When our bodies are ill, we are in a most tender state of being.  This is a time when support is needed in many forms.  When a woman walks miles to a hospital and becomes one of the lucky few who will get to see a doctor, she is at a most vulnerable state.

Here in the US, we ask questions, we are told how our procedures will unfold, we read about conditions, we know the risks.  In Ethiopia, a woman sets aside her fears and bravely surrenders herself to the hands of the doctors who have arrived to help.  She is scared.  She has heard of tales from other women’s experiences at other hospitals where they have experienced excruciating pain due to the lack of anesthesia.  They have seen the infections, disease and early deaths resulting from poor care.

Each woman enters the operating room with hesitant steps, eyes wide open, and silence.  We have interpreters on hand to try to communicate with them, but words rarely are spoken.  The trust level is enormous.

Even when David, the anesthesiologist, has difficulty finding the right spot in Tarike’s back to insert his needle due to her tiny frame, Tarike does not question what is happening.  David’s kind demeanor knows that she is frightened, and he stops often to look into her eyes to try to communicate that all is well.  He frequently asks the interpreter to let her know what is happening, and he softens his voice to try to temper her feelings.

It takes a special doctor to know how to administer care without words.  It takes a special doctor to give up the comforts of a well stocked operating room, with an educated staff, to come to a place and perform surgeries where 50% of the patients have AIDS.

I start to see this operating room as a ballet.  Each movement coordinated and deliberate, graceful hands, tender expressions, bodies flowing together.  At the center is the prima bella, and all eyes are on her.