3rd Class Ward, 1st Class Care (well...almost)

Last Wednesday, Irfan had pneumonia and had to be warded. As Hospital Kjg only has 3rd class ward, that was where Irfan would be staying. I didn’t ask for a transfer to other hospital coz it would be far from my parents home, where Umairah and Mr.Hubby would be staying till Irfan was discharged.

As we stepped into the 3rd class ward, I cringed. There were about 30 beds and not separated by any wall, not even by curtains. No privacy at all. The ward had 3 sections (divided by an imaginary boundary); critical, less critical, moderate. The critical section was right in front of the doctors’ and nurses’ ‘workstation’ (a section that had desks and files). Most of the kids were Malays. Others were 2 Filipinos and 1 Arab and 3 Indians.

To my surprise, there were a lot of doctors and nurses around.
“Kat sini memang 24 jam ada doktor.”
“Pangkat atau kepakaran sini kira macam mana?”
“Setiap masa ada HO (UD41). MO (UD44) akan datang round 3 atau 4 kali sehari. Pakar biasanya datang 2 kali sehari tapi hujung minggu sekali sehari je. Pastu sekarang ada trainee (nurses from private collages), diorg tolong juga.”

This was staggeringly different from the private hospital where I was admitted for postnatal complications (the bill cost Mr.Hubby thousands RM). I remember the doctor at the private hospital took more than an hour to come and attend to me when I was in excruciating pain. Simply because of that, I agreed to my husband’s persuasion for me to accept sending our baby to a 3rd class ward.

Everytime the MO came, there were a lot of medical students (belum grad lagi) trailing along. I guess, being in 3rd class, you just had to allow them to invade your privacy. At some moments I did feel like I was in a zoo and many visitors came to ‘oooo’ and ‘aaaaa’ at us. I had to answer the same question over and over again (to different doctors and ‘gonna-be-doctors’). Surprisingly, Irfan responded totally different from me. He smiled and tried to talk to them. I guess he was loving the attention he got.

A ‘doktor pakar’ scolding an MO at the bed opposite us. He didn’t care other people were looking. I didn’t listen to what the ‘pakar’ was scolding about as my attention was to the parents of the child. The father was sitting not far from the circle groups of doctors...and he was crying. A man was crying in anguish. I have never seen a man that sad. The ‘doktor pakar’ must have delivered a very bad news to him. Was his child dying? Was there no hope? I did not dare ask. My heart went out for him.

That was the only ‘drama’ among the medical people that I saw throughout my stay. Other than that one incident, the nurses and doctors were always composed. Had they become immune to the children’s miseries? I might have seen them as stereotyped nurse who prefers the desk to nursing and doctors who sees patients and merely cases – the uncaring, hardened ‘professionals’. That didn’t happen here. The nurses and doctors were still able to enjoy the smile and cuteness of the innocent, youngest member of our society. They had to remain strong and intact, whatever the conditions, to remain focused, unyielding and competent.

The big problems came at night. Because Irfan was only 5 months old, they placed him in a crib. Great. Where am I supposed to sleep? Irfan likes to sleep being hugged. As his opened-all-night-diner, it’s easier for me too if i could sleep beside him. What did I do? I literally climbed into the crib and slept with him (after deducting whether or not the crib could support my weight). I couldn’t really sleep. Sick kids were crying. One after the other. When the room was quiet, I didn’t sleep much either.

Sometimes Irfan awaken from sleep with a frightened start. I picked him up to soothe him while he became reoriented to his strange surrounding.

We were told that Irfan would have to stay here for at least 3 days. Irfan was discharged after only 2 days. The doctors told us he healed fast because he was fully breastfed (still is) and as anyone would tell you, mother’s milk contains antibodies and lymphocytes that help the baby resist infections. There is no commercial formula that can equal breast milk.