Tadessa

           Some days there are five or less people to be seen at the clinic. Other days there is a crowd waiting and a steady flow of new arrivals until we finally close the door. This day, about a month and a half ago, was one of those seemingly endless stream of people days. A man came in that I didn’t recognize and told me that his father was sick and I needed to come see him in his home. He said he couldn’t walk, was very sick, and had some wounds. I asked how long he had been unable to walk or leave his home. He said his dad had been in bed for a year and eight months. All you medical people out there just yelled, “Bed Sores!” That’s exactly what I said. I told him that when I finished with all the patients who were at the clinic I would follow him to his home to see his dad. The man sat on the bench for the next hour and a half waiting for me. The final patient treated, I locked the door and followed the man to his home. It was very close to the church compound where the clinic is, so my parental readers can take a deep breath. J I was not in danger.

I ducked into the dark home, and before my eyes adjusted I could smell the man inside. The entire home is one room. No windows. Just a small table and bed, on which a very wilted old man lay under a heavy felt blanket.

 He had leprosy before, as evidenced by his stubbed feet, fingerless hands, and empty eye sockets. Although now healed from the leprosy, he was completely lame and blind. Flies covered him. They crawled into his nose and flocked in the holes where his eyes had been. I grasped his hand, introducing myself before pealing back the blanket. The man was emaciated, and the smell when I removed that blanket was unlike anything my young nostrils had ever suffered. I took a quick look at the wounds that were there and ran back to the clinic to get what I needed. I grabbed a huge bag of masks along with the wound dressings.

 I put three masks over my mouth and nose for the smell, but still as I cleaned and dressed his sores I audibly gagged several times. I was grateful for his hearing loss in that case. He would turn slowly and cooperatively as I needed him to, and would call out, “Hakim!” (Doctor). There were balloons of pus under his skin in two places, which I drained.  As I worked he yelled and jerked in pain. Each time I uncovered a wound, flies would flock to it. I found scores of maggots crawling between his legs and inside his wounds. They may have been doing something good, but I pulled them all off him. I rolled him over onto his other side to reveal a small open pressure ulcer on his hip. I couldn’t believe how small it was for having laid on it for a year and eight months. There was no sheet on the bed. He was lying on layers of coats. They were so dirty – straw, dead skin, and small stones caked into his sores. There was a lake of thick pus from his wounds underneath him, and he was also incontinent. After cleaning him as best I could, I removed the top layer of coats and put a disposable towel underneath him. I covered his body again with the blanket and prayed with him before leaving. I put him on an antibiotic and pain medicine, and instructed the neighbor lady in the room to turn him frequently, and to change the dressings every day like I had, and that I would come every three days.

I went to his home every three days as I promised. Every time I came, it was worse. The smell lessened, but the pus continued to drain from his body like a spring. And the wounds got bigger and bigger. The true size and depth of them was slowly revealed, until one day he moved his leg, and I realized I was looking at his muscle. Then I saw his bone. Eventually, his entire hip was bare and open.

I visited him on a Thursday and found two screws – apparently he had had surgery at some time - sticking out about an inch in the midst of it all. The wound was yellow, and Tadessa was cold and lethargic.

 Two young ladies from my church were with me on this day - Mandy and Abby Forenz. They had been adopted from Ethiopia four years ago, and were revisiting for the first time. I warned them before entering Tadessa’s home that it was going to be difficult and emotional. I was so proud of both of them when inside. Abby opened and passed me supplies while Mandy spoke soothing words and held Tadessa’s arms that were unconsciously fighting me. When we finished with the wound dressing, we knelt to pray with him. I again prayed that the Lord would just take him quickly. Tears fell from all our eyes, as we realized this man’s time on this earth was almost spent.

I went to his house again the next morning. The door was locked, but when I looked through the cracks I saw the bed was gone. There was a tent outside with people inside it. This is called the likso bet. It’s a place of mourning where people will come and sit with the family for over a week. “He’s gone,” I said. “Praise God.”

Sometimes my job here in Korah is a lot of fun. It’s always hard work, but there is a lot of instant gratification. People are often so appreciative, and I see the fruit of my labor. That part makes it such a pleasure. Other times, like this one, it can be very hard. The first time I met Tadessa, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to make him well again. He was a hospice patient. It was painful to watch him get worse and not be able to stop it. I had the privilege, however, of praying with him often, and reminding him that he was not alone. I told him every time that Jesus was walking with him, and would not leave him. He had four sons – three in the federal prison and the one who brought me lived in the countryside. Everyone had left this man.

But Jesus, Creator of the world, never left him - a reminder also to the healthy.