Dr. Ahmad Yousaf
Today was the worst day. They bombed another school. The kids are not dead. They are burned alive. Dying. Babies. Sorry, this is graphic. I don’t think that people really truly understand how bad things are. What I saw there was so indescribable. I realized I needed to take pictures and document in little videos because nobody would believe it unless I did. The primary thing that I did there was triaging and mass casualty. This was not a dense ICU care. We often never got there. The longer I stayed there, I realized that my role wasn’t being a physician. It was being a witness. I started a WhatsApp group where I shared reflections and stories almost like a diary or journal entry. Reflection update 14: This is worse than I ever could have imagined. Shrapnel pulled from one and a half year old baby’s chest wall. Gloves for every helping hand is a luxury. Hemostats being sterilized via alcohol if you’re lucky. Dr. Nabil and Dr. Muhammad have barely slept the last 48 hours. They do not have all the tools. Their gowns are not waterproof. Your electricity goes out regularly but they have tag-teamed case after case and just keep moving. The capacity of the hospital was supposed to be between 115 to 200 people and there were 700 patients in that hospital. Last night was bad. Depressed skull fracture. His father tapped me on the shoulder many times asking what I thought. This kid sat upright with no pain medicine as they washed out his shrapnel. Small child with a blast injury, traumatic brain injury. His odds of surviving are little. Every time I do not think it can get worse, it does. Today, […] was bombed, resulting in a massive mass casualty event at the hospital. I lifted a dying little girl in my arms off the floor when I got frustrated waiting for a gurney and realized she was going to die on the floor at my feet. The girl, named Farah, was 12 years old but about the size of my 10-year-old daughter. I could still feel her arms around my neck as I typed this. There were a few more kids that died today. One in his father’s arms. This is a father cleaning off his son for the final time. A mother holding the shoes of her child. I don’t know if he’s alive. There was no time to process. We only have this many machines. We only have this much space. We only have this much gauze. Don’t have enough blood to hang for blood transfusions. I don’t have enough fluids to get this person’s blood pressure up. But decisions were made second to second and we tried our best. This nurse’s name was Wada, which means flower. My man, Ennis, always ready with some nicotine. Alat, an ICU nurse and the chef of the ICU. He may understand a quarter of what I say in vice versa but I love him. Every healthcare provider there is living in two worlds. Every time an ambulance pulls up the first question people ask is what the neighborhood was it? Where did the bomb drop? Was it where my family was? Turn on the news. Massive explosion in crowded area in Hun Unis. It’s going to be busy. A little girl lay on a cardboard box. I lift the cardboard box. That’s when I see the penetrating chest wound. Hell, she’s going to die right here on the spot. Today I’ve watched all the things I theoretically learned about burn patients in my training and education, happen right in front of my eyes in a matter of one day. I will never forget this image for the rest of my life.