-Dr. Samuel
What is it like to become blind? Over the week of the Gambella eye camp, I had ample opportunity to ruminate on this question. I can only imagine the gradual loss of vision which occurs with the more common causes of blindness, and the hopelessness that ensues as the darkness slowly creeps in. With glaucoma, one loses vision from the outside in, first being unable to see out of the corners of the eye until eventually one can no longer see anything at all. When a nuclear cataract first develops, one's reading vision actually improves to the point where some people no longer need to use reading glasses. This joy quickly turns into worry, however, as the nuclear cataract matures and gradually blocks out all sight.
I tried to grapple with the emotions which the blind experience- the depression from realizing that you will never be able to see the faces of your children again, the loss of self-worth from being unable to work or do any meaningful activity, the complete and utter dependency of being reliant on someone else to help you perform even the most basic functions. We even heard stories about some blind people who would cry out at the top of their lungs for help because they desperately needed to use the toilet but had no way of finding it and no one to help them do so.
I tried to grapple with the emotions which the blind experience- the depression from realizing that you will never be able to see the faces of your children again, the loss of self-worth from being unable to work or do any meaningful activity, the complete and utter dependency of being reliant on someone else to help you perform even the most basic functions. We even heard stories about some blind people who would cry out at the top of their lungs for help because they desperately needed to use the toilet but had no way of finding it and no one to help them do so.
One morning, a young man wearing a UCLA t-shirt pulled me aside. His ten-year old brother, he told me, needed to be seen by Dr. Samuel. His brother had been born blind in one eye, and had recently become blind in the other and desperately needed help. As Dr. Samuel came down the line screening patients for operable cataracts, he reached the young boy and gave his verdict- the boy had extensive corneal scarring from trachoma which could not be reversed with cataract surgery, or any surgery available in Ethiopia.
In desperation, the young man grabbed me again. "Have him recheck!" he burst, unable to believe there was nothing to be done for his brother. I calmly re-explained Dr. Samuel's diagnosis, trying to avoid my own conflicted feelings about the boy's case.
As the young man and his little brother dejectedly collapsed on the benches along the hallway, I sat down with them. A wave of hopelessness washed over me as I felt the despair and anguish of the brothers sitting next to me.
"We tried to get him an appointment in Juba, we tried to get him an appointment in Khartoum," the man wailed [Juba is the capital of South Sudan, Khartoum is the capital of Sudan].
The tragedy of this boy's blindness was compounded by the fact that even though they had sought medical care earlier in three different countries, there simply were not enough doctors available to treat everyone who needed care. The young boy's life had been irrevocably altered because of this simple fact, and he was relegated to a lifetime of blindness.
Yet there was still hope amidst the tragedy. Anne-Berit brought up Shashamane school for the blind, which Larry, Sean, Joey, and I had visited near the beginning of the trip. I strongly urged the young man to visit the school with his brother and family- they had the resources to help his brother get an education and could help him live his life to the fullest, despite his visual limitations.
The disappointment of being unable to aid many of the patients was outweighed by the joy of witnessing patients from the previous day regain their sight. As we arrived at the hospital each morning, forty to fifty patients who had undergone cataract surgery the day prior sat in the courtyard just outside the operating room. We would slowly make our way down the line, removing the patches covering the healing eyes and distributing post-op medications, while Dr. Samuel checked the eyes for any complications and, most importantly, for restored vision.
In desperation, the young man grabbed me again. "Have him recheck!" he burst, unable to believe there was nothing to be done for his brother. I calmly re-explained Dr. Samuel's diagnosis, trying to avoid my own conflicted feelings about the boy's case.
As the young man and his little brother dejectedly collapsed on the benches along the hallway, I sat down with them. A wave of hopelessness washed over me as I felt the despair and anguish of the brothers sitting next to me.
"We tried to get him an appointment in Juba, we tried to get him an appointment in Khartoum," the man wailed [Juba is the capital of South Sudan, Khartoum is the capital of Sudan].
The tragedy of this boy's blindness was compounded by the fact that even though they had sought medical care earlier in three different countries, there simply were not enough doctors available to treat everyone who needed care. The young boy's life had been irrevocably altered because of this simple fact, and he was relegated to a lifetime of blindness.
Yet there was still hope amidst the tragedy. Anne-Berit brought up Shashamane school for the blind, which Larry, Sean, Joey, and I had visited near the beginning of the trip. I strongly urged the young man to visit the school with his brother and family- they had the resources to help his brother get an education and could help him live his life to the fullest, despite his visual limitations.
The disappointment of being unable to aid many of the patients was outweighed by the joy of witnessing patients from the previous day regain their sight. As we arrived at the hospital each morning, forty to fifty patients who had undergone cataract surgery the day prior sat in the courtyard just outside the operating room. We would slowly make our way down the line, removing the patches covering the healing eyes and distributing post-op medications, while Dr. Samuel checked the eyes for any complications and, most importantly, for restored vision.
Dr. Samuel checking visual acuity
Patients typically didn't react immediately once the eye patches were removed, but as they began to look around and as the realization that their sight had returned crept in, smiles erupted on faces all over the courtyard. Some patients would point at their grandchildren, finally seeing their faces again, and a few even belted out worship songs and shouted prayers of thankfulness to God. Mario and Sean followed one elderly patient named Gideon back to his house, where his pastor presided over a ceremony and his church choir offered up songs of praise for the transformation in Gideon's life.
One woman who had had her sight restored grabbed my hand and gestured toward the sky, saying something I couldn't understand. "She is saying, 'I thank God for you,'" my friend Jango explained. "I didn't even do anything!" I laughed. I suppose I should be thankful none of the patients licked my hand, which was an experience that befell Sean when an overjoyed woman wanted to express her gratitude.
At the end of each day, despite being drenched in sweat, despite being covered in mosquito bites, despite having to eat meals covered with flies, despite the fatigue of 12-hour days, despite the frustration with argumentative patients or the inefficiencies of Ethiopian healthcare, I felt this unshakeable sense that somehow- somehow -it was all worth it.
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