‘Next!’
The next patient in line shuffles forward, hiding a two-year-old wound under her threadbare flowered dress. A weathered, wooden crutch lends her the stability that her leg no longer offers, but it doesn’t compromise her stateliness in the least; she strides along head high, almost proud.
Bev
Her name is Jorgelina and the pattern of deep furrowed lines on her face tells the tale of her life. You can read the ravages of heavy workload and little rest, a life of more pain than pleasure. She is a member of the extremely poor, black descendants of African slaves who populate the Honduran coastline. Two years ago, Jorgelina ripped open her shin on a nasty, rusted can that someone had thoughtlessly left behind in the sand. The wound healed badly, the rust ate its way inside. The local hospital could offer relief, but Jorgelina couldn’t put her hands on the six euros (seven dollars) she needed for the treatment. An almost forgotten cousin from far away America sent a pot of ointment. It gave a burning feeling. The wound grew slowly bigger.
Now, two years later, she’s visiting the local party hall where an American team of doctors offers free care and medication, her bad leg dragging but her dignity intact. Proudly she says that she had slipped on the colorful, flowered dress to show off for the doctor, it’s her special occasion outfit. Under the left armpit is a badly darned tear and the wound’s pus has soaked into the lower flowers. Her integrity remains untouched; it is innate, of course.
The wound is being measured and appears to be twelve centimeters long, six millimeters deep. Scraps of decayed gauze have become interwoven as the flesh has grown back. Leg and bandage slowly unify to become one. Tiny blisters have clustered in the serrated edges of the wound and as soon as Jorgelina lifts the hem of her dress, the nauseating stench of rotting meat inevitably fills the air. But how do you keep a wound clean when you live in a clay hut with no running water?
Bev
To prevent amputation, the wound needs to be thoroughly cleaned. Doctors and nurses take turns with a surgical scrubbing sponge and bottle after bottle of iodine. Jorgelina can’t relax; she’ll have to clench her teeth. After an hour and a half of careful scrubbing, the tiny blisters have vanished and the sickly odor has evaporated. The rotting flesh is scraped away and the pinkish, healthy color of living tissue has taken over. The wound is.
