’m sure as time goes by I’ll stop
feeling like the paranoid, out-of-place American, but in the meantime, I have
to make a conscious effort to not always question the methods to their madness.
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