Quinsy

My nephew's five-year-old daughter spent several days in the hospital recently, reminding me of every parent's heartache when a child gets sick and my own distress when our daughter Tina fell ill in Cameroon at about the same age.

Today's excerpt "Quinsy" comes from Part Three: Cameroon Tales, Chapter 11.

Quinsy

After the wet season, we could enjoy afternoon barbeques again. At a cookout at the Grimstes' Tina left her group of playmates and slumped down beside me.

"Mommy, my head hurts."

My hand on Tina's forehead registered fever. I called to Fred and Dakota and we said our goodbyes to the other guests. Once home, I gave Tina a dose of Tylenol and tucked her in bed where she went straight to sleep.

In the morning I knew she had a serious illness. Not only did she have an unusually high fever and complained of headache and sore throat, she had also wet the bed. This is the girl who had slept dry since age two. I took her to the embassy medical unit.

The nurse, Barbara Koch, referred us to a British doctor downtown. Dr. F. palpated the swelling on Tina's neck and stated that the obscuring of her jaw line suggested mumps. She advised us to push fluids, encourage Tina to rest, give her Tylenol for pain, and wait for the disease to run its course.

Instead of getting better, Tina got worse. The fever rose. Tina stopped eating. She sipped water only if I begged her. I radioed Nurse Barbara, who called the Regional Medical Officer stationed in Lagos, Nigeria. He immediately booked a flight to Yaounde and examined Tina the next day. In Dr. R's opinion, Tina's illness was not the mumps. He diagnosed a peritonsillar abscess, an illness also known as quinsy. The doctor said that under normal circumstances he would recommend admitting Tina to the hospital, lancing the abscess, and initiating treatment with penicillin. Given the deplorable conditions of the local hospital, Dr R. suggested either a medevac (medical evacuation) to Army medical facilities in Frankfurt or forgo the lancing in favor of home treatment with antibiotics.

Fred and I couldn't approve of taking our sick child on a long plane trip from the tropics directly into winter in Germany, so we chose the home treatment. Tina's allergy to penicillin required an alternative antibiotic. Barbara volunteered to stay by Tina's bedside throughout the first night of treatment with a tracheotomy kit ready in case of allergic reaction to the penicillin substitute.

I lay awake that night, listening to Tina's every breath. In the morning, Barbara closed her trache kit and went to work as usual. Fred took Dakota to school and went on to his office. I continued my vigil with Tina. Dr. R. had instructed me to record her temperature every hour and get her to drink fluids as often as possible. He told me to take her to the Peace Corp lab every day for a blood test to monitor her white cell count.

Tina did not complain, but she didn't eat either. She survived for three weeks on sips of water and four or five tiny bites of yogurt a day. She lay on the couch and listened to the recorded book "Tina the Ballerina" over and over.

The antibiotic did work and her white count came back down to normal. The abscess disappeared and Tina's appetite returned. Months passed before she regained her health and her weight. Her knees stuck out like knobs on her matchstick legs, and her complexion held the pallor of sickness for weeks.

Before her recovery was quite complete, I wrapped our little ballerina in a blanket and carried her to the embassy Christmas party. She laughed for the first time in a month when she saw her slim Daddy dressed in a pillow-padded Santa suit, distributing gifts to all the embassy kids. She laughed again when I asked Joseph to pot a banana tree and bring it in the house. And she giggled while I sewed Christmas ornaments on the broad leaves of our unorthodox Christmas tree. I laughed with her, so happy to see her getting well.

We went all out for Tina's fifth birthday in January 1979. We invited the whole kindergarten class as well as our group of friends and their children. Tina chose a Winnie-the-Pooh theme and I drew a big picture of Eeyore for pin the tail on the donkey. While everyone else sang happy birthday, I silently sang a prayer of thanksgiving that our daughter had survived quinsy.

Voluntary Nomads: A Mother's Memories of Foreign Service Family Life is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble as well as in eBook formats at Smashwords and in PDF at Outskirts Press

Next time: an excerpt from Part Four: New Zealand Yarns



Helping Joseph

When we hired Joseph Tazenou to create and maintain our yard and garden, we had no idea that our lives would intertwine as tightly as the loofah vines on the chainlink fence. Today's excerpt recalls a problem Joseph had and our attempts to help him solve it (from Part Three: Cameroon Tales, Chapter 10)



Joseph, Dakota, and Tina work in the garden

Helping Joseph

I thought he might have malaria. His glowing black skin had lost its luster and his face was drawn and gray. His robust and muscular body sagged now, weak and frail. Fred advised him to go to a doctor.

