Christmas Come Early

It has been blazing hot here these last three days, the kind of heat I had always associated with Africa, the kind that cracks landscapes, coughs dust, destroys crops, emaciates wildlife, starves villages. Contrary to the song that I haven’t heard since last December, but many of you no doubt have an uncountable number of times recently, it is not beginning to feel anything like Christmas; I am in an oasis of wreathless doors, lightless windows, cookieless kitchens, treeless family rooms, stockingless mantles; no gift lists, no holiday sales, no mall trips, no baking bonanzas, no present exchanges. In fact, I am not planning on giving or receiving any gifts this season besides maybe biscuits and samosas to my Ugandan friends and family, and I was actually very much looking forward to experiencing the holiday simply, sans the extravagance and materialism.

I have been a bit curious how the holiday season would unfold here asking Ugandans about their Christmas plans over the last several days. They casually smile, excited about it as we are in the West, but just as they approach life generally, are without excessive stress and high expectations; it’s an African Christmas.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” I’ll ask.

I don’t know. Mass in the morning then Christmas lunch. I will visit friends.

“What do you have for lunch?”

Meat, Irish [potatoes], rice, chicken.

“You have meat and chicken?”

Yes.

“That is very nice. Do you exchange presents?”

No.

And so are African Christmases: visiting an ancestral village, attending Christmas mass, eating a special meal of freshly slaughtered chicken and produce from their gardens, and maybe wealthier Ugandans exchange some simple gifts; their houses aren’t adorned with mistletoe and wreaths and bows and knickknacks, their airwaves aren’t choked with commercials and songs beckoning them to shopping centers, they don’t worry about spending too much or too little on friends and family, they don’t stuff themselves with chocolates and cookies and cakes and candies. As such, I knew my Ugandan Christmas would be unlike any I’ve experienced before, but, as it has delightfully turned out, will not be without at least one cherished and much appreciated early Christmas gift: Richard has finally had his surgery.

After months of care and commuting between the Lugazi and the hospital in Buikwe on dusty, curving, and probably dangerous dirt roads, consulting with countless surgeons, and him already having one unsuccessful surgery, the boy has finally had the operation that will hopefully end the infection that has for the last two years wreaked havoc on his leg, mobility and self-esteem.

I had gone to the hospital in Buikwe this past Thursday to consult the surgeon and we had tentatively scheduled Richard’s operation for Monday.

“You have the x-ray done today and I will look at it on Monday and let you know if we can do the surgery,” the Slovak doctor told to me as he rushed out the door for a long weekend at Mount Elgon.

“Oh. You mean you might not do it after all?”

“It depends on what the bone looks like. It needs to be strong enough.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll call you Monday morning.” I was a bit disappointed, but had learned to question all assumptions and expectations here; African life was like driving down a road blanketed in fog unable to see two feet in front of you; you really never know what you are doing, never really know where you are headed, never really know what is going to happen.

I called the surgeon Monday.

“Yes. The bone looks strong enough in the x-ray. We will do the surgery. You bring him tonight to be admitted and we’ll do it tomorrow.”

YES!!!

So Monday afternoon I boarded a taxi to Buikwe hospital with Richard where he had a second x-ray taken and was admitted in preparation for the following day’s surgery then I left the boy behind and Ester came to be with him; remember, you have to have your own nurse with you at African hospitals to clean you, feed you, dress you, care for you; there are African nurses, but despite my being here for nine months and having spent much of that time in hospitals due to personal illness and that of others’, Ugandan nurses’ exact job duties remain elusive to me; I see a lot of mulling around, lounging on chairs, slowly moving through halls.

The surgery was to happen on Tuesday. I received a call from Ester at the hospital in that early afternoon as I ran around Lugazi managing the snack shop and trying to sell off the first round of chicks from the Maama Muzungu Poultry Farm in time for Christmas. She sounded typically calm when she greeted me, then:

“They are doing the surgery tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I replied trying not to feel rejected. Patience, patience, patience; patience is virtue.

I waited patiently yesterday for today to arrive. I waited patiently this morning for Ester’s text confirming the operation had begun. I waited patiently for Ester’s call confirming the operation had been completed. I finally called her.

“He’s out now, but like last time needs to be held,” she said to me. My mind flashed back to Richard's summer operation when the boy was only given Ibuprofren for his excruciating pain.

“Okay. I am still waiting for Vegas to help us sell the chicks, but I’ll be there soon,” I said feeling sorry for the boy, but lifted from an incredible sense of relief. I hung up the phone and soon thereafter Margaret, my Ugandan Mummy came to the snack shop.

“Richard has had his surgery!” I exclaimed to her.

“Oh that is very good!” She responded with a huge smile and lightening shoulders; we've all felt the burden of the boy's discomfort.

“Yes, and it was just in time for Christmas!”

“Yes, just in time for Christmas. It is a good Christmas indeed.”

Indeed.