By Lauren R. Stanley
“Playing doctor” … when we were little kids, that phrase meant pretending to do just that: one child would be the “doctor,” one would be the “nurse,” one would be the “sick patient.” We had pretend stethoscopes, used pretend thermometers, dispensed pretend medicine.
When we were older, it meant … well, it meant something our parents didn’t want us to know about, experimenting, perhaps, with some kissing and whatever else. (I’ll leave the rest to your memories and imagination.)
Today, “playing doctor” has taken on a whole new meaning for me, for now, on a daily basis, I am asked to be a doctor, even though I am woefully both under-trained and under-equipped.
But living in Southern Sudan, where there are not enough doctors and medicine can be either hard to come by or way too expensive, I’m considered an expert. It all started with a colleague ripping open his finger while we were starting a generator. After we staunched the bleeding, I told him he needed to see a doctor, to have it sutured. But he refused. “You fix it,” he said. “I trust you.”
So we went to my house and I pulled out my medical kit and proceeded to clean the wound and bandage it, using homemade butterfly bandages. I slathered it in antibiotic cream, bound it up, and prayed like crazy.
When his hand swelled up the next day, I thought I had not cleaned the wound properly, so we started all over again. It took me a while to figure out that the swelling was not from infection, but from bruising (that generator was, and remains to this day, a beast). The wound healed so well it is almost impossible to see the one and a half inch scar. That’s when my reputation as a “doctor” began.
Then my students at the Renk Theological College started getting sick. They had headaches and aches and pains and coughs. One of them got caught in a dust storm and was nearly blinded by all the grit in his eyes. Each time, the students would ask for my help, and I would do what I could: give out ibuprofen, with careful instructions to eat first; share some muscle creams; put drops in their eyes. And so my reputation as a “doctor” continued to grow.
One night, a friend came to my compound; could I fix her cut hand, she asked. She had cut it the day before and had no money to see a doctor, so I cleaned it up and made more makeshift butterfly bandages. The wound healed well. Now, this friend shows every visitor the scars, which are minimal, and retells the story of me cleaning and bandaging her wound with great pride. My reputation soared.
It’s not that I know a whole lot about medicine, but I do know enough. Once upon a long time ago, I was a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Kenya. Part of our training included medical instruction, for ourselves and our co-workers.
I have two “bibles” here in Sudan … one, the Holy Scriptures and one entitled Where There Is No Doctor, a gift from Peace Corps that I have always kept around. In the former are the prayers I use whenever I am trying to be a healer; in the latter are the instructions for the various medical problems that confront me.
The hardest part for me is when my Sudanese friends trust me to do things that I know are beyond me. Such as when I was asked, at 4 o’clock one morning, to deliver a baby – by Caesarian section. (The book recommends against that.) Or when a student asked me to extract his rotting molar (my dentist warned me never to do that). Or when one friend, knowing that I had had an emergency appendectomy while in the United States, decided that meant I was qualified to do the same for one of his relatives. In each case, I chose instead to provide the money for the procedures from funds I have received for just that purpose from American supporters.
Even though I often don’t want to “play doctor,” it’s not as though we have much choice here. Money is scarce, medicine scarcer so. The few doctors we have are either woefully under-trained themselves, or lack the medicine we need. What can I do but pray and try and then pray some more?
A lot of times, I actually do know what to do. I’ve lived in Africa long enough to learn a lot about treating illnesses and wounds. I’ve even learned – and used – traditional medicines. But there are times when my prayers are more informed than my knowledge.
That was especially the case the other night, when a friend brought her daughter to me. The girl had cut her hand; the wound was serious, deep, already infected. Part of the cut ran between her fingers, where I knew I couldn’t suture, couldn’t bandage. I thought she might lose the use of her little finger completely. I cleaned the wound as best I could and sent her to the doctor. But the next night she was back; the doctor didn’t know how to suture it either. That’s when I remembered that I had some dermal glue, so I cleaned the wound again, applied the glue, wrapped the hand, and prayed. If I hadn’t cleaned it enough … if the glue wasn’t applied correctly … if I hadn’t positioned her fingers just so … I might have done more harm than good. And even though I am not a doctor, I do believe in the Hippocratic oath: First, do no harm.
By God’s grace and a lot of help from friends who have provided me with medical supplies and knowledge, the girl’s wound is healing well. Her infection is gone and the skin is slowly healing. With more grace, she will retain use of her little finger.
Now, of course, the story is going around town of how I “saved” this child’s hand. It’s not true … but the story will grow and grow, and more people will come to me, and I’ll have to “play doctor” again and again …
And I am left to wonder: Do my “patients” realize that the most important gift I bring to my “doctoring” is my prayer?
The Rev. Lauren R. Stanley is an Appointed Missionary of the Episcopal Church serving in the Diocese of Renk, Sudan. She is a lecturer at the Renk Theological College, teaching Theology, Greek, Old Testament and English, and serves as chaplain for the students.