"Father, a medical doctor cannot help me, for I have a demon in my back. You don't believe me, but this is the truth. I know about modern psychology, but that is no help either. The boys I work with in the Ambassador's garden hate me because I come from Dschang and belong to a different tribe. To get rid of me they sprinkled a curse on the grass and it entered my body through the bottoms of my feet and lodged in my back. I cannot stand the pain. It will kill me if I don't go to my home village and have it removed by the medicine man."

Fred pulled out his wallet and gave Joseph bus fare to Dschang.

Three weeks later, Joseph returned, hale and hearty, his exorcism an apparent success. Fred interceded on his behalf and Joseph transferred to other duties for his part-time work at the ambassador's residence, guaranteed to be at a safe distance from the rival tribesmen and their toxic magic.

Fred and I discussed other ways to help Joseph improve his lot in life. We asked him if he would consider doing any kind of work other than gardening. He expressed an interest in office work, so we bought him a portable typewriter and paid for his enrollment in a typing class. Too bad the breadth of his fingers made typing impossible. He hit two keys with every stroke.

Joseph suggested that he might like to be an embassy driver, if only he had the chance to learn to drive. We sent him to a local driving school. 

License in hand, he invited Fred to go for a drive with him to demonstrate his skills. Fred borrowed a car from the motor pool and off they went. I thought it odd when they returned so soon, with Fred behind the wheel, his lips taut and grim. Joseph retreated to his room and Fred launched into the story of his near-death experience. Joseph drove as if he had never before been behind a steering wheel. His attention flitted everywhere but the road ahead. The car weaved and wandered, slowed and speeded in random surges. Fred made him stop and change places. We shared a rueful laugh about the quality of training at the local driving school and the futility of our attempts to help Joseph find a new career. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available in paperback at Amazon and Barnes and Noble as well as in all eBook formats at Smashwords and in PDF at Outskirts Press



Two Little English Girls

I watched Voluntary Nomads climb to the top 35,000 on Amazon yesterday. I wonder what readers will think as they read about me, my family and our adventures. People that know us won't be surprised, but what about folks we've never met?

To tide you over until you get your copy, here's a piece from Chapter 9 in Part Three: Cameroon Tales. The action takes place in the little beach town of Kribi. While a special work assignment kept Fred glued to the emergency radio network in Yaounde, the kids and I flew to Kribi with the Simmerson brothers and the Rowan family to share a beach cottage for a week.

Beach Play

Two Little English Girls

Our rented cottage in the town of Kribi had the beach for a front yard. The three bedrooms held six mosquito-netted bunks each. We made our bed choices, unpacked our bags and stripped for beach action. A fisherman approached and Earl negotiated a good price for his catch of the day. I didn't know if all my companions spoke the truth, but every one of them professed ignorance of the time-honored art of fish cleaning. So the task fell to bigmouth me. Dakota helped, as much as a four year old can.

Next day, Kathy said she didn't mind watching the four kids so I could play tennis with the guys -- Ritchie and I against the Simmerson brothers (or The Blues Brothers, as I called them). Doug and Earl beat us beginners with their repertoire of drop shots, lobs, and backspin trickiness. We laughed as we replayed the match during our mile-long walk back to the beach house. We joked about whether the winners or the losers should pop the first ice-cold beers.

Kathy put her book down and slid her reading glasses to the top of her head. "Hi, how was tennis?"

"Terrific," I said. "How did the kids do?"

"No trouble at all. They paired off as usual. Dakota and Richard have been working on their sand fort the whole time." Kathy pointed at our two boys digging and tamping in the shade of a nearby coconut palm. "Justin and Tina are playing dress-up in the house."

I dropped my racquet and backpack on the porch and went inside to find the little ones. My voice echoed in the empty house. "Tina? Justin? Are you hiding? Come out, come out, wherever you are."

I expected to hear telltale giggles from under a bed or behind a closet door. Cold silence drove me outside to call for help. As the other adults did a thorough search of the house and yard, I questioned Dakota and Richard. They swore they hadn't seen the younger pair since breakfast.

Doug volunteered to stay with the boys while the rest of us split into two teams. Ritchie and Kathy went south on the main road, and Earl and I headed north. Earl spotted a woman at the front door of a house, sweeping the steps. He asked if she had seen two small white children.

"Oh, yes," she said, in French. "Two little white girls passed this way half an hour ago."

My heart flip-flopped with hope. Three-year-old Justin seemed all boy to me, but perhaps his golden curls made him more feminine in the eyes of a stranger. Or perhaps all whites looked the same to Africans. Earl and I forged on.

