Urgency for Daisy
A good friend working at a local women’s shelter told me that Daisy was in the hospital, having suffered a severe aneurism. A doctor, however, would not be available until Monday. There was no urgency during Chinese New Year it seemed, so I decided to pay her a visit. Daisy was 17, HIV positive, and had been working as a prostitute for the last four years.
When I arrived at the Khmer Soviet Friendship Hospital I was shocked to see children scurrying about tending things; there were no adult workers in sight, and certainly no doctors. Daisy was propped up in bed and unable to control her movements; she was emaciated and in desperate need of a bath. Her eyes communicated her distress. Her family said she was deteriorating and I was alarmed to discover that no doctor had yet seen her. She was reluctant to eat. The care she had been getting was clearly horrid and I knew something had to be done.
I called and arranged to have a bed ready for Daisy at an international clinic nearby. While I was preparing to leave a phone was pushed into my hand with an angry doctor on the line questioning my motives. He told me that the holiday prevented him coming to see Daisy, that she had a mental condition, and that she “needed to be locked up for a very long time”. I thanked the caller, powered the phone off, gave it back to the prepubescent hospital employee and proceeded to a taxi.
At the clinic, Daisy was immediately given a battery of tests and hooked up to an IV. Within hours her blood work came back with no diagnosis. Her weight was a mere 27 kg. The doctor, a Cambodian, said that the hospital I had taken her from was a place where Cambodians take sick people to die–at a cost of five dollars per day. He told me that Cambodian people sometimes “acted liked dogs, letting the weak pup die”.
I was asked many times during the first several days of the ordeal why I was helping. I was told Cambodians never help strangers and that “She is 17 and HIV positive, and it’s not like she is going to live forever anyway”. A close Cambodian friend told me bluntly, “She is crazy and she should be put in a place where other crazy people are”. Hearing comments like this, I realized I was very far from being this type of Cambodian at heart.
Daisy’s relatives were quite content to let someone else take care of her. Only her mom came to see her, though rarely. Her aunt called, and no longer interested in letting Daisy live with her because of her illness, asked where to send Daisy’s things. Daisy was now homeless, on top of everything else. Her father moaned about having to spend four dollars on a taxi ride as part of the process of giving consent for care.
I was astonished at the way the local people reacted to Daisy’s condition. One day, when she had mustered the energy to sit up, I wheeled her out onto the balcony of her room. A crowd of people gathered in the street, pointing and laughing without shame. To my utter delight, Daisy somehow managed to present her middle finger to them, which caused them to scurry away.
After more than a week of testing, there was no consensus on a diagnosis. One doctor advised that if Daisy were his child, he would be on the way to Bangkok to seek care. Right away we made plans to go there.
After days of planning, scrambling, and overpaying for an emergency visa, we arrived at the airport with Daisy’s doctor in tow to see us off. After supplying all the necessary paperwork, we were greeted by a not-so-nice member of the airline staff who told us we could not fly. His reasoning was that Daisy “did not look normal”. After much persuasion, he left the final decision up to the captain, who was Thai. When presented the situation, the captain only smiled and said “welcome aboard”.
In Bangkok care was first-rate. Upon arrival, we were whisked by ambulance to the hospital. Cordial staff and comfortable accommodations made the week of additional tests bearable. No diagnosis was made, but Daisy did start HIV treatment.
Thailand was a revelation. Everyone showed an interest in Daisy and no one questioned my intentions. Random people would stop her on the street, touch her hand, and smile at her.
Daisy’s two sisters, living near Bangkok, would not visit. One sister finally did come, only to be phoned constantly and asked to return. Even Daisy’s English brother-in-law refused to lend a hand. “You should know when to stop,” he told me. If I had stopped, however, Daisy would be dead.
With no diagnosis, the call went out to the WHO, Ivy League medical professors, a neurology department head in Tokyo, and many people working for NGOs. A doctor working in Africa suggested a form of encephalitis possibly isolated to a particular province in Cambodia. It became clear that the problem was common within Daisy’s province and almost always fatal because sufferers could not afford care.
After a few weeks, Daisy started to improve and was walking with a cane in just two weeks. With this news, her sisters agreed to a visit, her aunt welcomed her back in, and her mother was curious about when she could get back to work again as a prostitute. Daisy eventually did find her way back to her old working haunts again, though she now weighs a healthy 54 kg.
I find the prospects of improving human rights in countries like Cambodia daunting. The idea that her friends, family, and fellow citizens can offer a person in Daisy’s condition nothing is shocking in the extreme. Are wealth and status the only guarantors of human rights in such countries? What chance is there for progress under such conditions? People repeatedly ask me why I bothered helping her. The question should be, of course, why would anyone refuse to help?
© 2011, Paul Brian. All rights reserved.