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In August of 2014, a 23-year-old woman walked through a medical center in rural South Africa

searching for something important.

As she moved through the little medical center, she passed offices and rooms filled with beds.

She saw sick patients getting shots and young women lined up for pregnancy care.

It was loud and hectic, but this was her third summer as a medical volunteer in Africa,

and she knew what to expect. But some days were harder than others, and today was one of those

hard days. She felt exhausted as she dragged herself to the supply room and opened the refrigerator.

She pushed aside boxes of pharmacy samples to find the plastic pouch of liquid she'd been looking

for. Then she hustled back down the hallway pouch of liquid she'd been looking for.

Then she hustled back down the hallway and into the last room on the right, shutting the door behind her.

She hung the pouch on one of the metal IV poles they kept in the room and collected the plastic tube dangling from the bottom.

Then she lifted up her shirt and found the matching plastic tube protruding from her abdomen.

She connected the tube from the pouch to the one in her belly and twisted a blue plastic

clip to release the drip. She sighed and flopped down into a folding chair, resting as her lunch

slowly drained into her stomach. Because this bag of nutrients had not been for a patient, it was for her.

This was how the volunteer had gotten all her food, all her nutrients, for the past several years,

threw a tube in her stomach, and her doctor told her that it was quite likely she'd never be able to eat again,

at least not without enduring excruciating pain.

I'm Colin Murray.

And I'm then it's James.

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