The Authentic Eclectic

Pregnant In A Third-World Country

The only doctor on the island was about to go sailing. He rang at 10pm just to check. Too late.

It was never our plan to have a baby on the island, but pregnancy did take place, and it would be difficult to blame anyone other than ourselves, for that.

It was shortly after our marathon run that I felt sure I was pregnant, confirmed a week or so later by the doctor (the only one) in Arawa, our coastal part of the island.

All was great. No morning sickness, no going off particular foods, just the perfect pregnancy. Squash and running continued for a while.

That I was sharing my journey with another staff member, even better!

As the weeks passed, I loved to lie on the beach and just feel the flutter and grooving of another life inside me, as my baby fine-tuned its response to noises around, a cute and reassuring sign that all was well.

But then…

I was close to fifteen weeks on, when slight pain woke me up on a Sunday morning. I found I was bleeding.

We waited a while, hoping it would stop, and unwilling to call our doctor out so early. But eventually my husband rang him.

He suggested bed rest, and as he was just about to go sailing, he assured us he would call when he got home.

Off sailing…threat of miscarriage…only some ten minutes away…what would an ethical doctor do?

The harsh reality is that many of us seeking adventure, do find ourselves living in Paradise, on ever-sunny islands, full of promise and fun.

We had two sun-seeking doctors, only two, one in the mountains of Panguna, and one in Arawa, by the beach. Ours just happened to be a sailing enthusiast.

Getting advice over the phone

I had my thoughts about that. The bleeding was significant, but I did as I was told, lying in bed, waiting for the next set of cramps…still bleeding…still worried…

It’s hard to stay positive when you are in a foreign country, removed from family and assurances, removed from a health system that you have always presumed was there for you, and you are suddenly faced with a crisis over which you have had zilch experience.

The day trailed on…and on… and the sun set, and fear crept in. What if?

And then it happened

Around six o’clock, huge pain, one sudden rush…I made it to the toilet where I passed liver-like clumps of blood…my baby was no more…

All I can remember is feeling so alone, abandoned, and just not knowing what to do.

The doctor rang at 10pm.

Was I an afterthought?

Was the call a thought as he was about to call it a day?

He certainly hadn’t been sailing til 10pm?

Just a tad too late…

Would it have mattered?

I believe I would have lost this baby whether or not the doctor had seen fit to drop his sailing trip and visit me, or not. But you never know.

And we will never know.

At the very least he should have directed me to go to the hospital. I suspect though, that he would have been the attendant physician, in which case, he would have been off sailing.

If so, how might that have impacted other emergencies?

I can wonder all I like. The fact is, he failed in his duty. Sailing was obviously much more important to him.

When I next saw him, he assured me I was still pregnant!

I’m a teacher and he, a doctor. I knew I wasn’t.

So that’s the gory part. Done and dusted, minus all the bits you might dream up for yourself.

He suggested he book me into the local hospital for a D&C, after which I could go home. The procedure would not take long, 15 minutes, and once I had been in the recovery ward for the requisite amount of time, it would be fine to go home.

A few weeks later I checked into hospital early in the morning, as directed, and was allocated a room where I had to wait my turn.

My surgery would be towards the end of the day…and though there was a note at the end of the bed, in pidgin, to say I was not allowed anything to eat or drink, food and drink were brought in, twice!

Imagine…

At one stage I went to use the bathroom.

That’s when things fell apart. There was mold everywhere, crawling up walls in showers, and sinks.

I grabbed my bag and hot-footed it to a friend’s house. She calmed me down and assured me the theater would be spotless.

She also assured me that nobody would notice I’d gone. Very reassuring!

So I sat with her for a few hours and then returned in the early hours of the afternoon, a little spooked to be honest, but I did go.

Soon it was my turn and I can still recall the panic that hit me as I was wheeled into theater.

Thankfully my friend was right about the operating theater. By contrast to the hospital generally, it was spotless.

You having fun reading this?

All good…

Not much to relate regarding surgery. It all went to plan, or so I am told, but waking up in a ward packed with mothers and new babies, was just a wee bit confronting.

We first-world people presume so much.

I have no recollection of my husband taking me home, but he did, with no instructions, and according to him I just slept and made noises for the next two days or so.

I also bled badly…and he didn’t think to check!

I suspect I might have had an infection. It’s all such a blur, but I think I am on the money.

I look back now that we have a better understandings of sepsis, and the likes, and realize how lucky I was NOT to have suffered badly from all of this.

I’m grateful to have been fit enough to fight things off. Two days later and I was back to normal.

Clearly there are messages to take from this experience

Given that we all like to travel and absorb different cultures, we should bear in mind that:

• things can, and do go wrong wherever you choose to travel
• one should have an action plan in order to effect the best outcome
• seeking a second opinion, in my case, checking with my GP in Adelaide, would have made me more comfortable
• having private insurance is vital. In my case, mine did cover return to Australia. I should have used that option

But I’m here, and yes, sharing a story that could have been so much more graphic had I chosen to write so, and I don’t think I have suffered ongoing trauma from it.

The fact is, whatever we do in life, has risks. Even standing still, could be a hazard. Ask anyone living in a war-torn country.

In looking back I choose to hold dear to me, the many beautiful things that happened to us, the fun experiences we had, and the things we learned, but I have one more traumatic one that really scared me, being lost in the jungle. More on that later.

Below are two other stories about our life on Bougainville Island. We did pack a few punches into our stay.

We became super-fit.

We made lots of friends.

We also had bucket loads of fun!

Lukim yu bihain…goodbye for now…

If you’d like to run a marathon in the tropics…

When our behavior and our belongings send the wrong message