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True Story : The Traumatic Surgery
#WritcoStoryChallenge
The dirty dishes lay in the sink while the motionless body sprawled on the kitchen floor. Father had collapsed after placing his breakfast plate in the kitchen sink!
The city ambulance was called and arrived swiftly, with its drumming sirens. The noise drummed in my ears in this raucous African city Mogadishu, in Somalia.
The crimson red lights of the ambulance alerted the morning sea of traffic to give way, as Father was semi-conscious and suffering to breathe. My heart pounded with beats of terror, threat, and anxiety, along with deep prayer as we reached the hospital gates.
The ambulance doors busted open, and four male nurses hopped on to their feet as quick as kangaroos. They swiftly pulled father on to the stretcher and dashed into the emergency ward at this poverty-stricken medical center, called The African Trauma Hospital.
My heart was in my mouth, as I watched the four muscular nurses lift Father, still in the semi- conscious state, from the stretcher on to the hospital bed.
Four female nurses scurried into the room and started a monitor which looked like a small television screen, next to him. They simultaneously surrounded the bed, poked razor-sharp needles into Father’s thick fair skin, and deep into his purple violet veins. On the sight of seeing blood drawn into the syringe, tears rolled down my cheeks.
On the spur of the moment, a young African nurse dressed in a pure white dress peered into my sorrowful eyes. With her gentle eyes, she reassuringly said, “Don’t worry, little one, your Father is with the best medical team.” She held my thirteen-year-old hand, ushered me outside the emergency ward, and closed the doors.
Now, my blood-shot eyes peered through a dainty circular window pane of the door. I felt every urge to rush in and help, yet I was totally helpless. Next, Father’s mouth was covered with a plastic mask which resembled an inflating and deflating tiny balloon.
This mask was connected to Father’s supposedly life-machine, which had a flaming red and a jade green light blinking one below the other, moving with a crooked ragged line from left-to-right on it, but what was it?
All of a sudden, Father’s eyes began to close slowly, and suddenly they were tightly shut. I slowly murmured with shock, “Father is unconscious!” I was terrified.
A thousand horrendous thoughts ran through my thirteen-year-old stressed mind! “Had I lost Father? Did Father stop breathing? Did the nurses do something wrong? Where with the doctors!?”
I felt my blood boil with anger and aghast. Just as I was about to blast towards Father’s room, and give a piece of my mind to the nurses, I caught a glimpse of a tall-aged doctor walking at the speed of light. He barged through the door and grabbed Father’s reports! I felt somewhat at ease, finally!
The doctor scrutinized the report with his experienced grey eyes, with a Somalian Matron, standing beside him, and called me into the room. With a heavy heave of breath, I entered. The doctor began to explain the diagnosis of Father’s report.
“My name is Dr. Richard Johanson, the neurosurgeon. Your father will be under my care for his brain and vitals. As of now, his vitals are fine.”
I felt a huge relief that Father was safe, but still had a pestering notion that Father was in trouble; but what kind of trouble, especially in this Somalian Hospital, with limited resources? So, I questioned...
The dirty dishes lay in the sink while the motionless body sprawled on the kitchen floor. Father had collapsed after placing his breakfast plate in the kitchen sink!
The city ambulance was called and arrived swiftly, with its drumming sirens. The noise drummed in my ears in this raucous African city Mogadishu, in Somalia.
The crimson red lights of the ambulance alerted the morning sea of traffic to give way, as Father was semi-conscious and suffering to breathe. My heart pounded with beats of terror, threat, and anxiety, along with deep prayer as we reached the hospital gates.
The ambulance doors busted open, and four male nurses hopped on to their feet as quick as kangaroos. They swiftly pulled father on to the stretcher and dashed into the emergency ward at this poverty-stricken medical center, called The African Trauma Hospital.
My heart was in my mouth, as I watched the four muscular nurses lift Father, still in the semi- conscious state, from the stretcher on to the hospital bed.
Four female nurses scurried into the room and started a monitor which looked like a small television screen, next to him. They simultaneously surrounded the bed, poked razor-sharp needles into Father’s thick fair skin, and deep into his purple violet veins. On the sight of seeing blood drawn into the syringe, tears rolled down my cheeks.
On the spur of the moment, a young African nurse dressed in a pure white dress peered into my sorrowful eyes. With her gentle eyes, she reassuringly said, “Don’t worry, little one, your Father is with the best medical team.” She held my thirteen-year-old hand, ushered me outside the emergency ward, and closed the doors.
Now, my blood-shot eyes peered through a dainty circular window pane of the door. I felt every urge to rush in and help, yet I was totally helpless. Next, Father’s mouth was covered with a plastic mask which resembled an inflating and deflating tiny balloon.
This mask was connected to Father’s supposedly life-machine, which had a flaming red and a jade green light blinking one below the other, moving with a crooked ragged line from left-to-right on it, but what was it?
All of a sudden, Father’s eyes began to close slowly, and suddenly they were tightly shut. I slowly murmured with shock, “Father is unconscious!” I was terrified.
A thousand horrendous thoughts ran through my thirteen-year-old stressed mind! “Had I lost Father? Did Father stop breathing? Did the nurses do something wrong? Where with the doctors!?”
I felt my blood boil with anger and aghast. Just as I was about to blast towards Father’s room, and give a piece of my mind to the nurses, I caught a glimpse of a tall-aged doctor walking at the speed of light. He barged through the door and grabbed Father’s reports! I felt somewhat at ease, finally!
The doctor scrutinized the report with his experienced grey eyes, with a Somalian Matron, standing beside him, and called me into the room. With a heavy heave of breath, I entered. The doctor began to explain the diagnosis of Father’s report.
“My name is Dr. Richard Johanson, the neurosurgeon. Your father will be under my care for his brain and vitals. As of now, his vitals are fine.”
I felt a huge relief that Father was safe, but still had a pestering notion that Father was in trouble; but what kind of trouble, especially in this Somalian Hospital, with limited resources? So, I questioned...
