I want to start out by saying that Indian people are beautiful, both physically and culturally. I am blessed to be in their country and want to acknowledge that I, like may other foreigners, am staying in a place that is the home of someone else. Arambal is heavily populated by travelers from many different nations and walks in life. The local community is idyllic and seems quite welcoming to the hundreds of nomadic people who occupy their space during the "season", October to March, the time when people stay here. Oh...except for the friggen hospital!!! I have not told you of my experience, on my second day in India, taking my nephew to the hospital.


Kids get hurt. They get hurt in Canada, America, India and well, everywhere in the world. Kids get hurt. They get hurt by jumping or falling off tall structures. They get hurt running in the street, playing sports, riding bikes or in this case playing with objects that are dangerous. Kid A, a nick name i will use to respect his anonymity, was playing with a glass bottle when he cut his hand. It was a deep enough cut to release an amount of blood to send the three adults present running for materials to begin the clotting process.

To my surprise the first aid training I have kicked into gear at the same time my adrenaline did. We headed off to the doctors with not much more intentions then to find a doctor who would do a quick and simple stitch job. Rachel, Solo, Kid A and myself headed off for the closest doctor who quickly turned us away in the direction of a hospital, just as any walk-in clinic in the west would do.

We headed to a children's hospital which I really have nothing negative to say about. At the time my only small beef with the place was that we had to take off our shoes, a practice I believe is done to insure hygiene levels but made me feel the opposite. They were very accommodating and quite gentle and kind to Kid A who was experiencing his first major injury as a child. I shared stories with him about all the stitches I received as a youngster as we waited for the specialist to come in from home. Rachel let me know that there was concern that he had cut the tendon in his thumb.

The doctor, who I believe was a hand surgeon, had Kid A attempt to do a series of movements with his mangled thumb. Kid A at one point was in pain, crying only a bit at this point, was able to convey that he had "forgotten how to move it".The doctor was quite convinced that he had cut his tendon and offered his services to fix but also confessed that he would not be the best person to do such a intricate surgery. He informed us that at the Goa Medical College was a plastic surgeon who would be the best for the job, not to mention it would be free. Rachel and I pined over these options and decided that seeking the best quality care in the situation would be the best and at hour 6 of this saga headed off for GMC.

OH IF ONLY WE HAD KNOWN!!!

Quality care is not what we headed into to. In fact it was as close to the opposite as one could imagine. My sister even came up with a very probable theory that these nurses, doctors and surgeons where trained to be void of compassion. The experience made the children's hospital look like an oasis of love and care. About eight doctors came and examined his wound, each time not being gentle and asking him to attempt the same movements. The tears got bigger, the screams got louder. It was clean and redressed twice which was probably the most painful process for him as instead of gentle soothing service he was met with rough and mocking doctors. At one point the doctor actually laughed as Kid A shrieked in pain. Rachel seemed to experience new depths of love and care as she watched her oldest child experience pain. She is a rock star of a mother. She held it together, carrying her three month old baby in a sling for 24 hours, not sleeping herself and reassuring her son through all of this.

As I mentioned, 24 hours later they arrived home, I had left earlier to come home and look after the kids, (I forgot to mention that Chinua was away in Amsterdam during all this). Rachel stayed at the hospital through it all, at the request of Kid A, who brilliantly said "I want my family to stay with me" to which Rachel responded "well Uncle Matty is family". "Ya but I want family who is always around to stay" Kid A so elaborately said. He has a gift of putting what he feels and needs into words. He needed his Mama to stay and even though that meant a really uncomfortable and difficult night for Rachel, nursing her baby in a trauma ward while not getting any sleep, she stay. She is a saint.


Kid A made it through all of this and only morned the presence and restrictions of having a full cast on his arm for a day and a half. He looked at me with tears in his eyes the next morning and said "I want to take this off". I replied "ya I know, but you can't". After a couple hours of lamenting he started to forget it was there and begin to figure out how to live with it, using his left hand for every thing, quite well.


India and the people it accommodates are beautiful. Goa Medical Hospital is Satan. Straight up.