I walked in the hospital with a hot little hand in mine. We ran into the second of the two doctors on our way to the reception window, he saw us, shook our hands and took us directly into his office. We walked past women holding lethargic babies, people laying on the ground, sitting on benches in the halls.
After the doctor examined her, we went into the room where the pharmacist was serving a line of people waiting outside of her window. She turned from them and placed the needed pills in small folded paper envelopes. We were guided down the hall to the urgent care room, where a drip of quinine was waiting for her. Each of the beds in the ward had at least three people on each, and several mats were occupied on the floor, however, we got our own bed.
Few things here…
We got preferential treatment over the rest of the people who had been waiting for who knows how long. I am not exactly sure why. It could be because we partner with the hospital, it could be because we work with the doctors there regularly, because it is clear we will be able to pay the hospital bills, it could be because I am white. I honestly do not know.
Why didn’t I insist we get treated like everyone else? Because this little girl was sick and I knew she needed help, quickly. Did everyone else there? Probably. Do they deserve quick and quality treatment? Yes.
Is the world perfect? No.
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