The mental health clinic was not as busy as I had anticipated, much to my relief. I was tired from the week-long call that was coming to its tail end. My internship period was also coming to an end. This came with a concoction of joy and sadness. I was elated that this period was finally coming to a close. Still, I was sad because I would miss my psychiatric patients and the government's oily paycheck.
The day was like any other. Our small town was buzzing with activity as the days carried on. We were accustomed to the scorching sun that this part of the world gifted us. It was uncomfortably hot by eleven o'clock in the morning, and perhaps the only reasonable thing was to work with only the vest on; a vest, and a pair of shorts. But folks, that would be a newspaper headline. 'A naked doctor is allowed to practice in a large referral hospital.'
Maureen gently twisted the doorknob in that brazen heat and squeezed herself into the consultation room. She was restless, and you could notice something off about her demeanor and body language. She winced a little, pouted, and made funny gestures with her nose. When you have been in the trade for some time, you get a sixth sense of who is genuinely sick and who is not. Maureen was not sick, at least from my first impression.
Our consultation room is separated by plywood. If someone is unusually loud, they can be heard in the next room. I circumvent this problem by urging my patients to lower their decibels to communicate effectively without the fear of breaching confidentiality. Our town being our town, sometimes you have to accommodate those whose speech centers have been set high.
"Daktari, chief amenituma unijazie hii form ya disability nipate msaada," she leaned forward and muttered with haste, rolling her eyeballs with uneasiness. Occasionally, she looked me directly in the eye to see how I would react and handle the situation. This is what audacity looked like.
"Disability yako ni gani?" I asked, a little surprised, seeing that she was perfectly normal. “Angalia hizi madawa, utajua, wewe ni daktari," she answered before I finished my question. She was on antidepressant medication, and a further history would reveal that she lost her cousin a few years ago. She was put on those medications when her grief was prolonged. The medications were stopped soon after recovery from that event. That was five years ago.
Depression can be creepy, folks. It comes with a loss of interest in activities that one once found pleasurable, feelings of hopelessness and fatigue, feelings of unworthiness, loss of appetite, insomnia, loss of libido, and many more. Maureen had none of these symptoms. Had it not been for the way she rolled her eyes suspiciously, I would have been convinced that there was some substance in her claims.
"Kulingana na venye nimekuona, hauna disability," I managed to gather the courage to break Maureen's heart, much to her chagrin. Suddenly, she shot from her seat, with overflowing rage and a look that you afford to a rival who has taken meat off your hands when you are about to eat it. I was coming in the way between Maureen and a government stipend, and she was having none of it.
She did not seem to want to leave the consultation room without the form filled as she wanted. She tried to manipulate the situation by twisting her body defiantly, like a small girl who has been denied an opportunity to do something cheeky. I advised her to seek a second opinion from my consultant in the next room to avoid creating chaos and eliminate the possibility of a bias from my side.
Everybody had already left the clinic save for Maureen, my consultant, and me. The pin-drop quietness that ensued meant that no matter what, I would get to hear the conversation between Maureen and my boss in the next room. Off she started explaining her problems, more eloquently than ever before. The story she was giving was slightly inconsistent with what she told me. The more she explained her symptoms, the more she veered off from the initial story. My consultant listened with the intent that a doctor owes their patient, without unnecessary interruptions.
"Maureen, this form is for those who have a disability; those are the people meant to benefit from that fund," my consultant broke her silence. ‘Wewe ni mgonjwa hatukatai, but you are functional, haujafika disability" she added.
"Naona hamtaki kunisaidia, nyinyi ni madaktari bandia," she bickered as she banged the door behind her and scuttled off. She did not look back.
Names and identities have been changed to protect those involved.
The writer blogs at kiayeoliver.com
