by Michael Wawrzewski, PA-C
This is the story of a 32-year-old farmer that was brought into the Hospitals of Hope clinic on August 13, 2002. He was carried in on a blanket by some friends stating that he had injured himself two days prior while plowing a field. Somehow, while plowing, the rope that was tied around a team of oxen became entangled around his ankle. The oxen took off, knocking him violently to the ground and dragging him around the field. Luckily some nearby neighbors were able to stop the oxen, but not before he was seriously injured. His friends immediately constructed a crude splint and put him in their truck bound for the nearest clinic. Though the injury was obvious and appeared serious, each institution that evaluated him would not attend to his care any further than a simple exam because he had no money to pay.
Somehow the friends were told of Hospitals of Hope and that we might be able to help, so they brought him to the clinic. By the time he arrived, his leg was three times the normal size due to swelling. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that something was broken, but the extent of damage had yet to be determined by anyone. Two x-rays revealed that he had a very complex fracture, such that any wrong movement on our part could potentially cause the sharp bone fragments to sever the main artery in his leg, causing him to bleed to death.
Our doctors relayed the news and findings and his need for surgery to the anxiously-waiting friends. Upon hearing the news and our inability to perform the surgery (since our hospital had not yet been built) the friends became solemn and sad. They determined that it “must be his destiny to die.” Without our help, they were going to take the patient home and leave him to either die or survive. This fatalistic and hopeless way of thinking was shocking but not the end of his story. We decided to pay for his surgery and all his medicines and provide his rehabilitation. During the thirty-minute trip transporting him to the orthopedic surgeon, our small but courageous doctor (Edith Villarroel) shared the gospel of Jesus Christ in Quechua (which he had NEVER heard before) and two out of the three riding in the back accepted Jesus Christ that afternoon. Praise be to God!
In February, I abandoned my comfortable existence as a fourth year medical student in North Carolina, and traveled to Bolivia, South America for a short term mission trip.
