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Right-tap to rescue a life

A young American started crowdsourcing medical treatment for people all around the world after a fortuitous encounter on a minibus in Costa Rica. So what happens when some of the poorest nations in the world interact with Silicon Valley? To discover out, Andrew Hankinson visited Haiti.

By indika sampathPublished 2 years ago 26 min read
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I read about boisterous street music, proper voodoo ritual behavior, and the beauty of rice and beans in a travel guide while flying to Haiti. I'll peruse a spreadsheet of dead kids on the plane home: "The patients that died before surgery are on tab 6," the email will state. In Haiti, six days is a long time.

Friday around noon, I fly into Port-au-Prince and take a cab to St. Damien Hospital, where I meet Owen Robinson. He brings me to Michael Crapanzano, who is evaluating a female with renal cancer and a massively enlarged belly in an examination room.

A pediatric cardiologist from Baton Rouge, Michael frequently travels to Haiti to do echocardiograms—ultrasound exams of the heart—for the Haiti Cardiac Alliance, a charity Owen co-founded in 2013.

Owen, who is 36, resides in Vermont. He formerly worked for nonprofit health organizations Partners in Health and the Clinton Health Access Initiative. Owen graduated from Harvard with a degree in political science and government and a master's degree in international security policy.

For Owen, over a dozen American cardiologists provide their services. They visit for a few days, seeing a large number of patients—mostly kids. If a youngster requires surgery, Owen makes arrangements to fly them to a facility where it may be performed. Typically, this facility is Health City Cayman Islands on Grand Cayman, where pediatric patients receive free surgeries. Many travel to the US.

Owen is writing down notes for Michael today. The renal cancer patient's heart is in good condition. She goes. A little kid need surgery. In Creole, Owen informs his mother. She waves as she departs. Owen talks to another mother whom he overheard discussing murdering her child. A youngster with a hole in his heart is examined by Michael, who declares him to be "inoperable." The mother doesn't laugh.

Michael informs me after she departs, "In the States that would have been corrected in six months."

Owen and Michael are asked by a doctor to visit the emergency department. Michael travels with his echo device. Every time he travels from the United States, Michael carries it with him. It's similar to a large, hefty laptop. A lady holding a child with a swollen head is holding the child, but she is not the child's mother; the child was abandoned this morning. In his cot, a large infant breaths quickly and deeply. Owen has short hair and is dressed in a black t-shirt and white chinos. Some of the mothers glance to me as though I might be able to assist, but I can't. Michael is dressed in grey pants, a dark blue scrub top, and spectacles.

In the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, a nurse then instructs Michael and Owen to do two echoes. One focuses on a little child who is being cared after by an orphanage worker. He is covered in a blanket and is missing one arm. He's attempting to change. He gives me a glance. I say, "Hey, little man." His heart is healthy. He has sores all over him and is underweight. I keep making notes.

We board Owen's rented 4x4 around 5:30 p.m. He travels to the Marriott hotel ($159 a night) along Port-au-potholed Prince's streets, passing by food shacks, UN trucks, and a line of people dancing in the street. The gate is closed behind us by armed soldiers. Owen and Michael dine with a different cardiologist who will be joining us tomorrow, but I have to go to bed because I haven't slept in 48 hours. I try to recall why I came here while I do so.

It's early on a Saturday. I observe the gas station and food stalls below from the hotel window. I reread my notes and make clear my objective: to report on the morality of medical care crowdfunding. I decided on Haiti because, when searching for "crowdfunding," I came upon a FAQ section on the website of a charity organization called Watsi that addressed many of the queries I had. I responded by email.

Being situated in San Francisco, receiving funding from the renowned start-up incubator Y Combinator, taking from the (relatively) affluent and giving to the (undoubtedly) poor, and having its roots in a Californian's international experience may make Watsi look like a cliché among NGOs. One of Watsi's founders, Chase Adam, describes what transpired to him in Costa Rica to me over the phone.

Chase admits, "I was a little bit jaded." "Near this time, I had been in the Peace Corps for a year and a half, and I was, like, sleepy, at the conclusion of my journey on this bus, when this woman gets on and begins begging for money."

She unexpectedly received a large sum of money, and according to Chase, this was because she possessed her son's medical documents and images. But he thought it was unfair that she couldn't use the internet to raise money for projects as Americans could. In order to find out if anyone has used crowdsourcing for global healthcare, he jumped off the bus (this occurred in the neighborhood of Watsi, thus the name). Not at all.

