A day of chaos at the hospital: Patients on floors and field

A day of chaos at the hospital: Patients on floors and field
gurneys, doctors scavenging for supplies[ Eds: ///Recaps
previous.///[ AP Photos XAI102,106-107[ By EMMA ROSS= AP Medical
Writer=
BANDA ACEH, Indonesia (AP) -

A day of chaos at Banda Aceh hospital

Emma Ross
Reuters/Banda Aceh

Sawing through the door of an abandoned laboratory, scavenging
for oxygen machines at the airport and crafting makeshift IV
medicine bag hooks out of tent pegs.

It's a day in the life of the most functional hospital in the
community hardest hit by the Dec. 26 earthquake and tsunami, a
place where patients lie on new white body bags because they are
plentiful and easy to clean.

The Teungku Fakinah Hospital is the only hospital in Banda
Aceh that escaped significant tsunami damage. But when an
Australian medical team arrived in the days after the disaster,
patients and staff were nowhere to be seen.

"The place was deserted. Our people figured they either died
or ran away," said Dr. Hugh Grantham.

That was then. Now, there are patients, and many of them are
in trouble.

8 a.m.:

About a dozen doctors and nurses set off on morning rounds.

Seventy patients are packed tight in rooms and in corridors,
lying on field gurneys or floor mats, their families around them.

Their names are taped to the walls on scraps of paper. Their
clothes stick to them, and their bodies glisten with sweat. They
are fanning themselves or each other with scraps of cardboard.

IV bags hang from clothes lines strung from one end of the
room to the other.

Most of the patients were battered and cut by debris caught up
in the tsunami waters. Many inhaled dirty water. Others are dying
of tetanus.

Many have flaps of flesh torn away from their bones, or skin
torn from muscle. Unattended, the wounds close and pus forms
inside, creating the risk of gangrene and deadly blood poisoning.

In a corner, a young man lies on a body bag atop a gurney,
surrounded by women mopping his brow, reading from a Muslim
prayer book and rocking back and forth, chanting "Allah" in his
ear. The paper on the wall above his head reads "Marwan."

He stares vacantly, his chest moving up and down rapidly. His
heart races. He came in overnight with pneumonia caused by
inhaling tsunami water. He moans, tossing his head from side to
side, gnashing his teeth and screwing up his face in pain.

The doctors prescribe antibiotics and oxygen.

9 a.m:
Grantham convenes a meeting of all medical teams in an attempt at
coordination. While the Australians were the only medical workers
at the hospital in the early days, there are now teams from
several countries - each with their own turf.

"We've got the Estonians, Canadians, the Taiwanese and then
the Indonesians. It has taken a number of days to persuade this
'United Nations' to work together," said Grantham.

"They all arrived as independent teams to do their bit and
what I've been doing is welding them together into a hospital,"
the Australian said.

A police doctor came from Jakarta to take over hospital
administration. An Estonian medical team installed themselves in
the emergency room. So did a Taiwanese team and a Malaysian team.

The Estonians report there's no one to clean the emergency
room. Dr. Lufti Bagus, the police doctor, offers to find someone.
The Estonians say they will pay -- it's going to cost the
equivalent of a pack of cigarettes a day.

Another problem: patients are being fed only rice -- not
enough to keep their immune systems up and promote healing. The
Indonesians have a cook who goes to the market every day, but
money is tight. The Australians say they will pay for better
food.

There's also a problem with patients who are well enough to
leave but have nowhere to go. Perhaps a humanitarian organization
can take them? "I'll see what I can arrange," Lufti offers.

As the meeting winds up, four South Koreans -- a
dermatologist, a gastroenterologist and two nurses -- arrive and
offer their services. Grantham thanks them for volunteering but
tells them the hospital is well staffed. They insist on staying.

12:30 p.m.:
The emergency room is teeming. The South Koreans have set
themselves up in a corner, the Estonians have the rest of the
room. The injured and the ill sit patiently waiting their turn on
worn wooden benches, smoking and watching doctors dress wounds.

Meanwhile, the Australian doctors have reshuffled the patients
in the wards, creating a low-grade intensive care unit and
getting the rest of the sick out of the corridors. A lone man
sweeps the tiled corridor.

The place almost looks normal.

David Mack, a rescue worker, has finally breached the locked
lab with a hammer and saw and created a hole big enough to crawl
through. Dr. Andrew Pearce, an Australian surgeon, is the first
one in.

As soon as he enters, the glee is clear on his face. The lab
appears to be fully stocked with modern equipment. A new
refrigerator in the corner is stuffed with chemical reagents and
other materials for lab tests.

"We're doing bush medicine at the moment. Now we can go beyond
that. This is a full lab. I'm excited," he said.

The lab has a spooky feeling. The log book lies open at the
last used page. Dozens of entries are recorded on Dec. 25, but
there's only one entry for Dec. 26, the day of the earthquake and
tsunami.

Pearce opens the cupboards and lets out a cry of delight --
urine test strips, portable blood sugar monitors, test kits. He
fills his arms with as many of the treasures as possible before
heading to the wards.

Mack sets out to hammer IV bag hooks out of tent pegs.

2 p.m.:

Grantham turns his attention to the South Koreans' hold on the
emergency room, but when he gets there, they have gone back to
their camp. He puts the task on his list for the next day.

Dr. Bruce Paix, one of the Australian team's
anesthesiologists, goes to raid aid shipments coming into the
airport for oxygen concentrators -- machines that suck in air and
spit out oxygen. He takes three boxes of antibiotics to trade.

On the way to the airport aid compound, he stops at the public
hospital, which is not fully functioning but has a field surgery
unit being run by the Australian army. He scores two bottles of
inhalable anesthetic -- enough for six operations.

At the airport, he splashes through the boggy grounds from
tent to tent, deluged by the monsoon rains, begging for an oxygen
concentrator. The Spanish, who are operating a triage tent for
tsunami survivors, say they have one but it's not available until
the next day.

Back at the hospital, the rains are pelting down, soaking the
laundry draped from trees and strung up across the grassy
courtyard.

The Australian doctors, hot and sweaty, rush out fully clothed
and start lathering up their clothes. Then they strip off to
their swim trunks and bathe in the rain - it's the only running
fresh water they can get.

3:30 p.m.:

Marwan, the young man suffering from pneumonia, has been given
oxygen and antibiotics, but they didn't work. He dies -- one of
four patients the doctors lose that day. Two others, including a
14-year-old boy, die of pneumonia and another patient dies of
tetanus.

On this day, like any other since the tsunami, relatives often
take the body away for burial, but sometimes they don't. And
sometimes there are no relatives.

GetAP 1.00 -- JAN 12, 2005 08:51:11