A Desperate Search for Treatment

While Iraqis elected a new parliament this month, I sat in a half-empty hospital ward in Baghdad, fearing for my mother’s life. Despite having planned to vote and to report on election day this year, I ended up casting aside my duty as a citizen and my desire as a journalist to stay at my mother’s bedside.

For the preceding two weeks, a series of mysterious spasms in her leg had left her increasingly paralysed, crying in agony at the slightest movement. Our desperate search for treatment had taken us on a nightmare tour of Baghdad’s corrupt and chaotic healthcare system.

My mother was seen by ten hospital doctors and five private physicians, each of whom offered a different diagnosis. We spent hundreds of dollars and several sleepless nights taking care of her, only for her condition to steadily worsen.

On election day, March 7, she was completely bed-ridden and in almost constant pain. My father and I set up watch by her hospital bed, trying to soothe her with words as we waited for a doctor. No doctor appeared that day, despite assurances from the only nurse on duty that one was on his way.

From a nearby bed, I overheard a woman speaking into a mobile phone, asking someone whom they had voted for – the only reminder that an election was taking place outside.

This year’s vote was vital for Iraq’s future: a chance to influence what sort of government takes over as the American military withdraws. Many people have said they want their leaders to improve public services and strengthen security.

Staying away from the streets on such an historic day was one of the hardest choices I’ve made in my career as a journalist. And as I later realised, I was forced to take this decision because of my country’s chronic violence and crumbling infrastructure: the very curses the voters were hoping to lift.

My mother is 53 years old. Like other women her age, her life revolves around the family and the home: cooking, cleaning and caring for children and grandchildren.

Late last year, her eyesight began to worsen. While watching TV, she complained that she could not read the subtitles on foreign films or the ticker on news bulletins. As her vision grew cloudier, she felt less and less sure of her movements, especially in public places.

An ophthalmologist diagnosed cataracts in her eyes, possibly linked to the diabetes she has had since she was young. Three days after an operation to correct the cataract in her left eye, my mother suffered a spasm in her left leg.

At first, the pain hindered her when she walked. But it rapidly got worse and soon she was unable to leave the bed or even sit upright.

The expensive scanning technology that could examine my mother was only available at the big public hospitals. When we went there however, we found that the senior doctors – the specialists she needed to see – had stopped coming to work because they were worried about being killed or kidnapped.

With the election only a fortnight away, tensions in Baghdad were rising, along with fears of a revival in the sectarian conflict that had wracked Iraq in the aftermath of the US-led invasion. For years, doctors have been among the most vulnerable professions, targeted by militias and criminal gangs for their wealth or sect.

As the elections approached, the only specialists willing to see my mother worked in private clinics, where they felt relatively safe. The care provided by private clinics is usually good compared to public hospitals, where the staff can be rude and overworked. Both options cost money: bribes must be paid in public facilities, while the private sector charges its expensive fees upfront.

Unable to move without extreme agony, my mother needed an ambulance even to take her to a doctor. The specialists were, of course, unwilling to visit her because they feared for their own safety on the roads.

Our calls to the public ambulance service went unanswered. After asking around, we were told that we needed to make a private arrangement with the ambulance crews, rather like hiring a taxi. My husband visited the hospital garage and struck a deal: a 30-minute journey, travelling 25 kilometres across Baghdad, would cost almost 100 US dollars.

The specialists had a range of opinions about what was wrong with my mother. Some of them spoke of a tear in her muscle, others said she had sciatica.

None of the remedies they prescribed made her any better. Instead she got worse, until she was completely paralysed by pain. On the eve of the elections, my father and I checked her into hospital.

I felt utterly helpless. I no longer knew what was good for her and what was not. All I wanted was a doctor who would treat her correctly. I feared she was going to die, yet I had to put on a brave face to keep her spirits up.

Some days after the election, my mother was seen by an internist, who prescribed a new type of injection to ease her pain. It appeared to work and for the first time in several weeks, her condition began to improve.

Another doctor saw her a few days later and said the pain was caused by an injury to her nerves. My mother is now back home, receiving several injections every day and showing slow, slight signs of improvement.

My father and I had been considering taking her abroad for treatment, possibly to India or Lebanon. Now we’re waiting to see whether she continues getting better.

Until my mother fell ill, I had not realised the depth of the crisis in Iraq’s public services: I was under the impression that only the very poorest went without decent medical care.

The rest of us could get by in emergencies by paying expensive fees or bribes. Now I know the situation is far worse than that. Today, Iraqis die not just from bombs and violence but from incompetence, corruption and a lack of compassion.

Abeer Mohammed is IWPR’s senior local editor in Baghdad.

This article first appeared on the Comment is free pages of The Guardian online.