"Dr Wai, you need to leave now because there is an Ebola suspect in this room."

The doctor pointed to a screened-off bed next to where we were waiting.

Immediately, I left the tiny, cramped room with B and his frail, 74-year old crippled mother.

After an emotional, hair-tearing morning of navigating through the Uganda healthcare system, being shuffled uphill and downhill across rough terrain with Mama on a broken wheelchair, we had still not been attended to at the hospital yet.

Overwhelmed

As soon as we were back at the waiting area, I was overwhelmed with helplessness and started to cry.

Early that morning, my husband, Cliff, had gone to the village to fetch B and elderly Mama to the health institute where we were to arrange for her transfer of care.

Just two weeks ago when we accompanied them to their usual dingy clinic, I was horrified to hear the doctor tell Mama that she would walk again if she used "massage oils".

I was furious. Had she started on physiotherapy instead as soon as her contractures had started to develop, she would still be walking today.

That visit prompted us to transfer her to the established public health institute where I volunteer at.

But nothing prepared me for the storm of events ahead. After being volleyed from one office to another, they told me her case file had been misplaced.

The hospital would have to create a new file for her, but because her referral letter had mis-recorded her medical history, they would not accept her based on "new guidelines".

After a convoluted, tedious process of detective work trying to call the dingy HIV clinic to prove Mama's legitimate medical history, while being shuffled back and forth between different staff members who promised to help us but didn't, we were told it was half an hour past mid-day and hence Mama's file could not be created.

She would have to go home — after four hours of empty waiting.

Possible fallout

It was right about then I was told that the 24-year-old Ebola suspect had been to Congo 2-3 weeks ago, where the lethal virus had been found, and was now bleeding profusely from his orifices.

Why he was not properly quarantined, was a question which only vexed me further.

What if it truly was Ebola? My first thought was Cliff, whom I had sent back home earlier, as the thought of him being around very ill HIV patients did not thrill me, with him being on life-long immunosuppressants for his liver transplant.

If Cliff got Ebola from me, he would surely die with his current immunosuppression. Would I need to quarantine myself? What did this mean? My thoughts spiralled out of control.

Feeling alone, hungry and overwhelmed with frustration and helplessness at the futility of my best efforts, my tears started to fall.

B comforted me, saying: "God is in control. And He has sent you and Cliff here for a mission, which you have not yet completed. Everything will be fine. Let your soul find peace and rest."

It was only when my senses returned, that I remembered that Ebola is not as infectious as the flu or measles. The International Communicable Disease Centre has emphasised it requires direct contact with bodily fluids from an infected individual. We had left as soon as the suspect was in the room.

Cliff texted me: "You are doing a great job. You are giving a voice to the voiceless by helping B's mom. I will give you a good hug and a kiss when you come back home."

Seven hours later, by God's grace, Mama's case was transferred after a phone-call from the director of the health institute to the nurse handling our case to please carry on and open a file for Mama.

Survived

We finally saw the doctor and physiotherapist in the late afternoon, who gave her the help she needed.

When the physiotherapist, who knew of us beforehand, saw me finally with Mama's precious patient card in hand, he smiled his broad African smile and said: "You SURVIVED the transfer process!"

Mama and I were both in tears. She turned to me and said: "I love you so much. You are my daughter."

By the time Cliff had sent them both home to the village, it was five in the evening.

Then he gave me the promised hug and kiss.

"Aren't you afraid of me passing you some disease?" I asked.

"I will die of loneliness rather than Ebola, if you isolate yourself from me," he responded.

In the evening, we walked to the top of a hill to watch the sunset.

As for the Ebola suspect, we found out in the morning that he had been transferred to the Central Hospital and confirmed to be negative.

It is at times like these that we are reminded of the vapour in the wind that we are, in the face of the unexpected and unpredictable.

Our lives are but brief moments. Should we not live as though each were our last?

Image by Simon Davis/DFID