Not too long after my first outreach that shift, I was sent on another.

‘There is a man in his tent that is apparently in a lot of pain,’ Yvonne said. ‘I will send you out again.’

‘Happily,’ I answered.

So I got in the car and rode into the camp, this time with a Farsi (Persian) interpreter with me, Massoud. He was young, probably mid-thirties, with a stocky build, a big beard, and long hair. He and I got along very well. It was dark now, well after sunset, and the sterile camp lights bounced white from the pebbled ground on the road. As we turned the corner on one of the blocks, we came to the tent in question. I could see an open flap of a doorway with two feet sticking out, and a group of people loitering outside. Then a head swung forwards out the flap and vomited violently on the floor before disappearing back into the tent.

Right, I thought to myself. Not loads I am going to be able to do here for this.

Bringing the emergency bag with me, I came close and carefully took a knee outside the vomit puddle to assess the patient.

He was not having a good time.

He was a male, probably close to forty. He was lurched over on one side, shuddering, and white fisted in pain. He was sweating profusely, veins bulging from his temples. With Massoud’s help I introduced myself and kept the questions direct. He struggled to form words through clenched teeth.

‘Where is the pain’?’

He pointed to his lower back on the right side.

‘When did it start?’

Around one hour ago.

‘Is it constant or does it come and go in waves?’

The second. Also please help me, he said. I paraphrase because he looked like a soaking wet ghost gasping between breaths to get words out. 

There are few things in this world that can cause a pain like that so quickly in an otherwise previously healthy man. I did my best to examine him laying on the ground where he was. I felt his abdomen with no ill effects to his pain. Otherwise, despite his heart racing and his blood pressure being expectedly elevated from his intense pain, his vital signs and exam were unremarkable. A few more questions later and the smart money was on him probably having a kidney stone.

Still, he was functionally incapacitated by the pain and wasn’t going to reliably tolerate any oral medicines from my kit, so I had little choice but to send him into the hospital. Again, I called Yvonne and explained the situation. The patient, eyes rolling back in pain, was in agreement that he wanted to go by ambulance.

As we waited, our patient wormed his way across the tent onto one of the metal framed beds and into the clutches of his wife, who held him and brushed his hair as he choked against tears. I sat cross legged on the floor and held his hand, doing the same. His children in the room on the other beds just sat quietly and watched. We sat in silence punctuated by groans, communicating through touch.

It’s going to be okay, my hands said. This will pass.

I felt a deep sense of purpose sitting on that floor. For a moment, I thought of all the twists and turns of life that brought me here. A guy born in Argentina, and another born in Afghanistan now sat together in a tent in Greece. No common language united us. No common faith. I was just a stranger to this family that had every reason to be guarded against unfamiliar faces. And yet, I felt like this was where I was meant to be. I belong at the bedside. Sometimes I convince myself I have a bigger role to play somewhere in the development space, but the truth is I never feel more at home than when I am here, just like this, cross legged on the floor with hands on a patient. It is the divine gift of my life that I get to do this.

By the time the ambulance came, he still couldn’t rise from laying flat, and we got him up on a stretcher and loaded him in. He did just fine.

Another set of healing hands made sure of that.

–

This line of work can be grueling at times. The patients you deal with all come from tragedy in some form. The inability to deliver ‘more’ is often heartbreaking and deflating. Living conditions can be austere. The pay is non-existent. After some time, it can make mincemeat of any of us, no matter how spartan.

The Boat Refugee Foundation setup was different, and quite honestly a breath of fresh air. Mytiline is a Mediterranean tourist town, peppered with good food, beautiful blue alcove beaches, olive oil, and wine. Mavrovouni camp is only a five minute drive outside of town, making it completely accessible for work while living in the heart of the island. The house I stayed in had 6 other European volunteers, all on short term attachments just like me, with a desire to hike, explore, and get up to no good when the time was right. Life was very, well, comfortable, which was something I had grown accustomed to living without.

Even the medicine was comfortable. The BRF mandate was to provide care to patients, but we were not the only actors on site. In fact, we had a narrow focus that was designed to not cross into the territory of the EU-funded state-affiliated medical services. We operated in the evenings out of a tent and two converted shipping containers just inside the camp as a sort of ‘after hours’ clinic from five to midnight. Any chronic diseases that had to be regularly followed like diabetes, hypertension, or asthma were meant to be handled by the state for optimized care. Anything really serious was meant to be handled by the fully equipped Greek hospital on the island to which we commonly referred patients. In turn, BRF occupied all of the space in between, which was basically like a general practice service with 80% runny noses, grumpy babies, and sore joints. This was also something I had grown accustomed to living without.

While at times unstimulating, the clinic life does have its moments. Like the young woman I saw on my second shift who was coming in for sensations of bladder fullness.

She was by herself, wearing a tidy hijab. Our consult was fairly bland, with the help of one of our Farsee interpreters she began telling me about some vague symptoms. As we worked through the details, the first set of questions became obvious.

‘When did you last menstruate?’ I asked through Ahmed, my interpreter.

‘Somewhere around six weeks ago,’ she said.

Oh, I thought.

So, I got her to make some urine for me and went up into the testing area while she waited in the room. After running a pregnancy dip test, I saw two clear pink lines on the strip. It was positive.

I took a moment to think, and I’ll be honest, my heart sank. I didn’t know how she would respond to the news. She was an asylum seeker living in a tent, I couldn’t imagine part of her goals were raising a child now in this environment with so much uncertainty. Ruminating up in the container for a few minutes, I thought about how best to divulge the news, and what additional resources to offer. We had access to pre-natal care if needed, and even access to medical therapies for termination of the pregnancy. So, I walked back down into the exam room.

There was an extra person in the room now, a man. He was standing at the doorway in the container, stiff and somewhat awkwardly, like he didn’t know what to do. He identified himself as her husband. The lady sat on the bench in front of me and I debated whether this was something I should discuss with her alone. After all, medically speaking in the West, this is a female only medical concern, and it would have been appropriate for me to kick this guy out. However there were cultural elements at play here, and to be honest I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Still, she didn’t look overtly uncomfortable with his presence there, and so I accepted he’d joined the consult as supporting family.

‘So, based on your symptoms I checked a few things. There is no infection in the urine, and I did also find that your pregnancy test is positive,’ I said through Ahmed. ‘You’re pregnant.’

The container stood still for a moment. Then, I watched her cheeks flush pink. A smile grew across her face from ear to ear and the tension in the room melted. She spoke.

‘She is happy,’ said Ahmed. ‘They have been trying for some time.’

‘Amazing! Congratulations to both of you,’ I extended my hand.

What a relief. After some small talk to decompress, I walked them through the next steps. We would now connect them with a special Greek pregnancy clinic in the camp during the day-time, and also flag their case to the vulnerable populations office because of the new development. This was likely to impact her asylum process. After another round of handshakes, they walked off along the gravel path and disappeared into the camp.

It was a nice moment, and one that I enjoyed being a part of. Still, as that evening went on I thought more about their situation. Raising a child is complicated enough in today’s world, and I couldn’t help but imagine how those challenges are compounded by being an asylum seeker. Drifting through land and sea without a home, far from your culture, your family, and all of the supports to raise a child. What a crazy world they’d bring this new life into.

I just hoped and prayed it would work out for them.