Being Sick Abroad

I’ve been feeling under the weather for the past couple of days. It started last week, when I began to feel tired all the time. I’d get up, teach one class, and come home and need a three hour nap. In my college psychology classes, we learned about hindsight bias – how things always seem much more obvious when you look back on them than they did at the time. Sleeping 14 hours a day is clearly not normal behavior, but I chalked it up to being worn out from teaching or some kind of Lariam side-effect. It was only as I was dragging my feet through the city days later, dizzy and nauseous, barely able to eat half of my meal, when I considered the past few days and thought “Huh. I must be getting sick.”

Luckily, the Peace Corps doctors are on call 24/7 and are only a phone call away. Within half an hour, I had a prescription and was buying an antibiotic in a pharmacy. Szasha, awesome as she is, went and bought the last of my groceries for me so I could rest in an air-conditioned store. When I got home, I went straight to bed and didn’t get up until 11 a.m. today. (My neighbors must think I’m insane.)

So far this afternoon, three of my colleagues have stopped by to make sure I’m OK. One of them offered to lend me one of her children to stay with me and cook and clean while I get better. Another one offered to sleep in my living room in case I get worse or need anything. My director demanded I text him regularly with updates. Lisa and Szasha have both called several times to check on me and make sure I’m still conscious (I am, by the way, thanks!)

I’ve heard from people back home several times that it must be "tough" to be sick when you’re abroad, and how hard it must be to live out here alone. I’m not going to dispute that…being sick is not fun no matter where you are. But I have three support systems right now – my Mozambican colleagues and neighbors, Peace Corps friends and staff, and American family and friends, and all three are regularly checking up on me.

This fact makes me think about my neighbors here. My town is really fortunate – we have a health center, so people who get sick actually have the chance to see a nurse or even a doctor. People here, who have the benefit of education, know what malaria and AIDS are and how to treat them. But some people can’t afford medicines, or can’t take the time to leave their families to see a doctor. Many towns don’t have a doctor within many miles. The doctor to population ratio for Mozambique is staggeringly low. And so, doctor or no doctor, when people here get sick, they don’t get to sleep it off in bed with cold water and a fan pointed at them like I do. They can’t call in sick like I can. They have to keep working, because otherwise their families don’t eat. They just have to deal with it, and that's just how life is.

The other day, I was in a chapa and behind me was a woman holding a baby. The baby was visibly ill -- barely moving, eyes unfocused, head falling to the side. The baby was clearly not doing well, and the mother was on the brink of tears. The woman next to her tapped her on the shoulder.

"Your capulana is crooked. Fix it so you look decent," she said.

No condolences. No "Can I do anyhting to help you?" or "Sorry your baby is dying." Just "Fix your clothing." As heartless as this may seem, there's a reason for it. Babies get sick and die here all the time. The infant mortality rate is incredibly high. Sometimes, the tough-love attitude is all you can take to keep going.

Really makes you stop and think about what “tough” really means.