When Frederikke’s temperature hit 40 at noon, I finally gave up hoping for the best and took her to the doctor in Grbavica. The doctor told me that Frederikke had to have a blood test and that we were to go to the Infective Diseases department at Kosevo. My spirits sank: that single sentence contained all that I dread most about living in Bosnia.
Aside from an elderly man, slumped in a corner, no one was waiting and we were ushered in. A rather stern looking doctor examined her, scratching the intermittent spots on Frederikke’s body. He called in a second doctor, a jolly woman doctor who spoke perfect English. She told me - in a nice way - Frederikke and I would need to stay at the hospital, Frederikke needed a blood test to identify what was causing the fever, but what worried them most, were the spots: they needed to keep Frederikke under observation to see how they would develop. Although it didn’t look like it now, there was a remote chance they were ‘menincoques’ which could lead to meningitis.
In a trance I followed the doctor to the second floor, down a hall with shiny floors, to a large, empty room: three beds and one baby bed, not wood of course. The linen looked worn but relatively clean. The window was open and there was a view of grass and trees. The bathroom looked suspicious and dilapidated, particular the toilet, and there was hair in the shower. No soap but I was given a roll of pink toilet paper.
Two nurses entered, one carrying a metal tray with amongst other things two packaged syringes. I pointed to the tray and asked: cisto? to which the annoyed nurse replied what I took to mean: of course, do you want to open the package yourself? I watched as she searched for a vein and pushed the needle in, Frederikke was bawling. She taped the needle summarily, told me to “watch it” (the needle) and walked out, clearly offended. I looked at the contraption in Frederikke’s little arm and cried.
It took an hour for the blood test results to arrive: as the friendly doctor (Lukovac?) explained, Frederikke’s white blood cells were sky-rocketing (27 per unit, whereas 10-14 is normal). She had a serious bacterial infection centering on her throat and she would be getting antibiotics, administered intravenously. A blood prick in her finger had revealed she was slightly dehydrated, so she would be getting an infusion and of course, some anti-fever medicine, administered orally.
Word had apparently gotten round among the nurses, because an unfriendly, unhealthy looking nurse came in, ordering me to “put her down”. As I stared at her uncomprehendingly, she asked me roughly why the baby wasn’t lying in her cot. I exploded: because she needs to be with her mother. She looked at me, told me in a softer tone to lie the baby down. I held Frederikke as the nurse administered the antibiotics through the previously inserted needle. Doing so, I had a close up view of the nurse’s long, yellowish nail, like a French manicure gone bad, 2 centimeters away from the inserted needle. That nail haunts me.
The nurse warmed up to me from then on: in a conciliatory gesture, she brought me coffee and a piece of cake. An hour later, she brought me a plastic cup of fanta, while holding a cigarette in the other hand: our room, situated at the end of the hall, was closest to the open window where patients, and apparently also nurses, came to have a smoke. I must admit that, in the night when Frederikke was sleeping peacefully and all was quiet, I had a cigarette there too.
The friendly doctor came in two more times, at regular intervals to check on Frederikke. I propped the baby bed against my bed so that she could sleep in the curve of my arm without falling. We woke at six the following morning when the nurse asked me to take Frederikke’s temperature.
In total we stayed 48 hours in the hospital. The urgency had receded by the first morning – no more fever and the spots were stable – but the doctor – a different one but just as nice – gently advised for Frederikke to stay under observation until her white blood cells count fell. For me the worst had already happened so I stayed that extra night. Overall, I liked the doctors who were accessible and friendly. They seemed competent, even if I’m no wiser today about the bacteria, what it was and where it came from. The quality of nurses improved over time and the performance of the cleaning personnel varied. I didn’t take a shower though. The food was surprisingly fresh and rather good.
There were humorous moments, like when the department head came for her morning round, accompanied by all of the personnel. There were moments of kafkaesque bureaucracy: Merima, who cares for our children, spent some three hours, navigating between the Blagajna (where you pay) and the VIP service, trying to obtain documents and stamps, which recognized the van Breda insurance. Johannes had to duck the man at the entrance to be able to visit me as it was outside of the regular hours.
It’s the variation in professional standards that is nerve-wrecking: sometimes it’s a good doctor/nurse, sometimes it’s a good cleaner. It’s the fact that you are not in control – all you can do is to be vigilant when they stick a needle in your baby. It’s the fact that communication is difficult. To some degree, apart from the last issue, I face the same problems in a hospital in Brussels – I just have more trust in the system. Overall, it was a nerve-wrecking experience but at the moment, with my baby healthy and smiling, it doesn’t look like I have that much to complain about. I guess, if I absolutely had to, I would do it again. But I hope –with some fervor – I won’t have to.
(submitted by Catharina de Lange Viereck)
