dispatches from here

The clinic is a simple, austere outfit. A small waiting room with nine red plastic chairs and the secretary’s desk. The only wall decorations are a bare fluorescent bulb, a clock with a painfully loud second hand, a cross, and an antiquated fuse box. To right of the waiting room is the sole examination room.

To the left of the waiting room is a plain room with two beds, where I am staying with Dr. Milad. A simple room with no real signs of habitation, except a few pieces of clothing hanging behind the door and a cell phone charger clinging to the wall. He has graciously opened his clinic/home to me.

The clinic exam room, with the bare minimum of supplies to deal with the stream of patients.

The medicine cabinet with an assortment of donated medicine from all over the world. The supply is completely arbitrary and uncertain, and patients only get a week’s worth of meds per visit, even for chronic conditions like diabetes and hypertension. When we have to give patients medicine, I spend a bit of time digging around, trying to find the right meds, struggling to make out the names, sometimes in Arabic, German, French. The problem with trade names is that each country has their own, so I rely on the fine print that usually has the generic name, and usually in English.

The room I’m sharing with Dr. Milad. Simple. Quiet.

The secretary, who volunteers all of her evenings in the clinic, registers patients as they arrive. She also brings us tea and coffee throughout clinic, which is amazing. Dr. Milad I head to her house after clinic a few blocks away and join her family to watch a hugely popular Turkish soap opera, “As the Days Pass” which has been dubbed into Syrian Arabic. I only understand about 20% of the words, but am slowly learning.

There are daily rolling blackouts throughout Damascus lasting two hours. At the clinic, its from noon to 2 pm, which is fine because the clinic is only open from 6-8 pm. However, in addition to the standard rolling blackouts, sporadic blackouts also hit. Tuesday night, we ran clinic with flashlights and candles. A patient brought in her meds, sometimes she takes losartan, and sometimes valsartan depending on availability in the clinic. Valsartan is written in Arabic as “falsartan”, because Arabic doesn’t have a “v” sound. Makes trying to decipher medicine names extra tricky.