Around the next corner we saw a vendor selling fruits and vegetables from a wooden wheelbarrow. "Yes, I saw the English girls. The older one told me that they were going to meet their parents at the tennis courts. Are you the parents? Don't worry, all the neighborhood is watching out for them."

I realized we must have just missed them when we took a shortcut on the way back from the courts.

I ran the last quarter mile. Earl couldn't keep up. Granted, he had a bad knee, but still….

I found the "English girls" sitting in the shade beside the road, oblivious to the rest of the world, deep in their imagination game. Tina wore her favorite ankle-length muumuu, and curly-haired Justin portrayed delicate femininity in Tina's paisley sundress. Tina admitted that she instigated the whole plot, intending to surprise us. I forced myself to concentrate on the happy ending and avoided pondering on the grisly alternatives. ###

Voluntary Nomads is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble as well as Smashwords and Outskirts Press



Jungle Drums

Are you ready for another excerpt? We're on Chapter Eight now, which is the beginning of the section called Part Three: Cameroon Tales. The selection "Jungle Drums" describes first impressions of West Africa when we arrived there in 1977.

Cameroon

Jungle Drums

The following day, in living color and 3D, we had a striking introduction to 1977 Africa when our flight to Yaounde required a plane change at the international airport in Douala, Cameroon's largest city. The humid heat struck with full force.

"There's something wrong with this air," Dakota said, "I can't breathe it."

A monkey on the shoulder of a passer-by drew our attention to the riot of colors, odors, noises, and activity in the air terminal. Women wearing jewel-toned cotton print ankle-length gowns with matching head wraps swirled through the crowd of travelers dressed in drab neutral colors. Vendors sang their spiels like Sirens of the sea with rooster crows and monkey screeches in counterpoint. We four held hands and formed a tiny minority island in an ocean of inquisitive faces, all smiling with dazzling white teeth against purple-black skin. A few passersby tried to make conversation, but when we responded to their patois with puzzled expressions, they gave Dakota a pat on the head or ruffled Tina's hair and walked away. I knew I needed to dive into French lessons as soon as we checked in at Amembassy Yaounde.

My white knuckles showed what I thought of our chances of survival as our small plane bounced and skidded to a stop only a few feet from a steep drop into the jungle surrounding Yaounde's airport. An embassy official facilitated our passage through the formalities and a small group of embassy folks met us at the gate. Our entourage buffered us from the chaotic swarm of arrivals, departures, hucksters, and taxi hawkers. Our welcoming committee ushered us through pandemonium into the sanctuary of an embassy vehicle and swept us to our temporary quarters.

The cement block building squatted at the edge of a road that cut a narrow slice through the dense tangle of trees, undergrowth, and vines. Our apartment had that nobody-really-lives-here look. The smell made an indelible impression -- the tangy nose-crinkling mixture of propane, cleaning products, insect spray and overripe fruit. I followed the odor to the kitchen and pantry area where it intensified. I made a quick survey of the groceries provided by our sponsors. Good enough -- Cheerios with milk, a whole pineapple, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese would keep us going until I could go shopping.

The welcoming committee flocked around Fred, babbling, while Dakota, Tina, and I inspected the rest of the apartment. Fred reported later that this group of "young turks" tried to enlist him in their war against the establishment. Fred decided to stall them until he had a chance to talk to the "old guard" and figure out how he could best stay out of the political struggles entirely.

Twilight descended as the young turks left. I served bowls of mac and cheese on the veranda. Trees, green fading to black, filled the view. Vines intertwined everywhere. Jungle reached to the horizon. A few pieces of macaroni fell from Tina's fork and we watched the ants discover the spill. Within minutes no evidence remained, not even a grease spot on the cement floor. No doubt Cameroon had a lot to teach us about the job of insects in the tropics.

A few twinkling lights appeared among the trees that showed only their outline against the darkening sky. And the drums began. The hairs on my arms stood up. I thrilled inside with a shivery feeling of anticipation. Real African jungle drums! I felt as excited as a six-year-old watching "King Solomon's Mines" for the first time. The drumming grew more intense and I half rose from my chair before I realized that the louder sounds came from rain pounding on tin roofs as a tropical storm approached. When the storm reached its peak and the rain crashed on our own tin roof, it roared as if a locomotive were thundering overhead.

After the brief squall passed, we listened to the magic of the jungle drums until we could no longer keep our eyes open. Four sleepyheads stumbled to bed and all four hit the pillow snoring.###

Voluntary Nomads is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble as well as Outskirts Press and Smashwords