He had just returned from working in Haiti, where he had distributed loans and vitamins, and he was also feeling a little "screw nonprofits." You may very well experience it in Haiti. According to World Bank data, Haiti gets help equal to 12.3% of its gross domestic product, which is double the average for severely indebted impoverished nations. Haiti is known as "the Republic of NGOs" for this reason. Although Chase believes that NGOs accomplish "wonderful" things, he said that it was "impossible to understand the impact of all the money."

With headlines like "Haiti: Where Has All the Money Gone?," penned by Vihaya Ramachandran and Julie Walz in 2012, many articles and stories reflect similar concerns. It claims that Haiti received $6 billion in relief from international countries following the 2010 earthquake, which claimed the lives of over 100,000 people and left many more homeless. Almost none of it was given to the Haitian government. Most of the time, NGOs served as middlemen and also received $3 billion in donations.

Ramachandran and Walz stated in their article with a harsh title that "These institutions appear to have low accountability; despite the use of public funding, there are few assessments of services performed, lives saved, or errors committed. In particular, the lack of openness and accountability, as well as the general lack of development, have left Haitians disappointed.

Chase understands the challenge: "Raising money in one nation, transferring it to another, and making sure that it benefits beneficiaries in some way is incredibly tough, and doing it using pen and paper makes it a million times worse." According to him, Watsi believes that "technology and the internet can close that divide."

With a few other young individuals, he launched Watsi in 2011 (Chase is now 30) as a digital firm to help people in need of medical care in developing nations receive funding from donors while maintaining accountability and transparency and abiding by basic ethical principles.

We gave it a lot of thought, he claims. You are clueless. several years. It took a long time to launch Watsi, and the first 12 months were largely spent just debating. Rather than just discussing ideas in a room, we spoke with partners and experts in the field. A key component of the Watsi business model was the idea that while we excel at technology, it is crucial for us to collaborate with companies that excel at providing healthcare.

The partner organizations are health care providers in developing nations including Haiti, Malawi, and Cambodia. They attempted to create a model with Watsi that would benefit those in need of therapy and appeal to funders. No patients will receive assistance if we don't generate any money, according to Chase.

It appears to be effective. According to the Watsi website, over 20,000 donors—two-thirds of whom are from the US, with the remainder coming from the UK, China, Canada, France, and Australia—have contributed to the treatment of over 10,000 patients, and "100% of your gift provides life-changing healthcare." About 15 wealthy individuals and foundations have donated money, along with "tips" from contributors, to pay operating expenses and credit-card fees. Like any nonprofit, they cannot continue to function if donations stop.

On the site there are profiles for each patient with their photo and story:

30 One-Sentence Stories From People Who Have Built Better Habits

osue is a 20-year-old understudy, living in Port-au-Prince with his mom. He has finished his second year of college and desires to happen to graduate school when he graduates. He prefers watching soccer on TV and going to chapel with his mom.

Josue was brought into the world with Tetralogy of Fallot (TOF). This is a cardiovascular condition that incorporates an opening between the two offices of the heart and a solid blockage of one of the heart valves. This condition keeps oxygen from completely circling through the body, leaving Josue feeble and winded. It is extremely uncommon for somebody with this condition to make due as long as Josue has without treatment.

$1,500 will take care of the expenses of the tests, care, and transportation Josue needs to have a medical procedure to fix his heart.

The majority of funds have a $1,500 cap (keeping the amount low helps with openness, but it's also sufficient to make a difference). Instead of patients, medical partners post the stories and images, and a notation on every Haitian entry reads, "provided by Owen Robinson at Haiti Cardiac Alliance." I wrote Owen after seeing the Watsi website and asked if I could see how it functions on the patients' end. No issue, he said. I then took off for Haiti with a stack of Watsi profiles in hand.

The Marriott breakfast buffet has a rainbow of scrubs, representing Americans doing their part. The motel gives me a strange feeling. It is pricey. According to Owen, there are no secure, affordable substitutes (the British Foreign Office warns of kidnappings in Port-au-Prince). Then he reveals to me that Michael requested to stay here and that volunteers are responsible for paying their own expenses, including airfare. I give up fretting.

