If the proverbial Martian were to gaze down on this family (or, forget the Martian; let's substitute one of the immense, white-patched crows that glide like wise angels over the whole of Dakar), he would see nothing that makes it stand out—unless it would be the kind of glow that surrounds the families of newborns. There would be papa dandling his son who delights him by learning to make eye contact. Mama's happy: Her breasts remain soft and comfortable because little Philippe has got the hang of nursing and finds that he really likes it. Mami is always smiling to watch the even-tempered development of the family and to know that her contributions have a benign influence. Our gliding crow would pass on, contented with this stop on his beneficent rounds.
He would be right, of course, but he wouldn't see into the details of that well-being; he wouldn't see into the fabric woven of the million little anxieties and doubts that form the actual activity in the household of the neonate. For such a long time (ten days now) everything is a first. Even the most sanguine parents are jellies of nerves and angst, no matter how beautifully they conduct themselves (they do!) and how happy the baby (he is!)
"Is he wet? Why is he awake? Is he sleeping too much? Is he hungry again? Is his poop normal? Why is that red blot on his cheek? Is his umbilical cord infected? Is he too cold? Too hot? Is he normal?"—The latter question underlies all others, despite the fact that his cheeks are rosy, he's filled out to the point of having a little double chin, he lifts his head, he's strong enough now to kick off meddling hands at diaper time, and he examines faces like a master detective—a Bobby Goren or The Mentalist. Parents have to fuss because they are new at this and have to have doubts, the doubts that love and massive protective instincts produce.
This week's medical checkups have been a blessing. On Thursday, both Lucy and Phillipe had their follow-up visits to OB and pediatrician. The doctors practice in the same clinic in the University neighborhood. They are brothers who have added a generalist to the practice and so have a fine arrangement, not to mention one of the most highly-recommended in the city. I enjoyed their waiting room just because of the variety of people who waited there. We were not the only Americans in Western dress. There were even two elderly women, anorexically thin, wearing white go-go boots, skin-tight jeans, and enough gaudy jewelry for a small fashion boutique. There were also Senegalese women, tall, wearing elegant boubous and scarves; a small family of Phillipino descent—a rainbow of ethnicities and, it appeared, income levels. It reminded me of the small town doctor's office I would wait in as a child.
The magazines were good too. Great stacks of French Elle, Men's Health, and Marie Claire; African fashion magazines, Elixir (priced in CFAs) and Miss Ebene (priced in euros). I was particularly interested in the variety of glossy, highly produced African news and business magazines, journals comparable to Time and Fortune. Jeune Afrique had a special financial edition dedicated to assessing the best 200 banks. AM (Afrique Magazine) I found very interesting for its range of topics and its continental inclusivity. It aims to be relevant to all African nations. With the permission of the receptionist I nabbed a fantastic issue from 2010 organized on the theme of 50 years of independence, counting 1960 as the year many countries—certainly Senegal—broke their ties with
colonizers. The varieties of opinions about the uses of those years is fascinating, running from grandly celebratory to bitterly regretful over the depths of lost opportunity of self-governance.
The doctor's office—le Cabinet Medical—was, as I said, old-fashioned by the standards of the group-practice HMOs I've grown accustomed to, where everything is super-white and there are partitions between clients and medical staff at every stage of the visit. American medicine is like that in general: The client is kept in a state of unknowing for as long as possible, ushered around mazes of hallways and encounter rooms by women in baggy outfits printed in juvenile motifs. The doctor appears as if by magic and then, like the protagonist in a drama, he exits the stage, leaving you to grope for an exit that won't lead you into any accidental indiscretion.
The door from the veranda of Cabinet Medical opens onto a long tiled corridor that runs through the building and leads to a tiled staircase with a wrought-iron bannister. At the landing, there is a louvered, open window. The back door stands open too, providing natural light, breezes, and a wonderful sense of ease, so unlike the doctor's office experience I'm used to.
To the right of the entry corridor is the reception room with high, molded plaster ceilings. The receptionist sits at a simple desk that separates her small area from the waiting clients'. She has a telephone, an intramural intercom, and filing "system" consisting of eight white drawers—each approximately 10 x 8," stacked in two tiers upon four metal legs. She has pens to write with, and paper. When a doctor is ready for his or her next appointment, he personally ushers his last patient into the reception area and shakes hands in good-bye. He then smiles to the next patient whom he accompanies himself up the stairs to his consultation room. These rooms are the rooms of a house with windows and tall wooden doors painted blue.
Even I felt better after a trip to the doctors' offices. So did Lucy, whose health was found to be in perfect order, everything healing nicely. So was Phillipe's. He'd gained weight and every question his parents posed had received a reassuring answer to the effect of "perfectly normal." The most alarming part of the doctors' visits was the travel to and from the office: placing the baby in his front carrier, timing his nursing for maximum effectiveness, trying to obtain a taxi manufactured no earlier than 1985, and getting the driver to keep all the windows up against the pollution.
