Not That Kind of Hospital Visit...

Dear dedicated reader,

I had a hunch that at some point we would get a tour of Kadod’s hospital: I just didn’t know how detailed a tour it would be. The director of our Foundation is visiting this week and so we’ve spending most of the week showing him what it is that we’ve been doing over the last two months. He doesn’t often get the opportunity to visit Kadod and see the work that the Foundation does first hand, so it’s been a busy week.

One aspect of the Foundation’s work that I was not aware of is that it contributes a small amount of money a year to the local hospital here. I was aware that Kadod had a hospital: One sunny afternoon a student named Pooja approached me with special dispensation from her teacher to take me to see the town mango tree (how the inspiration for such a field trip came about I’m still not sure) and during this time she also took me by the local hospital. We did not go inside that time, since it was so close to when the news reports came out I knew it would just cause an unproductive hullabaloo and preferred instead to view it merely from the outside. On this occasion, I asked Pooja whether she thought it was a big hospital.

“You can see for yourself,” she said, gesturing expansively.

I replied that I hadn’t had much opportunity (thankfully) to see many hospitals in India.

“It is big,” she replied confidently. I wasn’t so sure.

In reality, it is a small rural hospital, but one that is very well run by the people who manage it (as far as I can tell). It has two or three permanent doctors and between eleven and eighteen visiting doctors from Bardoli, the nearest town, who keep regular hours each afternoon a week. Each year, the Foundation gives what by US standards is a relatively small donation but by Indian standards is quite a large one, so whenever the director comes to Kadod, they ask him to come by the hospital for speeches and a small presentation. This is how the four of us came to see the inside of the facilities.

We were ushered into the main office where one of the board members from the school who also plays a large role in the administration of the hospital welcomed us. He shook our director’s hand with fervour and gestured that we should sit. We had been warned to expect flowery speeches, but not to expect flowers. We were each handed a rose as we sat down, a gift for our service to the town of Kadod. The ceremony consisted of our presence, the two doctors from the hospital, our director and his uncle who lives in Kadod, and the trustee himself, who, undeterred by the smallness of the room or audience, gave a powerful speech on the state of the hospital as if he were addressing hundreds.

Afterwards, he offered to give us a tour.

We were first shown the exam room – “For a first time visit,” the board member explained, “someone must only pay 5 rupees for an exam.” This is roughly the equivalent of twelve cents. “After that, for a second or third or any following visit, they must only pay 3 rupees.” Unbelievable, I thought to myself.

He explained that many people in the surrounding villages depend on the hospital. “Kadod is a powerful village – it has fourteen thousand people,” he explained. “But,” he elaborated, “the surrounding villages are also powerful when put together and require the services of this very hospital.”

We were next shown to the lab, where blood work can be done for nominal prices. “We are not out for any profit,” he explained carefully. “We charge only what is required, and for those that cannot pay there is some help from the government.”

I could, however, barely focus on what he was saying as my eyes were drawn to some specimens that I saw in jars sitting on top of a glass cabinet behind the lab counter.

“Are those…” I began to say, but his eyes followed mine and he interrupted me.

“They are babies,” he said cheerfully. He deferred to the man behind the lab counter who began to explain that these were fetuses that had been preserved in formaldehyde.

“This one is four months,” the man explained, pointing, “this one is three months, this one is only a month and a half.”

I felt myself begin to feel sick, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Where had they come from? Vanisha, an aspiring doctor, asked some questions to the man in Gujarati, I assume about their origin, but I couldn’t understand his answers. As the others moved out of the room, I stared a little longer, then pulled myself away to follow.

The image of those partially formed babies floating in the jars haunted me as we moved on to the eye exam room. There, I saw to my delight that the eye charts were four sided blocks that could be rotated: one side for English letters, one for Hindi letters, one for Gujarati letters and finally one for numbered dots, I assume for those who are illiterate. All of the equipment that we observed looked totally modern – it was only the surrounding plastic chairs and bare walls that reminded you that you were in India.

The last stop of the tour was the “operating theatre” as the operating room is called in Indian English. The door was opened and we were told we could go in if we took our shoes off, but we merely peaked in through the door. There was no need and we didn’t to possibly contaminate anything. We were told that since the baby birthing center had opened four months ago, thirty-five babies had been born there, “so there is a great need for this facility to continue,” the board member explained. We heartily agreed.

The tour having been completed, we were ushered downstairs to the lobby and to the car which was waiting outside.

“If you will be here for one year, please come again!” The staff called after us as we went to leave. “But, you know, not for any medical reason!”

Best,
Cat