Owen, Kessy, Joramy Thomas, David Zientek (cardiologist; blue scrubs; from Austin), his pre-med daughter (who is here to take notes for David; blue scrubs with "Grey's Anatomy" written on them), Angel Guzman (sonographer; green scrubs; also from Austin), Michael, and I are the group at the Haiti Cardiac Alliance (HCA) today.

Michael and I board Kessy's vehicle in the rear. On the way, Michael tells me that he wanted to pay for a Haitian cardiologist, but Owen suggested that a hospital should cover the cost to avoid "unintended consequences," which, according to Michael, means that "it doesn't achieve the goal, it just achieves my goal of making me feel like a good person."

It takes two hours to get to Hôpital Universitaire de Mirebalais, a big white hospital north of Port-au-Prince. After the earthquake, Partners in Health developed it. On wooden benches, dozens of families are already waiting. Owen tried appointments but everyone still turned up first thing. There are no readers. There is no clock. The first smartphone I saw is when a patient begs Owen for cash to buy medication and Owen says, “Is it an iPhone?”

He does give out money though – “It’s all eyeball,” he says. When Owen asks a mum how to contact her about her son’s surgery, she says to go to her local market and ask for a particular person who’ll tell him where her house is. So he gives her money for a phone. Later, I recognized a similar strategy when I read Mountains Beyond Mountains, a book about Paul Farmer, one of Partners in Health's founders.

David and Michael both set up in a consultation room - a Sal Konsiltasyon. Man sweeps the flooring. A nurse takes vitals. Kessy and Joramy sit at a desk, where they photograph each patient and get consent forms signed. The paperwork is in Creole. An English version indicates the patient is allowing for their photo and narrative to be used for fundraising. Owen said patients say no only if a child is extremely ill or has some form of disfigurement.

I watch the patients go in for their echoes. Teenage girl is the first bad case I come across. She can’t lift her head off her mum’s shoulder. “That’s what end stage looks like,” says Owen. Her heart failure was caused by rheumatic fever, which was caused by strep throat – antibiotics would have cured it. After her echo she’s admitted to the children’s ward. Owen says he talked to her a few screenings back and explained that she’s dying.

A teenage boy in clean white jeans and smart shoes arrives with his mum on a taxi motorbike. He clutches his chest. His feet tremble. He perspires He wraps his arms around his mum’s waist. I tell Owen I believe he is soon to pass away. Doing the echo is David. Afterwards he remarks, “If he gets tuned up [starts taking medicine] he may be a surgical candidate.” The boy is admitted to hospital.

Owen chats to a parent whose kid has recently undergone an echo. The mum’s wearing a red-and-black outfit with a flowery motif. She has braided hair. A lot of Haitians wear their church clothing to hospital — females have ribbons in their hair, young guys wear shirts and pants. After Owen has finished speaking with the mother, she finishes nursing her child while sitting in the waiting area.“I told her that her baby’s going to die,” says Owen.

David and Michael see 50 patients today. A lot were inoperable.

Michael claims, "I wanted to jump out of a window, but it wasn't high enough to kill me."

We spend the night at a guesthouse in Mirebalais (sharing rooms, chilly showers) (shared rooms, cold showers). The screening continues again at 8.30 on Sunday morning. It’s an easier day than yesterday. I watch a boy with a huge stomach and yellow eyes struggle to breathe. Michael sees a baby boy in the waiting area and says to the sonographer, Angel, “Looks like they’re about to die,” but he doesn’t, he simply vomit up during the echo. Angel cleans him. His heart is fine but he’s malnourished.

A seven-year-old boy called Evens has an echo. This is his first check-up since his surgery last month. Evens' mother explains to me that he was born with a heart problem as Kessy translates. She took him to the Dominican Republic but was unable to pay for the $60,000 operation. I enquire about his symptoms. “He couldn’t breathe well the whole time from six months to seven years old,” Kessy says, “and sometimes he turned into blue.”

Evens’s grandmother found out about HCA, who took Evens by private plane (donated for use) to Health City Cayman Islands, where surgeons operated for gratis. Watsi contributed $1,500.

In the waiting area, Owen introduces me to Josue. In my bag, I have his profile. He had surgery a few weeks ago. As an adult, he couldn’t get free surgery at Health City Cayman Islands so the Heart Hospital Baylor Plano in Texas did it instead. Watsi gave $1,500, and HCA gave thousands. (In an email, Owen informs me that HCA received $102,000 from Watsi during the previous fiscal year, or 37% of his budget.)

