Last day in Soroti

I picked up the chart and flipped it open. I recognized the name immediately – I had assisted on her c-section the morning before. I smile at her. “I know you.” She didn’t return my smile. As I started to write my daily progress note, I saw a note written by the midwife the day before – “After 55 minutes of resuscitation, the infant died at 10.54am. May his soul rest in peace.” The bad news didn’t quite register for a second or so. I looked at the patient, then back at her chart. I re-read the midwife’s note just to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake. The baby had had pretty low Apgar scores – 4 at 1 minute, and 6 at 5 minutes. But I had seen low Apgar scores like that before, especially in cases of c-section due to fetal distress, and the babies usually did fine. I had assumed that this baby would follow suit.

I threw down the chart in frustration and took a moment to collect myself. I sat down by the patient on her bed. “I’m really sorry Toto. I’m so sorry.” The patient had a bland expression on her face. I wasn’t sure if she registered what I was saying. I took her hand in mine and looked into her eyes. “I’m really sorry for your loss. We did our best. I’m really really sorry.” The patient maintained her stoic expression. Her stoicism made me all the sadder. I felt tears creeping into my eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I ask. “Yes. I understand.” And she started to cry. Her tears came and went in a matter of seconds. I could tell she wasn’t used to showing emotion, at least not in front of strangers. Her face went blank again. But I could still see the shadow of her pain written starkly across her features. I couldn’t bear it anymore. I couldn’t stand to face the woman we had failed, the woman whose baby we had not managed to save. None of us even knew that her baby had died. Nobody had bothered to check.

“I’m sorry.” I told her one more time. And then I turned around and walked away – away from her pain, away from her stoicism, away from her resignation to the unfairness of life. I joined the rest of the team on the other side of the ward. I was still sniffling. “Everyone is getting allergies these days,” Lucy remarked. “Seriously,” I replied. A few minutes later, having said my goodbyes to everyone on the team, I walked out the door of the hospital and onto a bus heading back to Kampala. I passed right by the patient without even glancing at her. I never looked back. I will regret that moment for as long as I live.