Nursing in Matabeleland
By W. C. Walston
I HAVE always been thankful that I had a nurse's training before coming here. I find something to do in that line nearly every day. Not long ago, a native woman brought us a child who had had two of its fingers nearly severed by a hatchet in the hands of a careless playmate. She asked me to take off the fingers and dress the hand. I made a careful examination, and told the woman I thought the fingers could be saved. She shook her head, and said it could not be done. The operation, though simple, was far beyond her comprehension. I placed the fingers in position, dressed them properly, and told her to return with the child in two days. This she did, and I found my patient doing nicely. After several weeks, I removed the dressings, and showed the mother the hand restored to nearly its normal shape, the fingers nicely healed. "Wonderful! Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "The white man does wonders." Another time, a father brought his son, a boy about twelve years old, with his cheek torn open by the horn of a bullock. I disinfected the wound, and took a few stitches; and after being dressed several times, it healed so that the scar showed very little. The father could not find words to express his gratitude. He thanked me over and over again.