I enquire about Josue's symptoms. His nails used to turn purple. “They didn’t think that I will arrive 20.” He’s ready to get back to college. He’s studying human rights law. “I see where I came from, all the problems that I had in my life, and I see that the children are the most vulnerable people in the society,” he says. “So to have a better society, the family and the children especially, they have to have someone that are fighting for them.”

I ask if I can join him for his echo. No issue, he replies. He removes his top in the examining room. His chest has a scar running down it. He lies on the treatment table and watches the screen. A swooshing sound is made by the machine. Michael says, "Your heart is beating well. “Your repair is extremely good.” When Michael’s finished, Josue’s mom pulls four tubs of medication out of her suitcase and delivers them to Josue. She speaks in Creole.

Michael takes each tub and explains what it does: "That feeling in your throat and your heart beating fast and hard - it makes them not feel so bad." Josue translates: "My mum would like to know how long I have to take those medicines and which medicines that I have to take."

Josue’s mum says something else in Creole. Josue asks about palpitations. She continues speaking. Concerning food, José asks. She brings out a booklet on nutrition which Josue was given in Texas. Josue asks, “I’d like to know right now how should I eat because you know that Haitian foods are totally different from American food.” Michael tells him to eat three meals a day. Josue’s mom says something else. Concerning pain, José asks. She continues speaking.

Josue says, "Pardon me. “You know I was talking to you about Haitian food and those things. I'm not precisely familiar with those terms. She’s calling someone to translate for her.”

Kessy enters. Josue is given the list by his mother. Kessy adds: “She was wondering whether he may eat some dry fish.” Michael thinks it’s alright. Josue asks about orange juice. Michael says it’s OK. Josue's mother re-examines her to-do list. Later, Owen tells me that when Josue was in hospital in Texas he continued contacting his mom to report her his vital signs. It is clear that she has kept him alive for the past 20 years.

I give her in Ohio a call. She goes by the name Helping Hand on Watsi's website; I won't use her real name. Last year she set up a birthday fund and asked her family and friends to chip in. Her donation to Josue was $258. Watsi texted her a picture of Jose in his hospital bed following his procedure. (Watsi proposed encouraging patients to hang up placards that read, "Thank you Watsi," following surgery, but his medical partners weren't interested. Owen said to me, "Gratitude is not a condition of treatment.")

Watsi is Helping Hand’s favourite charity because “The money that we’re giving goes to those individuals we’re choosing to support, not paying some CEO that’s making a fortune off of this.”

For those uneasy about choosing an individual to donate to, Watsi offers a Universal Fund, through which donors make a monthly payment that is pooled and shared out by Watsi. That contribution came from Geoffry Sumter, a software engineer in San Francisco. Geoffry writes to me by email and says, "I'm not local to any of these people, and I don't research and decide on these cases for a living. And I especially don't want whatever unconscious biases I have to determine who gets treatment first. Watsi also has a similar General Fund, for one-off donations.

But Helping Hand’s attitude seems to be more common. For many donors, being able to identify an individual is key – and fundraisers have known this for a long time. In 1968, Thomas Schelling, Harvard professor and Nobel Prize-winning economist, wrote an article called ‘The Life You Save May Be Your Own’ about the “identifiable victim effect” – whether a “individual life” means more to us than “a statistical life”.

“Let a six-year-old girl with brown hair need thousands of dollars for an operation that will prolong her life until Christmas,” he wrote, “and the post office will be swamped with nickels and dimes to save her. But if it be revealed that without a sales tax the hospital facilities of Massachusetts would degrade and create a scarcely detectable rise in needless fatalities - not many will drop a tear or grab for their checkbooks.”

In Haiti, it is identical. More lives might be saved if money was used to buy and distribute antibiotics, but the recipients would become statistics. There would be no photo of someone healing in a hospital bed, no identifying persons. With Watsi, donors can make a connection to a name and a face.

The connection does, however, occasionally feel shaky. For instance, the itemised costs for each Haitian patient are the same – “medical staff”, “medication”, “travel”, “labs” and “other”. The sums are also identical. Obviously costs vary across patients in reality, but Owen can’t log every single cost for each patient, so they are estimates. They consequently feel artificial, in Owen's words.

I email Grace Garey, a Watsi co-founder. She sends a considered reply, as she does with all my emails: “We’d certainly never want a donor to feel that those breakdowns are artificial – they’re rooted in significant justification, documentation, and auditing to ensure they represent the average cost of care as accurately as possible. However, we are also aware of the reality that the actual cost of care may differ slightly from case to case.”

