Day 89

Yesterday, I had a pretty traumatic experience. In the morning Pat and I decided to go to Sidist Kilo to work at Mother Teresa’s hospital for the sick and the dying destitute. While we were on the taxi at one of the stops our minibus hit a little street boy. We hadn’t moved very much, but the impact still made the most horrifying sound. For a split second I froze in shock until the boy’s screams snapped me back to reality. People didn’t react as I thought they would. At first the spectators just stood over him, and all of the passengers on our bus sat there stoically as if we were simply waiting for more to get on. The guy taking the money for our cab stood in the doorway looking down as if the whole problem was a nuisance. I couldn’t move to see how badly he was injured so I was trying to judge by people’s faces – his cries were enough to tell me everything was not okay. Nothing matched up and the confusion sent me into a pretty emotional state. Finally the boy was lifted by some men into our bus and placed on the floor next to our seat. He wasn’t bleeding, but he was holding his leg, and his face was wrenched with pain. I tried to hold back my own tears, but I was angry and sad. I felt helpless and mad that this boy, who has it bad enough, would find himself in such a painful and scary situation. He looked about nine years old, dirty and dressed in rags. The fact that he’s hanging around the taxi stop tells me he’s a street kid left to fend for himself. Going through something like that is hard enough, but it’s worse when you don’t have anyone to care for you. As I sat there waiting for the outcome I covered my face and prayed; I wanted to be anywhere but in that situation. The suffering of that boy was too real, and for some reason I felt guilty that I was a passenger on the bus. The driver and his coworker continued the route, while the boy sat there crying. I finally turned to the people behind us and asked if they spoke English. They did, and I explained that we were on our way to the hospital. So once everyone got off, Pat and I took them to Mother Teresa’s open wound clinic. When we got there I examined the boy’s leg. He was trying to be so strong and thankfully it didn’t look like his leg was broken. When the head sister came out I explained what happened. Since it was a result of a dispute she said they were not allowed to treat him and that it would have to be taken care of at a government hospital. I could tell she was sorry she couldn’t do more, but it didn’t make things better. I realized I had to let it go and hope that the driver would do the right thing and take him to a hospital where he could at least get some pain medicine. At that point it was too late to volunteer at the hospital so Pat and I turned around and went back home. The rest of the day I noticed every street kid that we passed. One little boy in rags climbed a short barbed wire fence, walked to a grassy area in the middle of town and squatted to go to the bathroom. His pants were too baggy to really stay on. No one was with him.

It was hard for me to do anything “normal” after that. All I could think about is the injured boy and his loneliness. I went to Mother Teresa’s in Asco that afternoon and held the babies. Some of them are really getting big. I can see their personalities develop and how they are more aware of things around them. Yared, the baby that I have fallen in love with was not there again. He is back in the sick room. I found him in the very last crib sucking on a bottle of special formula. When I came up to the side of the crib he got a sparkle in his eye, pulled the bottle out of his mouth and lifted it to me. Then he pulled it away quickly and smiled. He has developed a coy humor. He also loves to be held, but he doesn’t cry or beg like the other babies do. He is very gentle and sweet. Whenever I hold him he just lays his head on my shoulder and looks out the window. His eyes squint in a slight smile when he is at ease. That sick room is home to a constant rotation of orphaned and abandoned babies with HIV. Some are only days old and left for dead in the streets. The nurses and sisters love them and bring them back to health to the best of their ability. Sister Maria took me around one day and told me each one’s story without looking at a single chart. Some of them are so tiny and malnourished that they just lay and groan. Sister Maria is their mother and provider. One time when I was there a nurse gave me an oxygen machine and asked me to administer it to one of the sickly babies. This was progress from the oxygen tubes he had been breathing from. Yesterday another baby was propped up on a crib and handed the breathing machine. She sat there and gave herself the treatment. An Israeli woman noticed my shock and confirmed that a normal child would not be able to do that.