Fingering her pockets, Percia Hutcherson pulls out a piece of hard candy. She unwraps the plastic around the smooth, sugary yellow surface and places it into the pudgy hands of a young toddler. He is crying hysterically in his mothers’ arms after leaving one of the examination rooms.
“This usually calms them down,” Percia says in a soothing tone. And she is right. Within minutes the teardrops evaporate from the child’s round, chocolate-complexioned face.
Not every diagnosis is this simple to handle at the North Rift Rehabilitation Centre. As you enter the clinic’s main lobby, it is completely packed. Mothers, fathers and children sit shoulder to shoulder squeezed onto two available benches. Dozens more congregate outside sitting on chairs and makeshift piles of brick beneath a carport to shield themselves from the warm Kenyan sun.
“You can see by the number of people that there is a need for this,” says Josephine Chepkoech in a Kalenjin accent.
She has brought her young daughter, Celline, a bright-eyed four-year-old who suffered from knock knees, for a follow-up exam.
“It is located near rural areas where people are not aware," she explains. "Some hide their children, but the center enlightens the awareness of correction.”
On this day, more than 120 patients are visiting the clinic. They have come from villages throughout the North Rift Valley. Some traveled by matatu (public taxi). Others have walked the distance, like 18 year-old Eric Kibacii.
I met him outside the gates of the ACK compound. Eric wraps his slender ebony fingers around a smoothly carved wooden stick that stands almost as tall as his wiry six-foot frame. Gripping it firmly, he thrusts the pole into the ground. Then he hoists his lean figure in tandem to take a step with his right foot, while his left foot, crippled by polio, drags on the ground behind him. It has been six years since Eric has visited Percia for treatment.
“She took me to the hospital,” he recalls, referring to his operation just outside of Nairobi at Kijabe Hospital in 1997. “I had been coming for checkups with my mom, but when she died, I gave up.”
Orphaned, Eric now lives in a rescue shelter in Eldoret. For months he had searched for a childrens home to place his younger siblings. Now his priority is finding a way to correct his limp gait.
“I have been strained using the stick because all of my weight is on one side,” he complains.
As soon as Percia sees him, she grabs his stick and trades it for a pair of crutches. She places them under his armpits and instructs him to bend his elbows and wrap his fingers around the hand mounts.“One, with the right hand. Two, with the left foot. Three, with the left hand. Four, with the right foot,” Percia advises as she guides his first steps. “Think about what you are doing. The crutch should always be in front of you.”
Step by step, Eric makes his way down a slight dirt embankment. After several successful attempts, he takes a break and heads for a cool spot resting beneath the grass-thatched roof of a round, open-air mud hut.
“It [the crutch] has helped me because one leg was very weak,” he describes. “It helped me to get balance so that I can walk properly.”
He adds: “God bless the work of her [Percia’s] hands for what she is doing to help people.”
The signs of appreciation can be seen everywhere. Inside Percia’s office, a note is taped to the wall near her desk. It is from the family of David Omondi and reads: “Our boy got a serious fracture but I thank God for your encouragement. You made the boy realize that disability is not inability….Now he is able to walk.”
“It’s a real challenge to work with these families because the children are a burden. Many are treated like babies,” Percia explains while taking a break at her desk. “We see all types of conditions. Some are severely burned from open fires in their village home. We also do work with kids who are brain damaged or suffer from cerebral palsy.”
Consolata Matirani is a hydrocephalic – a condition that causes excess fluid in her brain.
The 11-year-old is barely able to lift her enlarged head which is about the size of fully inflated medium balloon. Constrained by a wheelchair, she waits patiently with her mother outside of Percia’s office. Both of her legs are in casts connected by a plaster rod to keep them in place.“The fluid [in her head] made her unable to walk,” explains Sister Judy, a missionary who runs a center for disabled children in Malava, a town northwest of Eldoret. “She had a crooked back so they placed rods in her back. They were removed in Kijabe but they think it helped straighten her back and legs.”
As I squat down to greet Consolata, she manages to raise her large head flashing the pearly whites of her teeth in a huge smile.
“She is happy,” her mother, Ezina Jafred tells me. “I think she might have died [had she not gotten treatment].”
Johanna Chepkesio is also grateful. His daughter, Abigail, was diagnosed with clubbed foot at birth. Since her corrective surgery, he brings her to the clinic every two months. “If the center were not here, my child may not have been treated at all and she would have been lame her whole life,” he says.
During this visit, he squeezes her hand and strokes her shoulder as the robust four-year-old wails loudly. Physical therapist David Mwaniki dips his hands into a small tub filled with a chalky, white semi-liquefied substance. He manipulates the plaster in a circular motion to mold around her right leg.
“I am putting the cast on,” Mwaniki explains. “She will keep it on for a month and will come back for a brace.”
The continuous influx of patients has outgrown the small center over the years prompting its ongoing expansion which is now entering its third phase. Beyond the rehabilitation room, lies an unfinished cement hallway with empty rooms adjoining both sides.
“We started from scratch…and have developed the clinic in phases,” Percia says following a walkthrough. “Phase One is an outpatient facility. Phase Two will be a rehabilitation hostel and Phase Three will serve as a guest house with five units where visitors will have a place to stay.”
Construction is progressing but requires patience and additional funding. It took more than six weeks for the bushstone to arrive. The grey stone is chisled by fundis (construction workers) into a rectangular shape to erect the building. The delay almost forced Percia to find another vendor.
“Sometimes they tell us they can’t deliver it [the materials] because they don’t have a driver,” she says of the many explanations that she is given by various contractors. But she and her staff continue doing the best they can with what they have, a rewarding opportunity for Obadiah, a clinic manager.
“My eyes were open,” he says of his experience. “So many people have disabilities. It takes heart to work with these people. Many are marginalized, but we try to make them feel loved by the community.”
1 comment:
My wife and I worked at NORIREC in 2003-2004. I was the Clinic manager and my wife was the accountant/bookkeeper. I lived in the adjacent house and my car (borrowed from Percia) was used to visit the clients after they had returned from Kijabe where they had an operation. Now they needed rehabilitation (physical therapy)and we visited them to see how they were getting along. Invariably they would point out nearby homes where other disabled children could be found and given an appointment to visit the clinic when the medical team from Kijabe hospital would visit every 6 weeks.
We knew Percia and her right-hand man Obadiah very well.
We also lived in Los Angeles and were able to attend Percia's funeral.
Our year there was such an eye opener. I have now returned to Africa 23 times and look forward to more
Bruce and Helen Dolph (brucehdolph@aol.com)
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