Sylvia's Journal

I went to see our family doctor, a Ugandan MD trained at the university that MSH has supported in the past, for a consultation about some GYN problems. He decided I needed a more thorough investigation by a specialist. I don’t think it is anything serious, suspecting a minor malfunction caused by switching from American to Iranian hormonal therapy and back to the American one. Still, when he could not recommend any specialist in Kabul and started talking about going to Dubai I cringed. Not again!

He ordered an ultrasound which was to be had at the French Medical Institute for Children. It is where Axel went for his X-ray last summer. It was an Afghan hospital experience that was not bad but made me not want to have any more tests done. Going to the radiology departments is a time-consuming proposition; it is a busy place.

I had made an appointment before heading out there. Most people don’t and crowd around the small glass opening behind which one young lady sits, with her computer, a scanner, a printer and a drawer where the money goes. I brought my knitting (the glove, fourth try) which attracted a lot of attention.

One young woman said, in broken English, that she thought knitting was boring. I wondered what the Dari word was that she translated as ‘boring.’ Men stared at me and women came crowding around, asking what I was knitting and for whom. This was an even better Dari lesson than the one hour I missed because of my trip to the hospital.

Once I had paid (18 dollars) and had a stamped receipt with a number (16) I was sent to a corridor without chairs where sundry people waited, some with kids, some with elderly relatives, in front of various doors marked, in English, with the words, X-Ray, CT Scan, Ultrasound. It was unclear what the drill was so I leaned against the wall and continued knitting. More stares and more attempts at conversation. Finally a young handsome doctor (Ultrasound technician/MD) came out and told me to drink much water. I told him if he had me wait much longer I would burst.

Ten minutes later I was in one of the two tiny portioned alcoves, minimal privacy secured with a curtain and bared my belly. I asked him whether Afghan men would object to revealing their wives’ bellies (I had not seen a female Ultrasound technician) but he told me it was rare, and in those few cases they called on the female doctor, who promptly stuck her head around the curtain.

Although the prescription (provided orally by me as per my doctor’s instructions) asked for a pelvic ultrasound he decided to scan all the organs in my belly. Given the low life expectancy of women and the fact that most go from one pregnancy to another and then die, I think a 59-year old menopausal woman was too good an opportunity to pass up; when else would he have a chance to peek inside and see what everything looks like of someone who has only had two babies and expects to live double the Afghan’s life span.

After awhile he triumphantly exclaimed that he found something, one kidney stone and one gall stone. He turned the US screen towards me and showed me the stones. He suggested I come back later in the day, after fasting, and he would do a more thorough investigation of the gall bladder and kidney but I declined. Given the fact that Axel had been carrying along more than a dozen stones for years without knowing it I thought this exploration could wait.

The doctor left me with a wad of paper towels to clean of the gel. The used papers were dropped on the floor next to the overflowing waste basket with towels from those who had come before me. He then left to write the report and I was back among the curious stares of the people in the waiting room.

Fifteen minutes later I was out of the door with pictures and his report (everything OK except the stones). While waiting for the car a young girl (19) approached me and we started to talk in broken English and Dari. I learned she was a journalism student, engaged to be married next summer to another student and then move with him to Dubai. Her eyes lit up. “I hate Afghanistan. It is not a good place for girls or for boys.”

When I asked her who or how would this country change to become more friendly to boys and girls she shrugged her shoulders, saying, ‘I am alone.’ I assured her she was not, and told her about my students, the two who want to become president of Afghanistan, the one who will be a directors of an Afghan business school, and the one who will be Afghanistan’s ambassador to the UN (we are talking 20 years from now at least). I think these visions puzzled her.

We exchanged email addresses. I would love to introduce her to my students.