When I mention it to Owen, he explains that even patients who have free surgery in the Caymans cost more than $1,500 (the difference is reimbursed by HCA) (the shortfall is covered by HCA). As the estimates are only ever too low, never too high, he’s okay with it.

The other niggle is timing. Watsi donors don’t choose who gets treatment first. As soon as Owen submits a patient and Watsi accepts them, the patient may get therapy - they don’t have to wait to be completely financed. Patients who aren’t completely covered are topped up from the Universal Fund or General Fund. Like insurers, Watsi sends the money once the patient has treatment.

Because patients have treatment when needed rather than when fully funded, the timing of donations can get confusing. Josue’s page states he underwent surgery on 5 October, his profile was published on 6 October, and he was completely financed on 21 October 21. By email, I inquire as to whether Helping Hand was aware that Josue had already had treatment when she gave.

She responds, "No, it wasn't clear to me.

I inquire whether it troubles her. She answers, "Yes and no." Although it was made apparent for a Watsi patient she gave to more recently, she considers it "disingenuous." "Watsi has to look at these issues more closely," she writes.

I email Grace again. She replies: “Our most critical priority here is that patient treatment timetables are clear and transparent.” According to her, Watsi's policy is to display treatment dates on each profile's timeline and in the narrative of each person's circumstances. Additionally, each profile is supposed to link to two pages that explain that treatment might start before the profile is published.

“If the treatment timeline for the initial patient the donor funded wasn’t clear in the narrative, that’s definitely an oversight,” she writes. “That said, we have made an even more concerted effort in recent months to clearly restate scheduled treatment dates within the profile narrative as increasingly, patients are slated for treatment within a day or two of when they’re submitted to us (versus a month or so in advance, which used to be the norm), and our own internal operations need to catch up.”

We wouldn't exist if it weren't for Watsi, Owen said in response to a question I posed to him at dinner at the Marriott one night. Owen's response was sharper than normal. I want to be clear too: having seen the frugal way in which Owen spends donors’ money, and having met some of the 230 patients the money is spent on, there is no charity I would more confidently give my money to.

“God has definitely blessed us,” says Sandy Wilkins. She’s giving me a tour of Haiti Health Ministries, a clinic she created with her husband, Jim, in Gressier, a coastal area a couple of hours south-west of Port-au-Prince. It’s lovely — all mangoes, date palms and pastel-coloured homes. There is a pharmacy, a main clinic the size of a church hall, and a Bible study room.

She points to a little area of grass with several goats and declares, "This is our helipad right here." "About once a week, we fly folks out using an air ambulance. Or every two weeks.” She adds: “They walk in the door and they’re half-dead.”

Less than six medical professionals, including doctors (Christians only, per Sandy's policy), are employed by the clinic, which sees about 58,000 patients. People are requested to pay for therapy, but none has any money. Sandy and Jim, natives of Kansas, used inheritance and donations to build it. The US churches and individuals ("mainly Christians") donate about $6,000 each month to keep it running. The primary clinic, according to Sandy, cost $350,000. She claims that "God made it possible."

Sandy permits Owen and his group to do tests in the area behind the main clinic building. Two missionaries take the patients' vital signs to expedite the process. David and Michael opened up shop in two consultation spaces. Joramy and Kessy share a room. The room Owen has is. There is a plaque in each room that states who provided the money: "This room is kindly given by Presbyterian Women in the Synod of the Trinity."

Wesly, a fellow 20-year-old whose profile I had been dragging about, introduces himself to me. His chest valve is ticking, and I can hear it. Wesly, according to Owen, was just days away from passing away. If you undergo surgery, there's a big chance you're going to die; if you don't, there's a good chance you're going to die, he had to say. Wesly has a healthy heart. He puts on clothes. When Owen tries to speak with him, he is texting. He is informing his aunt that he is well.

I send emails to some of Wesly's supporters, including Lucy, a New York City analyst ("After reading horror stories about the mismanagement of funds at some organizations, it helps to know where, or more precisely who my donation is going to"); Twoodie, a maker of wooden toys, has a profile that reads, "Middlemen suck. I adore Watsi! "Outside, I ask Wesly if he's heard of Watsi as he's collecting females' phone numbers.

He nods as he says, "WhatsApp."

Whatsi," I reply.

