A Bit Fine: Part 3 (The Finale)

On Monday morning, the beginning of the fourth day in the hospital, Milton woke and not a drop of fluid or blood had leaked from his ears onto his pillowcase.  Dr. Joel said this was a positive indication that the wounds in his face were healing properly and if there was no leaking during the next 24 hours then Milton could be discharged on Tuesday. Milton looked at me with bright eyes and said, "God is hearing me and healing me."  Then he went back to sleep.

While Milton rested I spent Monday washing clothes and paying all the outstanding hospital bills so we would be ready to leave Tuesday if given permission.  My primary concern was obviously Milton's health and I had no desire to leave earlier than advised, but I have to admit that nearly four days of being confined to a hospital and subjected to bad Ugandan television shows was close to my limit.

At 6:00 on Tuesday morning the hospital came to life and I listened as the nurses walked the hallway with their squeaky shoes, dragging heart-rate monitors to their patients’ rooms. Such ordinary sounds but a reminder of an enormous blessing.  Last year a boy who lived down the road from the orphanage fell from a tree, his family is exceptionally poor and couldn't afford any doctors visits or medicine.  He died from a broken back after suffering for more than a month.  

Milton was enjoying his breakfast of bread, banana, hard boiled eggs and hot tea when Dr. Joel came for his daily visit.  After carefully examining Milton's head and bed linens he declared that he was healing remarkably well and could be discharged that afternoon.  Queue the hallelujah chorus, that was music to our ears!

Of course, we couldn't leave without incident.  International Hospital Kampala is private and every morning I got an invoice of the previous day's charges.  On two separate days there were charges for major services that Milton didn't receive: a CT scan that was done at the other hospital, which we'd paid, and a charge for an ultrasound, which never happened.  On Tuesday I got the invoice and the fee for each of Dr. Joel's five visits had doubled from 50,000 Uganda shillings (about $22) to 100,000 Uganda shillings.  I had already paid for four visits at the rate of 50,000 UGS but was now being charged 100,000 UGS for those same visits.  I was l-i-v-i-d.  I'd been warned that most people would see a white American and assume that I was very rich, and in fact the first day in the hospital one of the girls delivering meals asked me if I would sponsor her university fees.  Little did they know that rich is not a word that applies to me, so I quickly walked to the billing administrator and, rather calmly, told them there was NO WAY I was paying for charges that had already been settled.  She didn't understand my reasoning and I explained, "It's like if I went to the cafe yesterday and paid 2,000 shillings for a Coke and now you're telling me that today the price has increased to 3,000 shillings so I owe you 1,000 shillings.  I've read the Patient's Rights pamphlet and I know that if the price of something increases we are to be told in advance by the doctor.  This did not happen and if you do not retract these charges I will go to the manager of the hospital."  All it took was a quick call to Dr. Joel and the charges were fixed.  It made me wonder how often the hospital included erroneous charges on patient invoices without the patients challenging them.  Point for justice. 

This incident didn't help with my anxiety to leave the hospital and at 3:00pm we were in a taxi on the way to a hospice where we'd stay until Thursday, the first day we could get a flight out of Entebbe.  But not so fast.  I soon heard from Leah, the accountant and office manager at Harvesters, that the charter airline wasn't having flights on Thursday so we wouldn't be able to leave Entebbe until Saturday.  That meant three days at Hospice Africa Uganda, so Milton and I walked up the street to a little grocery store.  I was halfway down an aisle with bread, bottled water, and eggs in my basket when I turned around and saw Milton standing in the doorway with a look of amazement on his face.  He was slowly scanning the store and I realized this was probably his first time in a store like this, with food covering almost every inch of space.  So we slowly walked up and down the aisles and he picked out Frosted Flakes (who can resist Tony the Tiger?), green apples and vanilla ice cream.  That night for dinner we found a quaint cafe where Milton ordered chicken and chips and I had my first salad in almost two months.  

