everything

I mentioned a patient yesterday, a man who was willing to live his life with a tumor on his face if only he could have his hernia repaired and how we didn't think it was going to happen with time so short.

Today, I got to be the one to dance to his bedside, pen in hand, to add to his consent form. Next to excision of submandibular tumor, I printed in my neatest writing, repair of bilateral inguinal hernia.

I thought my eyes alone would betray the good news, but, like so much else here, there was a breakdown in communication. It's happened innumerable times now over the past two-and-a-half years, so often that I barely flinch anymore. It's always the same; I speak my piece, the translator relays what I think is my piece, the patient responds, and the translator comes back at me with an answer as unrelated to the question as chalk is to cheese.

Today, when I told the man that a place had opened up in the schedule, that he would be having both surgeries instead of just one, his face actually fell, his eyes downcast as he shook his head. Puzzled, I asked the translator to ask him if he was happy. The answer came swift, a word even I can understand in Mina. Ah-oh, he said. No.

Still rather confused, I asked the translator to ask him why he was so upset. The answer made perfect sense. If I hadn't just finished explaining about the second surgery. He is feeling sad because we wishes you would leave the thing on his face and take the other trouble instead. He will not be happy when he still has that one.

At this point in the conversation (and remember, this is something that happens to me literally every single day at work here), one's options are limited. You either get mad or you just laugh and repeat, using slightly different words, as many times at it takes until you get an answer to the right question.

So I explained again. A couple more times actually, until I realized that words just weren't cutting it. Thankfully, sign language is fairly universal, and one sharp motion directed towards his jaw and another at his more sensitive bits seemed to do the trick. I actually heard the English words chop it in the translation that time as both words and actions were relayed, and the patient's face broke out into a wide grin.

We shook hands on the deal and I signed my name as a witness to the new consent form.

It may have taken longer than it should have, but the message was finally clear; you will get your life back. Not only will you be able to go into public without people staring, but we will take away your hidden trouble, too. You are twenty-two years old and you will finally be able to work as fast as the other men on your farm.

Fixing a hernia might not seem like the biggest deal when we're normally dealing with things like tumors threatening airways, but for this one man, it's everything.

Sometimes, we can give everything, and it feels good.