I record it in my notebook and show him. He is unaware of it.

Our vehicle is Owen's. Kessy is the driver. The others have left for the day and Joramy is off work today. Owen wants to go to a patient's house that was recently affected by Hurricane Matthew. We go by UN trucks and the site of a former bridge. We discuss HCA. According to Owen, he co-founded the organization with a cardiologist named Jim Wilentz and initially funded it using a credit card. When Watsi needed a partner in Haiti, his former Partners in Health coworkers recommended them to him.

We discuss passports. 300 people are now waiting, either adults and children with difficult disorders who don't have an offer from a surgical team, or youngsters awaiting their passports. According to Owen's spreadsheet, 107 patients died while waiting for surgery. (A girl passes away a few days after I leave Haiti while waiting for her passport; Owen counts at least 20 recent cases in whom it was the "direct and sole reason" they were unable to have surgery.)

We discuss patient permission for the manner in which Watsi utilizes patient information to collect money. A method named "Patient learns about Watsi" may be seen on their website. I remark that I'm not sure if patients are taught about the Watsi. The degree of understanding, according to Owen, "varies." "You know, like, trying to explain web-based crowdfunding to a subsistence farmer who barely understands the money economy isn't going to get you very far, but I think the big thing is that other people are going to see this picture of your child and are going to use it to try to raise money," the author said.

(When I question Chase about consent, he responds that the key is to explain Watsi to patients in a way that allows them to grasp the fundamental ideas; ultimately, this means letting patients know that their information will be shared with the public.)

Kessy pulls over the automobile a few hours south-west of Port-au-Prince. A small-scale farmer enters. He is the boy's father whom we will be seeing. He tells us how to go to his house: via a road, then a rocky trail (I'm afraid the car will crash), and finally a walk. All of the trees on a mountainside 3,400 feet above had been shattered by the hurricane. We arrive at a little structure built of who knows what.

A cow, a calf, a pig, four piglets, and five goats should have been out in the open, but the hurricane killed them all. We enter and take a seat at a table in a compact space that also has a bed. Electricity is nonexistent. No one can speak English. Water from the hurricane seeped through the walls, giving the place a wet stench. The patient's mother offers us milk, but Kessy claims we are already full.

Witcheldo, a little child, enters the room. Ten years old is he. He had palpitations and was having problems breathing when Owen met him. Owen made travel arrangements for him to have free heart valve surgery at Health City Cayman Islands. $1,500 was provided by Watsi contributors. David performed an echo on Witcheldo yesterday, and his heart was healthy.

We step outdoors. Kessy informs me that each month, the trip to Port-au-Prince for Witcheldo's family to obtain his medication takes three days. For the purpose of purchasing new animals, Owen offers Witcheldo's father money from the Have a Heart Cayman Islands organization. The connection between a youngster on a distant mountain and a Harvard degree, a San Francisco software business, a donor, and a heart surgeon is bizarre.

And that's wonderful. It's good to be Witcheldo. What if, however, he had been able to make connections with a Harvard grad, a San Francisco tech startup, a donor, a doctor, and a pharmacist? They might have been able to find a way to get him antibiotics to treat his strep throat before it developed into rheumatic fever and before his heart valves became infected. Chase concurs.

As a company, we are genuinely investigating it, he claims. I recently returned from a trip to Malawi and Uganda where we discussed the possibility of Watsi funding primary care.

A couple of months later, in February, Watsi makes the announcement that the pilot would proceed in a town "in the poor world," though they won't say where. Their strategy is to build a platform, see whether it works, and then provide the software to governments.

This won't be simple. Chase says it's about one question: "Is it possible to use technology to collect a lot of data so that donors and whoever's funding the care, whether donors, the government, or insurance companies, can really understand the impact that primary care has on patients? It's a bit more amorphous because you're talking more about statistics - we distributed this many bed nets, or we treated this many malaria patients. ”

They can assemble strong evidence, I have no doubt. I'm not sure, though, if Watsi can get people to care as much about saving a child's life through heart surgery as we do about treating strep throat among Haitians. People desire images and narratives. We wish to help people. However, if Watsi can get us to care about anonymous data, it would be an interesting spreadsheet to read.

thank so much for reading

gadgetstech newslist
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About the Creator

indika sampath

hello world

my name is indika sampath so I'm a article writer. you also can learn by reading somethings that important things.

thank you so much for visiting my profile

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