Love

I don't have any pictures today. Instead, I want to talk with you about love. Not the passionate, changes with the tides, type of love. But the kind that is sacrificial, unconditional, enduring. The kind of love that a mother has for her baby, a sister for her twin, a father for his son. It's a bit of a long post, but try to bear with me.

   Shortly after opening the hospital doors, I was orienting two new nurses. Halfway through our shift the nurse in charge came to us and asked if we would be willing to take a seven-month-old, failure to thrive baby as an extra patient. A heartbeat passed as the three of us looked at each other, all considered adult nurses without previous pediatric experience, before I said, "Sure." That is the day that I met little Baby Girl H. At seven months, she weighed a scant 2.2 kilos (about 5 pounds). Due to her bilateral cleft lip and cleft palette she was unable to get enough suction to breastfeed, and had actually lost weight since her birth. Over the next few weeks I started calling her by nicknames, "Little Bird" for her long, thin fingers; "Popeye" for the way she squinted her eyes when we fed her formula via a syringe. With constant feedings every two hours, she quickly began gaining weight and is now at the HOPE center putting on her "Mercy hips" (just like the rest of us on board) until she weighs enough and is healthy enough to have her first surgery. I cannot wait for that day.
   But what really impressed me in this situation was this baby girl's mama and the obvious love and care she showed for her child. Desperate for help, she came to one of our rural screenings. Recognizing the dire situation, our screening team offered to fly her back to the ship with them. Without going home or telling anyone that she was leaving, she boarded that plane with her precious cargo. She flew across the country to a boat filled with vazas (foreigners) hoping beyond hope that we could help her child. For a woman who has lived in her same village all her life, this was an incredible step of faith and courage. And then she let us hold her baby, feed her baby, love her baby. She let these strangers help her. This little baby, although being painfully underweight, came to us in surprisingly good health. This was due to her mother's love and care, and obvious dedication to supporting her child. When we first started feeding Baby H formula, mama would return her right back to the breast to try to keep feeding her. It was clear that in the last seven months, every waking moment was spent trying to just get her baby enough nutrition to survive. She told us that she was so grateful for our help, that it was the first time she was able to sleep at all because she had other people to help her with her baby. Little by little, mama began to relax as Baby H offered up her first smiles with squinting eyes, no longer plagued by a seemingly eternal hunger. She patiently learned how to administer the formula to her baby herself and prepared to continue waking up every two hours once she was on her own at the HOPE center. This mother's love for her child is the reason that Baby H is alive and with us now in Tamatave.

   If you read any of my blogs last year, then you know how much I love our plastics patients! They have the most beautiful souls. This year I have been lucky enough to take care of our little girl Zoeline, assisted of course by her twin sister Rosalina. At the age of six, Zoeline has come to us to release a burn contracture in her foot. She hops around the ward on crutches now and is a total ham, falling back to the bed and pretending to snore when the nurses bring round her nutritional supplements. She has an infectious giggle and wide eyes that are filled with mischief. And her twin is her constant companion. Standing a bit taller than Zoeline, Rosalina is constantly running around the ward making us laugh. But her sister is always her highest priority. On those days when Zoeline is not as comfortable, Rosalina is the one who comes to the nurses telling us marary (pain), malale (itching). She is the one who cleans up their plates after they finish a meal. When they come over to visit me at the nurse's station, Rosalina always makes sure that Zoeline has a place to sit down before anyone else does so that she does not tire from standing with her crutches. When the occupational therapist comes to take Zoeline to her session, Rosalina is standing at the door to accompany her, as many of our patient's parents do. She says "rahavavy (sister)" and points back and forth between them, expecting us to know that that means where Zoeline goes, she goes. They are each other's caregivers, and a beautiful example of what sisterhood really means.

   We have a precious little boy who's been in the hospital with us for a few weeks now. And he is joined by his father, which is unusual in itself. Most of the time the mother is the parent who comes to stay on the ship with their child who is receiving surgery. But these two are thick as thieves, always playing games in their corner of the ward, laughing together, father following son around the ward as he wobbles unsteadily after picking up too much speed. Natolotra came to us with a tumor that made it difficult for him to breathe as it partially obstructed his airway. While he was awake he seemed just fine. The trouble began when he would fall asleep and, depending on his position, the tumor would begin to block his airway. As a nurse on the ward, it was always nerve-racking to see him fall asleep, to listen to the heavy rattling begin to emanate from his chest, and have to constantly be monitoring him for the moment when we would need to wake him up to make sure that he kept breathing. But we had the best helper in this care, Natolatra's own father. If his son slept, he did not. Instead he sat at his bedside, calmy repositioning his son as needed to make sure that he was getting enough air. It was easy to see that he had a good deal practice in assisting his son to breathe through the night. Patiently and gently he would roll him  a bit to the side, careful not to wake him, but listening for that sudden relaxation in his breathing. He learned which numbers on the monitor we were assessing, and monitored it himself. I would glance over to check the number creeping down, start to walk across the room, and then stop myself as his dad made the necessary adjustments. It is easy to see why God gave Natolotra the father that he did. After a long surgery and some time under close observation in the ICU, Natolotra is now awake and back on the wards. As the inflammation from surgery decreases, breathing will become easier and easier for this little boy.... and for his father as well.

   Nurses have the incredible gift of being invited into the most intimate moments of people's lives. However, sometimes the things we see in these situations are not so pretty. We see neglect, abuse, people left to spend their worst moments alone in a cold hospital. We see situations that reflect the kind of love that we, human kind, have come to expect from others. But these patients show us the beauty in relationship, in truly  caring for one another. They are a reflection of the way that I believe we are loved by God, and they show us how we were intended to love each other. While they are by no means perfect, they are perfect in this. They love without artifice, wholly, sacrificially, joyfully. I can only hope to show others this kind of love. It is a lesson that I am continually learning.... but I have great teachers.