There's something beautiful in the simplicity, chaos, and unpredictability of a small health clinic. It's like a dance; until you know the steps, you get lost in the chaos and whirlwind of people. Then suddenly the masses have names, you learn individuals' faces and pains, the doctors start to trust you, and you see patterns in the ebb and flow of patients. The chaos clears and you're left with simple people needing help.
Today was our first day in the refugee health clinics. I was part of the chronic disease unit at Baqa'a, the largest refugee camp in Amman. Over 80,100 Palestinians live there in concrete ghettos; the narrow streets are overshadowed by cardboard, corrugated metal, and webs of electrical lines. Driving down the hills into the valley, you can see the density of the camp. The homes are so close, the camp looks like a grey cloud sprawled across the landscape. We parked in front of the clinic: a boy on a donkey waved as he rode past, a little girl tiptoed around water pooling in the street cracks, and the street vendor chased flies from his grapes and apricots. Graffiti peppered the concrete walls with scrawling messages we couldn't read. A baby cried.
The clinic itself is small, clean, and white with blue highlights....the colors of UNRWA. Little curious eyes peer over the 2nd floor balcony as we enter and meet the clinic director. Two stories with 16 rooms, the clinic was built in 1994 by the French and then turned into a UNRWA health clinic just a few years ago. The doctor I'm shadowing said he sees about 50-60 patients a day. Between themselves, the four general and non-communicable disease doctors see over 700. It's incredible. A 3-year old with wide brown eyes and tight curls came in with severe meningitis after eating contaminated ice-cream. One boy had salmonella, another had herpes, a little girl came in with a facial fungus, and multiple dozens of middle-age and elderly came in with advanced diabetes or hypertension. It was sobering, but the doctor handled it with such grace and patience, even in the exasperating moments. Previously, he was an emergency room doctor at a government hospital, but he gave up the title and salary to work with the refugees. At one point during the surge of patients, he closed the door and looked at Matt and I. "You can't do this job for the salary. It's not about the money, it's about the people. That's the soul of medicine."
It was beautiful being at the clinic. Beautiful in a hot, sticky, dusty way. Beauty even in a cramped clinic with screaming babies, stressed nurses, demanding patients, and not enough time. Even amidst the clamor of hundreds of sick people, when you make that one mother smile with relief or counsel a man with pre-diabetic symptoms, the chaos becomes beautiful.
Today was our first day in the refugee health clinics. I was part of the chronic disease unit at Baqa'a, the largest refugee camp in Amman. Over 80,100 Palestinians live there in concrete ghettos; the narrow streets are overshadowed by cardboard, corrugated metal, and webs of electrical lines. Driving down the hills into the valley, you can see the density of the camp. The homes are so close, the camp looks like a grey cloud sprawled across the landscape. We parked in front of the clinic: a boy on a donkey waved as he rode past, a little girl tiptoed around water pooling in the street cracks, and the street vendor chased flies from his grapes and apricots. Graffiti peppered the concrete walls with scrawling messages we couldn't read. A baby cried.
The clinic itself is small, clean, and white with blue highlights....the colors of UNRWA. Little curious eyes peer over the 2nd floor balcony as we enter and meet the clinic director. Two stories with 16 rooms, the clinic was built in 1994 by the French and then turned into a UNRWA health clinic just a few years ago. The doctor I'm shadowing said he sees about 50-60 patients a day. Between themselves, the four general and non-communicable disease doctors see over 700. It's incredible. A 3-year old with wide brown eyes and tight curls came in with severe meningitis after eating contaminated ice-cream. One boy had salmonella, another had herpes, a little girl came in with a facial fungus, and multiple dozens of middle-age and elderly came in with advanced diabetes or hypertension. It was sobering, but the doctor handled it with such grace and patience, even in the exasperating moments. Previously, he was an emergency room doctor at a government hospital, but he gave up the title and salary to work with the refugees. At one point during the surge of patients, he closed the door and looked at Matt and I. "You can't do this job for the salary. It's not about the money, it's about the people. That's the soul of medicine."
It was beautiful being at the clinic. Beautiful in a hot, sticky, dusty way. Beauty even in a cramped clinic with screaming babies, stressed nurses, demanding patients, and not enough time. Even amidst the clamor of hundreds of sick people, when you make that one mother smile with relief or counsel a man with pre-diabetic symptoms, the chaos becomes beautiful.
Proud of you!
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