A TOWEL OF CONTENTION by Dr. Cynthia Pettross
n a mission trip, healthcare workers treat patients whether it’s a medical trip or not. And we usually find the facilities less and the observers more than home. For example: “Get me a towel!” I commanded the room in as loud a croak as I could muster.
“His finger’s coming off!” Charlene screamed, trying to constrain her hysterical 3-year-old son Andy. Andy, had smashed and ripped open his finger in a closing door. I was called out of the conference room to help in the lobby.
Surprisingly, this request enraged Jack, the father, who also knew I was a doctor. He grabbed the child and ran out of the hotel, calling for a Band-Aid. Jack made a futile attempt to bandage the bloody, flailing finger, but couldn’t.
The extent of the damage was not yet clear, but it sounded grim. Would there be an amputated finger to save? Like a code I called out orders, “Someone get ice. Get a wash cloth!”
Jack was losing touch with reality. I followed insisting that the lesion was serious, but was disregarded. Jack’s grabbing at Andy’s flailing hand threatened to extend his wound, and damage his joints. It was painful to watch.
My commands fell on deaf ears. The entire lobby watched, paralyzed. This was clearly not a hospital. True, with no white jacket and a hoarse voice, I was not exactly confidence inspiring. But the hotel staff was as clueless in response as our mission volunteers.
Parents have their rights. But I could not stand around and watch mistreatment. I told Charlene that Jack would not listen to me and left the lobby. And by this time I had called 911.
Lacking assistance, I demanded the gaping desk workers tell me where to get ice. Reluctantly, they sent me around the corner to an ice machine, but with nothing to hold the ice.
Five minutes later the mother came for me again requesting help. I got a towel, and finally a mission volunteer brought ice and a wash cloth. Dan, another volunteer helped me wrap the towel around Andy’s arm. Now immobilized, I could gently examine and firmly compress Andy’s finger.
I was amazed. Mother and child were frantic. Onlookers stared. Finally, someone got a wash cloth. Knowing that I was a physician, Charlene trusted me. We sat. She held Andy tightly, but he was thrashing so wildly I couldn’t examine his finger. We needed to immobilize his arm.
Almost miraculously Andy relaxed. With his wound under pressure, pain and panic had left. The scene was calm when the paramedics showed up to take him to the ER. “Jack’s brain turned off,” is how Charlene explained Andy’s behavior to me. Apparently it stayed off all day. Later he had no thanks, only rebuke. “It made no sense to ask for a towel!” he scolded me. “You couldn’t feel the finger through it!” In wide-eyed surprise I corrected his misunderstanding, “The towel was to immobilize Andy’s arm. Turn to page 13...
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