By the time the two separate trips were ended (10:00 appointment for Lucy; 3:00 for Phillipe, each requiring about 2-1/2 hours round-trip), everyone was certified to be in perfect health, yet reduced to emotional putty. I had earlier made a healthy vegetable soup in case of collective lack of will for further efforts. I fed them and saw them all to bed.
Salud!
He would be right, of course, but he wouldn't see into the details of that well-being; he wouldn't see into the fabric woven of the million little anxieties and doubts that form the actual activity in the household of the neonate. For such a long time (ten days now) everything is a first. Even the most sanguine parents are jellies of nerves and angst, no matter how beautifully they conduct themselves (they do!) and how happy the baby (he is!)
"Is he wet? Why is he awake? Is he sleeping too much? Is he hungry again? Is his poop normal? Why is that red blot on his cheek? Is his umbilical cord infected? Is he too cold? Too hot? Is he normal?"—The latter question underlies all others, despite the fact that his cheeks are rosy, he's filled out to the point of having a little double chin, he lifts his head, he's strong enough now to kick off meddling hands at diaper time, and he examines faces like a master detective—a Bobby Goren or The Mentalist. Parents have to fuss because they are new at this and have to have doubts, the doubts that love and massive protective instincts produce.
This week's medical checkups have been a blessing. On Thursday, both Lucy and Phillipe had their follow-up visits to OB and pediatrician. The doctors practice in the same clinic in the University neighborhood. They are brothers who have added a generalist to the practice and so have a fine arrangement, not to mention one of the most highly-recommended in the city. I enjoyed their waiting room just because of the variety of people who waited there. We were not the only Americans in Western dress. There were even two elderly women, anorexically thin, wearing white go-go boots, skin-tight jeans, and enough gaudy jewelry for a small fashion boutique. There were also Senegalese women, tall, wearing elegant boubous and scarves; a small family of Phillipino descent—a rainbow of ethnicities and, it appeared, income levels. It reminded me of the small town doctor's office I would wait in as a child.
The magazines were good too. Great stacks of French Elle, Men's Health, and Marie Claire; African fashion magazines, Elixir (priced in CFAs) and Miss Ebene (priced in euros). I was particularly interested in the variety of glossy, highly produced African news and business magazines, journals comparable to Time and Fortune. Jeune Afrique had a special financial edition dedicated to assessing the best 200 banks. AM (Afrique Magazine) I found very interesting for its range of topics and its continental inclusivity. It aims to be relevant to all African nations. With the permission of the receptionist I nabbed a fantastic issue from 2010 organized on the theme of 50 years of independence, counting 1960 as the year many countries—certainly Senegal—broke their ties with The doctor's office—le Cabinet Medical—was, as I said, old-fashioned by the standards of the group-practice HMOs I've grown accustomed to, where everything is super-white and there are partitions between clients and medical staff at every stage of the visit. American medicine is like that in general: The client is kept in a state of unknowing for as long as possible, ushered around mazes of hallways and encounter rooms by women in baggy outfits printed in juvenile motifs. The doctor appears as if by magic and then, like the protagonist in a drama, he exits the stage, leaving you to grope for an exit that won't lead you into any accidental indiscretion.
The door from the veranda of Cabinet Medical opens onto a long tiled corridor that runs through the building and leads to a tiled staircase with a wrought-iron bannister. At the landing, there is a louvered, open window. The back door stands open too, providing natural light, breezes, and a wonderful sense of ease, so unlike the doctor's office experience I'm used to.
To the right of the entry corridor is the reception room with high, molded plaster ceilings. The receptionist sits at a simple desk that separates her small area from the waiting clients'. She has a telephone, an intramural intercom, and filing "system" consisting of eight white drawers—each approximately 10 x 8," stacked in two tiers upon four metal legs. She has pens to write with, and paper. When a doctor is ready for his or her next appointment, he personally ushers his last patient into the reception area and shakes hands in good-bye. He then smiles to the next patient whom he accompanies himself up the stairs to his consultation room. These rooms are the rooms of a house with windows and tall wooden doors painted blue.
Even I felt better after a trip to the doctors' offices. So did Lucy, whose health was found to be in perfect order, everything healing nicely. So was Phillipe's. He'd gained weight and every question his parents posed had received a reassuring answer to the effect of "perfectly normal." The most alarming part of the doctors' visits was the travel to and from the office: placing the baby in his front carrier, timing his nursing for maximum effectiveness, trying to obtain a taxi manufactured no earlier than 1985, and getting the driver to keep all the windows up against the pollution.
By the time the two separate trips were ended (10:00 appointment for Lucy; 3:00 for Phillipe, each requiring about 2-1/2 hours round-trip), everyone was certified to be in perfect health, yet reduced to emotional putty. I had earlier made a healthy vegetable soup in case of collective lack of will for further efforts. I fed them and saw them all to bed.
Salud!
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