chicken and chips and a Chef's salad on the balcony of a local cafe

On Wednesday, after Milton had slept for 13 uninterrupted hours, we walked across the street to the American club and bought a short term pass.  It was cloudy and cool and we walked around the grounds and I watched as Milton absorbed all the amenities, a foosball and ping-pong table, playground, tennis courts, and swimming pool.  I asked if he wanted to go swimming and he vigorously shook his head "no."  As a former swimmer I was quite stunned that he didn't want to immediately dive off the edge and do a 1500 meter warm up like I did.  Then I remembered where this kid came from, so I said, "Milton, I know all this water may seem scary, but I will be in with you and I'm a good swimmer and will not let go of you."  Either my powers of persuasion are improving or he just needed a bit of encouraging, but Milton finally agreed.  He gingerly climbed down the ladder into the shallow end and for almost half an hour he hung onto the ledge and kicked, he let me help him float, and he swam underwater for about four feet before he'd had enough and wanted to get out.  A week before he'd been climbing trees in Sudan, now he was not only well enough to swim, but brave enough to do something completely foreign to his sensibilities. 

swinging at the American club

The next few days were incredibly relaxing and I was grateful for the imposed stay in Kampala.  We cooked breakfast together at the hospice, I introduced Milton to Tetris and Pac-Man on the computers in the lab, and he became quite the pro at foosball.   On Friday we ate lunch at the the American club and in a moment of pure weakness I ordered two servings of nachos for myself.  Don't judge me, I was having cheese withdrawal.  

After lunch I reminded Milton that it was our last day in Kampala and asked what he wanted to do.  He simply pointed to the pool. "Do you want to swim?" I asked.  "No, I want to sit and watch."  The first night at the hospice I'd picked up a 400-page book called "The Psalm Killer"  and was determined to finish it before we left Entebbe, so I was more than happy to oblige Milton's request to sit by the pool and watch.  

pool and tennis courts at the American club

It was a perfectly beautiful day and the pool was crowded with Americans and Brits chatting, sunning and swimming.  Milton watched everyone intently with a big smile on his face, perfectly content to be the silent observer.  We'd been sitting for over an hour when a big, bald Englishman came with three little blond kids in tow.  The dad immediately did a cannonball into the deep end, splashing water over the sides of the pool and filling his kids with giggles.  The oldest girl put on her goggles and positioned herself for a dive before saying, "daddy, daddy, look at me!"  When she came up for air she got a high-five from her dad before he boisterously threw his small son into the air.  Milton's smile grew bigger and at one point he turned to me and laughed when the dad raced his daughter and lost.  

Behind my sunglasses tears streamed down my face as similar memories of my dad flooded my mind.  Countless times my dad had thrown me into the air and I'd let out a shriek before he caught me with his strong, faithful arms, he'd race my brother and me and some how we always won, he'd swim around the pool with me on his back until the last whistle blew.  My mind was full of mundane experiences of joy and love and playfulness with my father.  These were experiences that Milton would never have and for the first time in a week I silently wept for Milton, Milton the orphan who smiled as he watched a foreign man play silly games with his children in a pool.  Yes, the physical wounds from Milton's fall were healing but will he ever fully heal from the wounds from the loss, abandonment, and heartache that he's experienced in his short 10 years?

It's been almost three weeks since Milton and I returned to Sudan and he is notably better.  Some residual effects are apparent, there's some swelling in his face and he walks with a slight gimp, but he's back to cracking jokes and playing with his friends.  

Milton standing in front of Lake Victoria on the way to Entebbe Airport. 

 My hope and prayer for Milton is that he will be forever changed by this experience; forever grateful for God's healing, forever grateful for God's provisions, forever reminded of God's faithfulness, forever reminded of God's love.

Thank you for your prayers and support of Milton, I can not adequately express how grateful I am to you. 

I leave you with a song that I played repeatedly while in the hospital, a song of comfort and truth.  

JJ Heller, "Back Home"