Please pray for us…

Angie isn’t doing any better. Her fever is still holding steady between 102 and 103 degrees. This is day five with a fever, so we decided it was time to go to the doctor.

The whole visit—consultation, lab work, and medication—cost us about $20. That’s really the only good part. Angie’s been nauseated and dealing with a constant headache. The doctor ordered blood work to try and figure out what’s going on. They suspect it might be dengue fever, though they’re not completely sure yet.

She slept most of the day in our room with the windows closed and the door shut. It felt so hot in there to me, but that’s how she wanted it. The medicine helped with the nausea but didn’t do much for the fever.

Later this afternoon, I went back to get her lab results. Her platelet count came back dangerously low. Normal levels are between 150,000–400,000. Angie’s was 6,800.

The doctor recommended admitting her to the hospital.

That was nerve-racking. We decided to go ahead with it since they were primarily going to monitor her and give her fluids through an IV to help boost her platelet count. They’ll run a test tomorrow to confirm whether or not it’s dengue.

The kids both had a fever last week and recovered quickly. We assumed Angie had the same thing. Maybe she does—we’ll know more soon. For now, we wait. And pray.

About the Hospital…

Things work very differently over here.

I had to pay a $3 fee before we could even see the doctor. After the consultation, we paid about $13 for lab work, and then they took her blood. I crossed the hall to the pharmacy, spent another $7 on medicine, and brought it back to the nurse.

Later, when we returned to admit her, they prescribed more meds for the night. I had to go purchase those and personally hand them to the nurse. Also, hospitals here don’t provide food. So I ran down the road, picked up some cooked white rice (Angie’s request), and brought it to her for dinner, along with three liters of mineral water.

They asked if she needed a private room. I joked, “No, she’ll be fine with all the other ladies.” But of course, I paid extra for the private room. It’s about $30 per day—versus $6 for a shared one. I think she deserves the best.

Her nurse is from India and is a Christian. She’s very kind.

Emotionally Spent

I’ll be honest—we don’t understand why we’ve had to go through all this the last couple of days. But we’re holding on. We remember why we’re here. I feel confident we’ll be okay in a few days.

Maybe this is just preparation for another time. At least now we know where the hospital is, how the system works, and what to expect.

Dinner and Crabs

The kids and I ate at a little restaurant tonight—a new one for us. Most places haven’t sat well with us, but this one was great. We all had Sprite and a main dish, and the total came to under $8. No cooking, no dishes—totally worth it. You can’t even buy two Jamba Juices for that. (Oh, how I miss Jamba.)

Not sure why I’m so focused on costs in this post. Maybe it’s my way of keeping control in an uncontrollable situation.

Laundry in Rainy Season

We’ve probably washed our bed sheets every day since arriving. If it’s not someone being sick, it’s rain blowing in through the windows. Can someone please explain how to dry laundry during rainy season?

Back home in Oklahoma during tornado season, we just threw everything in the dryer—same solution every season. But here? The “dryer” is actually what’s raining on our clothes.

End of the Day

I guess I’m just rambling. I don’t want to go to bed tonight—with my wife in the hospital—and no one to talk to. The kids and I stopped by the hospital one last time before bed around 10:00 p.m. Angie looked really tired. Her fever had spiked to 103 again, and she said she had to take a cold shower just to manage it.

I didn’t want to leave her alone there. But I had to get the kids to bed.

Yeah… I’m crying. Don’t worry—my kids are asleep. I don’t want to freak them out. As I carried Kyndal back from the hospital, she said, “Wow, Daddy! You sure are strong.”

I don’t feel strong. I feel weak. Powerless. Like my prayers are just bouncing off the ceiling.

I know I sound like a big baby. But I feel so responsible—for her, for the kids. So many people are counting on me to keep her safe. And right now, I can’t fix this.

I probably have you crying now too. Sorry. But writing helps. It makes me feel like I’m not alone.

And just to be clear—I know my feelings aren’t reality. I know my prayers don’t stop at the ceiling. I know God hears. I know He cares. And I believe He heals.

I trust Him.

The sheets are finally done washing. I’m heading out to hang them for a bit before bed. I feel better after writing this.

Thanks for letting me be real. I thought about deleting all of this, but I decided to leave it here. I want you to not only read about what we’re experiencing—but feel it too.

If you’re still reading this, you’re either a really good friend… or you need to get a life. 🙂

Thanks for being a really good friend.