Typical Day
It's sunrise and Dr. Mason Killdare is boarding the chopper on his first MSF mission, at the United Nations compound in Bentiu, South Sudan, right in the middle of a war zone. He feels a bit queasy—must be that last good breakfast he'll have for the next nine months sloshing around in his stomach.
Or maybe it's a side effect of the anti-malaria meds, or the other hundreds of vaccines he's been shot up with. Or maybe he's just not a fan of helicopter rides.
His nausea, however, is replaced with shock when the chopper lands at the compound. Dr. Killdare knew it would be dangerous, and primitive, and depressing. He's seen the training films and attended the seminars. He knows about the safety rules and the long hours and the crazy-difficult task he's signed up for. Still, nothing could prepare him for this.
The cramped jungle compound consists of a series of dilapidated huts and makeshift tents for the 40,000 refugees packed in them like sardines. This small compound is the only refuge for miles around, and it's only protected by a barbed-wire fence and some guards (heavily armed, thankfully).
The most noticeable issue, however, is the water. Brown, murky water has overtaken and almost flooded the entire camp in waves smelling faintly of sewage.
People, scarecrow-thin and dressed in tattered, wet clothes, are desperately trying to keep the sewage-y floodwater out of the shelters. They're scooping it up with cooking pots and digging the mud out from entrances. It's a futile attempt, because the water is everywhere.
Dr. Killdare is met by Dr. Angela Angel, a slight woman in brightly colored scrubs. Dr. Angel shakes his hand and starts walking quickly.
"Glad you're here, we've been waiting for days," she says as she walks through the flooded passageways. Dr. Killdare is amazed she can navigate so quickly through this water.
"Sorry, there was a delay with the paperwork. Dare I ask—what's with all the water?"
"The rainy season hit us hard. We knew it was coming, but the first big rain came in all of a sudden and this is what we're stuck with. Hopefully it'll dry out in a month or so."
"A month or so? What will we do until then? Are all the medical supplies stored in watertight places?"
"The supplies are safe," she answers, gesturing to the chest-high cabinets in the rooms they pass. "We have the reserve supplies in a steel container that won't take on any water. There's just no good drainage out of the compound." She ducks into a tent and pulls back a curtain. There's an old man clinging to a cot, water almost a third of the way up the metal legs to his stretched-canvas island.
"Leave him. In here." Angel points to a young girl, probably about six years old, crying and cradling her bloody arm.
"What's happened to her?"
"She was shot by the rebels. They got her mother and father; there was nothing we could do. But this one, we can help," she says matter-of-factly.
Dr. Killdare examines and cleans the wound. He finds the places where the bullet entered and exited the upper arm. It's a relatively clean shot, which will at least make it easier to tidy up. While he cleans, Dr. Angel rummages through drawers and cabinets to find stitching gear. She removes some shrapnel from the wound in the girl's arm and sews it up.
As they walk out of the room, Dr. Angel points to a nurse, makes eye contact, and points back inside the tent. The nurse starts to hurry over. Drs. Angel and Killdare move on.
Dr. Angel briefs Dr. Killdare on the situation on the ground, on common wound types they see, and on the locations of supplies. Then she sets him loose. For the rest of the day, Dr. Killdare patches up patients, doles out malaria and cholera vaccines, and treats many cases of tuberculosis, dysentery, diarrhea, and malnutrition.
He works for hours, until he can't stand any more. It's about 8:00PM when he tracks down Dr. Angel. She takes him to the MSF tent, where some of the other doctors are eating and swapping stories. They grow quiet and all look over expectantly when Dr. Killdare enters. Dr. Angel leans over and whispers that it's nothing personal, they just don't want to frighten him away on his first day. Dr. Killdare smiles modestly back at the group, then shuffles over to a nearby table to introduce himself.
Awkward intros finished, Dr. Killdare eats a modest supper, then lays his head down on a cot for a few hours before being woken up in the middle of the night to take the next shift.
"How long are the shifts?" he asks Dr. Angel.
"Until you can't stand any more, basically. Then you rest, though nobody can really afford to sleep more than a few hours at a time. There's just so much work to do and so few of us. You understand, right?"
"Yes," Dr. Killdare says. After all, this is what he signed up for.
He rubs his eyes one more time as a little girl with a big toothless grin walks over, holding up a tattered hand-sewn doll. She says something in a language Dr. Killdare doesn't understand yet. He looks to Dr. Angel to translate.
"She wants you to take her doll and fix it."
The girl thrusts the broken doll towards him. "Tell her I'll do the best I can," he says to Dr. Angel, then pulls out his stethoscope and pretends to measure the doll's heartbeat.
Dr. Angel translates the message, and the little girl beams. Dr. Killdare takes a look around, sees that the other patients seem to be well-attended for the moment, and pulls out a sewing kit to stitch up the doll. This is the MSF compound; they do everything they can to make sure everyone gets treatment here.