Munachi

|Chapter 23|

I'm sitting and lounging in the shade of the huge old thorn tree, away from the hot Cameroon sun. I smile to myself as I remember the day I knew for certain that God was calling me into the mission field. I'd already been working in a private hospital when the great missionary, Reginald MacDougall, a British man, had come to speak at my church.

I'd been utterly overwhelmed by Mr. MacDougall's passion to give my life in service to others and thrilled to the core when he spoke of the need for strong Christian men and women who could endure hardships and loneliness to go out into the mission field and spread the gospel to the millions who had never heard it before.
And now, here I am, a missionary and nurse in Cameroon, and trying hard to accomplish my ambition of building my very own clinic to saving lives.

“Maîtresse! Maîtresse! Come quick!”

I turn. My houseboy, Jamal, is running down the path from my cottage, kicking dust up behind him and shouting and waving at me.

“Come at once, Maîtresse! A man is hurt, probably dead. Come quickly!”

I look past Jamal and see a small crowd of people standing on my veranda, cluster around someone they had placed on my examining table.
I begin to hurry. My medical supplies are up at the house. Until I can get a real building, I hold my clinic on my wide, shady veranda.

“Who is the man, Jamal?” I ask, as I catch up to him.

“I don't know.”

I bound up the steps of the veranda, the people making way for me, and I see a white man lying on my examining table. His face is worse than white; it's colorless. And there is blood all over his clothes, including what looks like blood-soaked sheet wrap around his chest and another around his thigh. He must have already lost a tremendous amount of blood.

Quickly and carefully, I pull away the clothing from the wound on his chest. A collective gasp goes up from the crowd around me as the gash opens up and squirts more blood. I immediately cover it again. I'll have to sew it up.

“Jamal, disinfectant, quickly! Oh and the opium as well.  Now, hurry!”

I wonder if any organs has been damaged. If they have, then the man would eventually die. There's nothing I can do about that. Even if by chance the wound had missed his major organs, he may have lost too much of blood to survive anyway, or more likely succumb to infection. It will be a huge miracle if he lives through this. But I'll do everything I can to save his life. If including praying.

Jamal returns with the things I'd requested for, and I immediately go to work. First, I give him an injection of opium; then I begin to clean out the wound. When I was done, I once again look at my patient and I note again the unnatural whiteness of his face. I feel certain he has lost too much blood to live. I wish there's an actual doctor nearby. I've never stitched up anyone who'd been torn up this badly.

I take a deep breath and brace myself while I wash my hands in the bowl of steaming hot water Jamal had prepared for me. “Lord Jesus,” I pray as I work, “please save this man's life. Let him live. And Lord, help me. I can't do this alone.”

Three hours on, as the afternoon sun begins to drop behind the big thorn trees to the west of the house, the man is still alive and I'm still sewing, with careful, panistaking stitches. Much on, when Jamal lights the lamp on the table behind me, I tie off my last thread and reach for the disinfectant and bandages.

I, Jamal, and one of the locals, lift the patient carefully and carry him into my bedroom, where we lay him down on my bed. Exhausted, I send Jamal off to the kitchen to fetch me some supper and I walk out into the fresh night air. Sitting down on a big, soft chair, I silently pray for the life of the stranger on my bed.

After having supper, I set up a cot next to my bed where the young man lies, and I lay down to sleep there. Briefly, before dropping into an exhausted sleep, I wonder if he'll be alive when I set eyes on him in the morning sun.

I wake up before dawn. I lay on the narrow cot, confused about where I am. For a minute I thought I'm still in the narrow bunk on board the ship heading to Cameroon. Then, on my bed I see the body lying on it, and I remember.

“Please, Lord Jesus, let this man live,” I whisper as I walk towards the bed. “Preserve his life and heal his terrible wounds. I'm depending on you, Lord, on your healing power to give this man life.”

I reach over and touch his neck. When I feel the very faint beat of his pulse, I let out a long sigh of relief. Since it's still too dark to see anything much, I lay back down and try unsuccessfully to sleep.

When the sun finally appear over the horizon and send its first long rays through my window, I get out of bed again and study the man's face. There's the faintest trace of color in it this morning, a very good sign.

I move to gather my clothes and dress in the closet. I look at my patient again once I'm out of the closet, wishing there's a doctor around to consult with. The fact that I'd been able to sew the man up and that he hasn't died during the night is a miracle in itself. But his injuries, and the subsequent infection which will surely set in soon, are far beyond my nurse's training.

Jamal's just about to knock on my bedroom door when I opened it to see him carrying the morning tea tray.

“Thank you, Jamal, ” I say, taking my tea from him.

I pour myself some tea, and as I sit by the bed sipping thoughtfully, I note that he breathes evenly, but shallowly. I wonder if he'd broken some ribs. I'd tried to feel them last night but wasn't able to tell.

The morning sun is now shinning like a spotlight right onto his face. I stand up and walk over to the window to adjust the curtain. Then, I walk back towards the bed and as I mistakenly bump it a little bit, there's a groan.
Looking down I find myself staring into a pair of strikingly blue eyes.