The intern doctor who saved my life

Reading the news about the intern doctor’s strike, my mind raced back to an experience I had with an intern doctor a few years ago. The year was 2017. I was expecting my youngest child. Seven months into the pregnancy, I developed a terrible dry cough. 

Despite the different treatments prescribed by doctors, the cough escalated, and gradually, I developed breathing-related challenges and required oxygen therapy. Several times, I had to secure admission at one of Kampala’s big hospitals to get support for my breathing. I would return home after stabilising, only for the same cough and breathing-related challenges to reoccur. I could hardly keep a meal down once the cough attack started. I visited almost all the renowned specialists in Kampala, but did not get much help.
One of my worst experiences was with a highly sought after specialist at one of the top hospitals in Kampala. I entered his office after paying a hefty sum as consultation fees. He heard me cough as I walked in. “Cough?” he asked. “Yes, it’s been like this for...,” I choked on my words as I started coughing. 

He was in a rush. He scribbled down a name of a syrup on a piece of paper and asked me to take that and return if it didn’t work. I had been through the same cycle with many other specialists before him, but he was too impatient to listen to me. 
There were many patients in the queue waiting to see him. This specialist didn’t listen to me, nor did he examine me. He did not even read on file about the history of my cough. For two months, I was in and out of this same hospital. On some nights, I had slept in to get support with oxygen or ventilation, but their specialist did not have time to examine me or check my history.
 
My dad still believes I was patient zero for Covid-19 in 2017, because he, like most of my close family members, walked this journey with me and watched me cough to breathlessness like many Covid-19 patients today. 
After one terrible night, I got up the next morning and drove around Kampala looking for another hospital. Friends and family had recommended all sorts of specialists. On my way, I asked my driver to turn into the driveway of a hospital I had rarely visited, after my breathing challenges had suddenly developed. 

At the reception, I was told there was no specialist on duty. The lady at the reception explained that only an intern doctor was available. I had no time to think. I just wanted to see a doctor, any doctor. 
So I asked to see the intern. I walked into the intern doctor’s room and found a young lady. She took time to listen and examine me. She was quick to give me first aid. She asked about the history of the drugs I had taken. We talked about my history, my pregnancy, and she was keen on listening to every little detail. At last, I got the attention I longed for from her. 
After several hours of discussion, examination and treatment, my intern doctor disclosed that I probably had developed what she called ‘gestational asthma’. I had never heard of it. I had never suffered from asthma. She gave me an inhaler and some treatment. I had only three weeks to deliver. 

The intern doctor believed the inhaler would help me get to delivery. I left the hospital. By day three, the cough that had stressed me for months, was beginning to subside. A week down the road, I hadn’t used any oxygen support. I got a new lease of life. Getting an attack occasionally, I found solace in my Ventolin. No more hospital admissions, no more arrogant specialists. 
The intern doctor, just by taking time to listen, made a diagnosis, treated me and sent me home. Did I say that the intern called me on my phone, using the hospital line at some point to find out how I was doing? 
I had a healthy baby a few weeks later. When I got back on the road, I drove to the same hospital, just to find the intern doctor. I wanted to thank her for the help she rendered to me at my desperate moment. 

But I was disappointed to find out that she had left the hospital. I wasn’t even able to get her on phone. The hospital couldn’t give me her contact details nor her second name, for their own reasons, which was understandable. 
The current doctor – patient ratio in Uganda currently stands 1: 24,000, which is a far cry from the WHO recommended ratio of 1:1000. This is further constrained by trained health workers leaving the country for greener pastures, while others abandon the health sector to pursue more lucrative ventures. 

In this context, interns, like the young lady who attended to me on that fateful day, can be a blessing. It is unfathomable that our Ministry of Health has made the decision to fire all intern doctors. Well, in a country where the top government officials have probably never visited a government hospital, where billions of tax payers’ money is spent annually to fly these officials abroad for basic healthcare, such a decision did not surprise me. Uganda deserves better. I stand with Uganda’s intern doctors. 
                Pearl  Rebecca Tumwebaze,        

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