When a Wasp Delivered a Birthday Blessing

When a Wasp Delivered a Birthday Blessing

By Dr. Shane Malitha Halpe

October 2021 marked the beginning of my journey as a doctor beyond the safety net of internship. I had just completed my final rotation and was appointed as a Medical Officer (Relief) under the Regional Director of Health Services in Puttalam. My assignment? A rural divisional hospital in Kottukachchiya—about 12 kilometers inland from Puttalam town.

Kottukachchiya was quiet and unassuming. The hospital, a Type C divisional facility, had been without a doctor for nearly six months. Staff spoke of doctors who had either been transferred, gone on maternity leave, or left for postgraduate training. When I arrived, I was alone—appointed as Medical Officer-in-Charge by default. There was no nursing officer, no second doctor but a visiting a dental doctor. Just a midwife, a few attendants, a dispenser and an ambulance driver.

It was a humbling start.

Although I had trained in paediatrics and surgery, I had little experience in general practice and virtually none in administration. Every form, every protocol, every decision—I had to figure out on the spot. My daily work revolved around OPD consultations, antenatal care, and medical clinics. The pace was slow, the workload manageable. The staff were kind, though not accustomed to high-pressure situations. Most patients came with everyday complaints—coughs, joint pain, minor infections, and check-ups.

Saturdays were half-days, and I looked forward to them. On one particular Saturday, I was especially eager to get home—it was my mother’s birthday. I had packed early, hoping to catch the afternoon bus to Wattala. By 11 a.m., the OPD had quieted down. I was almost ready to leave.

Then came the three-wheeler.

It rushed into the hospital compound, carrying two women—mother and daughter—surrounded by anxious villagers. They had been attacked by a swarm of wasps while riding a motorcycle. Panic filled the air as they were wheeled into the dusty, rarely used ward. I heard someone shout, “Doctor! Come quickly!”

I rushed in.

The younger woman appeared distressed but stable. The mother, however, was pale, clammy, and semi-conscious. Her pulse was thready. She was sweating and cold to the touch. Her blood pressure? Undetectable. My heart sank. I had never managed a case of anaphylaxis on my own. But amid the chaos, a lesson from my final year medicine rotation under Prof. Kolitha Sellahewa echoed in my mind:

"Anaphylaxis? Give adrenaline. Adrenaline!"

I called for the cardiac monitor—it hadn’t been used in ages, and no one knew how to operate it. I connected it myself. I asked for adrenaline—only two vials remained in the hospital, and one was expired. I took the viable vial.

With trembling hands and a pounding heart, I drew up 0.5 ml of adrenaline (1:1000) and injected it into the patient’s thigh. I prayed as I watched and waited.

Slowly, to my relief, her condition began to stabilize. Her pulse strengthened. Her blood pressure returned—120/80 mmHg. The adrenaline had worked.

Realizing the limitations of our rural facility, I arranged an immediate transfer to Puttalam Base Hospital. She was safely loaded into the ambulance, stabilized and conscious. Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

As I turned to leave, I mentioned to the midwife—half-apologetically—that I was now late for my mother’s birthday and hadn’t even bought her a present. She smiled gently and said:

“Doctor, you’ve already given her the best birthday gift. You saved a life today.”

That evening, when I finally made it home—disheveled, drained but deeply thankful—my mother met me with a warm hug. The midwife had already called to share what had happened.

With tears in her eyes, she whispered:

“Thank you, son. This birthday, you gave me the most precious gift a mother could receive.”

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Looking back, that day in Kottukachchiya was more than a clinical experience. It was a rite of passage. I stepped into responsibility, leaned on my training, and learned that even the most basic of settings can become the backdrop for life’s most profound lessons.

It reminded me that healing isn’t always about technology or titles.

Sometimes, it’s simply about being present—when it matters most.

And perhaps, that’s what Family Medicine is truly all about.