Lucille Teasdale. Deborah Cowley

Preface

      In October 1989 I had the good fortune to visit Lucille Teasdale and her husband, Piero Corti, in northern Uganda. Lucille had received an award from the Canadian Medical Association, and the Reader’s Digest had asked me to investigate whether or not she would make a good subject for an article. I quickly discovered that, apart from this award, Lucille was virtually unknown in her native Canada. Few people knew her name and little had been written about her. Furthermore, the Canadian High Commission in Kenya was only vaguely aware of her presence in neighbouring Uganda, and none of their staff had ever met her or visited her.

      From the little information I could find, I sensed that Lucille Teasdale was a woman who was out of the ordinary. After all, she had left her home in Montreal twenty-eight years earlier and travelled to the distant country of Uganda. There, she had lived and worked through long periods of horrendous political upheaval but had never succumbed to the temptation of returning to the safety of Canada. In 1987, I decided to write to Lucille and ask if I could visit her when I was next in East Africa.

      Lucille replied at once. She was more than happy to help, she said, but with Uganda still in the midst of political turmoil, she felt it was much too dangerous for me to visit.

      I wrote to Lucille the next year, but still she feared for my safety. Another year later, I was planning a trip to East Africa and asked again if I could include a visit with her in Uganda. Finally she agreed, but only if I would meet her and her doctor husband Piero Corti in Kampala and travel the eight-hour journey north to Lacor Hospital with them in the security of their Red Cross ambulance.

      At long last, we managed to meet in Kampala. I was immediately struck by the strength of this woman. She was slight in build but expansive in spirit, and her bubbly personality quickly put me at ease.

      We climbed into the front seat of the vehicle and Piero took the wheel. Throughout the journey, Lucille talked at fever pitch. She spoke in a heavily accented English, lacing her words with French and Italian expressions, her hands gesticulating for emphasis. As we bounced along, lurching to avoid the endless string of potholes, she seemed oblivious to the crumbling roadway or to the soldiers who stopped us regularly at gunpoint to check through the boxes of medical supplies in the van.

      At sundown, we veered west of the northern town of Gulu. As we approached the hospital, the gates swung open and pandemonium broke out. A large group of nurses suddenly burst into a rhythmic song of welcome, and hordes of youngsters swarmed around the van in a heartfelt outpouring of affection for the couple they called “our beloved doctors.”

      During the week I spent with Lucille, I followed her on her daily hospital rounds while she checked on the progress of dozens of patients. I stood perched at her elbow while she undertook the most delicate operations, and I chatted with her long into the night about the frustrations and joys of her life in Uganda. I left at the end of the week much enriched and knowing I had met a truly remarkable woman, one of selfless dedication and immense courage.

      The coffin of Lucille Teasdale is lowered into the ground by Medical Superintendent Dr. Matthew Lukwiya and a team of doctors who are among the many trained by “Dr. Lucille.”

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       A Sad Farewell

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