"I have a copy," Katie called.
It was Nate. "We have a baby who came for the milk program that we would like you to check out," he said.
That little baby boy. He came after a few minutes to our examination room. He was moaning and groaning, while we tried to figure out what was wrong. The grandma incoherently answered a few questions and then went on a rambling row of what-nots. We could not sensibly learn much from her, except that the baby became ill last night.
Because he seemed to have pain in his head, it was important that we made a right diagnoses, and treated him correctly, in spite of our lack of equipment. We toyed around with possibilities: a fracture, meningitis, cerebral malaria, and such. The grandma told us he did NOT fall, so we began to suspicion it was the cerebral malaria. And then she added the fact that he had a fever in the night.
At this point the big lie was revealed. The grandma admitted that he HAD fallen. That did change the perspective quite a bit! We were still glad that we had sent him out to a place where there was the option of using x-ray equipment, and such. The grandma kept wondering if she could leave the child. It was suspicious looking. And it hurts. How could you have so little interest, so little love, so little guilt when a child in your own family is in pain?