I can start to see it in their eyes. They just have that look. Maybe I’m starting to imagine things in my paranoia, but I’m beginning to think I can recognize an Ebola patient on sight.
I’ve just come back from another, mostly fruitless attempt to surf here in Liberia.
The man is complaining of abdominal pain like pretty much everyone who comes in to the hospital. I often don’t even examine them.
Today is a holiday in Liberia. Not that anyone feels like celebrating much with the Ebola crisis projected to last 6-9 more months.
Gillian’s taking the day off. She hasn’t had one in a long time. So I start with rounds on the inpatient ward. One of the first patients I see doesn’t look so good. She came in for an incomplet
I don’t know if I’m just getting more stressed and sensitive (which is definitely true in a sense) or if everyone else is also really starting to feel the pressure, but patients seem more on edge,
Gillian asks me to round on pediatrics this morning. The hospital is filling back up again. The first patient is a two year old girl with an amulet around her neck.
I go out to see the man in the taxi. He’s young and strong looking. “What’s his age?” I ask. “Twenty years.”
The baby is back, little baby Moses who can’t peepee. Of course, the catheter I put in yesterday came out. The mother brings it with her.
“She ha’ not go peepee two weeks.” The father seems to implore me with his answer to my question as to why they have come to the Cooper Hospital.