The King Hussein Hospital – Jordan

It was merely a month since I started working and only the second month that I lived in Jordan. My flight to Dubai was very difficult. Three days later, in a hot and humid climate, while returning to Jordan, I felt sick and feverish. I had the bump on my left thigh that appeared as an insect bite. I could not tell for sure what it was.

The next day the fever was not going away and the bump was getting bigger. I knew I needed help. I took a cab to the King Hussein Hospital, a hospital that was contracted by the Airlines. The large building was built in marble, in a remarkable Middle-Eastern architectural style and surrounded with alleys of palm trees. It looked beautiful. Once I stepped in, I found myself in a dark hall, full of sick people, where nobody seemed to know what they were doing. I was scared, but I had no options. I was given a room and examined by the doctor who said I had an abscess and needed a minor surgery to get it removed. It would take about a week to recover, after which I could go back to work.

When I woke up, after the surgery, I knew something was wrong. I was sicker than before. My bandage was badly soiled and the room had no running water. I asked for a doctor, but there was no one coming. I only had nurses and they did not know what to do. I could not speak Arabic and they did not know English. They would come in, take a look, giggle for a while, in embarrassment from looking at the half- naked girl, and walked away. How could I find myself in that situation? There was nobody to call, nowhere to go. What if I didn’t get better? I stopped being friendly to my nurses and when they walked in; I started to reject their “help”. I was in a big trouble. The days passed by. Suddenly, one morning, a young man walked in and asked to examine me. Another joke, I thought. He did not look like a surgeon. Lucky for me, he was. I was finally getting help. I ended up with the second surgery and a long month of recovery. He drove me home and visited every day, until I could go back to work.

Years later, I heard that he left the King Hussein Hospital and went to Yemen, to help wounded in the civil War. I’ve never seen him again, but I knew, in that disorganized mess, where human life was not so important, where life and death frequently met, where nobody cared what the outcome was, there was this random stranger who took his vocation seriously, one man who made the difference.

Note: This story is fictional. It may not represent the opinion of the author.
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