Baby Peter died today.I don't even know the details. I know that he was "gasping" yesterday when the electricity went off for a half hour, and no one thought to connect his oxygen mask to the oxygen tank... And I guess he just didn't really recover. He had three or four more apnoea attacks and finally "packed" at 16:15 today. I was at the paediatric ward but not present when Peter died. And now he's gone.And I remember the songs I've heard about babies' deaths, including "With Hope" by Steven Curtis Chapman.But still somehow, after having seen Baby Peter every day for the past month, a little bit of me has died with him. Still, I believe babies go to heaven, so I will say goodbye with hope.
Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...Samuel!Samuel is three years old and one of our HIV+ babies receiving anti-retroviral drugs. I met him five weeks ago when he climbed onto my lap during PEPFAR clinic. He smiled and sat happily on my lap, playing with my beeping watch, for at least twenty minutes. I wished I'd had my camera. So the next time he popped into the paediatric clinic carrying a drum, I immediately got out my camera. After I took this snap, he sat on my lap, and we played the drum together. Whenever I stopped hitting the drum, he grabbed my hand and forced me to drum again! The child is stubborn and knows how to get what he wants with his winning smile!I saw Samuel again on Monday. This time I scooped him up into my arms and took him around the ward, showing him the animals my aunt has been painting on the doors and walls. His favourite was the monkey, and we kept returning to the door so he could touch the monkey's mouth. There was music on TV, so I danced around the ward, a handsome boy in my arms. The visit was short (because he was well), and his caregiver came to get him before I was ready to let go.But I'll never forget the day I danced with Samuel.
We visited Ahmadu on Thursday. He'd been into the paediatric clinic just the day before, and there had been a commotion over whether or not he was on course with his anti-HIV drugs. So we paid his family a visit to see for ourselves. Stephanie drove us less than ten minutes into the Muslim part of town – the wrong way down a one-way street – and we parked outside a shop. The remaining trek was along a dirt path beside a stream. There were women knee-high in the water, scooping sand from the bottom to sell. Nearby was a group of women making mud bricks. I baaed at the goats we passed, and the children watching us laughed.
“You can hear his grandmother's grinder from here,” Stephanie pointed out as we came within a few hundred meters of the house. I averted my eyes as we walked past a group of men seated outside a house. We turned a corner, and there was a young woman with Ahmadu on her hip.
“Sannu! Sannu!” she greeted us and welcomed us into her tiny home. There was just enough couch space for the five of us visitors, so the rest of the household sat on the table against the far wall, and Ahmadu and his grandmother sat on the floor. Stephanie was delighted to see Ahmadu looking so well. To me he looked thin and wasted, but to her he looked like someone brought back from the dead. “You should have seen him a few months ago,” Susan said later. “He was just skin and bones, too weak to suck or sit up or grab things. It's a miracle what God has done for this little boy.”
Ahmadu is 15 months old and fighting HIV. His grandmother cares for him, feeds him and makes sure he gets his medication. Whenever Ahmadu wasn't in his grandmother's arms, he began to cry. But he sat on the floor without falling over. When the grandmother placed a container of kwashpap* powder near him, he grabbed at it and tried to get a handful of powder. We laughed.
Stephanie confirmed that Ahmadu was taking his medications faithfully after all, and she left him some paracetamol for the lingering fever from his malaria. We snapped some photos, prayed for the child and his family, and left – all within 15 minutes. We left with optimism about little Ahmadu and his future. He may look scrawny and sick, but this baby is growing and getting well. Let us hope the best for little Ahmadu. *Kwashpap is a nutritional porridge given to malnourished children.
Did you see that match? Did you watch it? Kai!!France just lost the World Cup, and I'm still ranting about it. They lost fair and square - Italy played better, in truth - but it's still a hard blow. I'd only been rooting for France for about a week, once my favourite teams were out (Ghana and Brazil)... But still. Oh oh. I watched the match tonight at the home of one of our doctors. We had minerals (sodas) and popcorn, and I listened to the live running commentary provided by my doctor friend and my uncle. Even though some of us were rooting for Italy and some for France, we were all equally disappointed about the red card in overtime. What a way to end one's career.I have no eloquence tonight. Just needed to vent. Vive la France!
Lydia, James, and John went home today!! They each weighed at least 1.8 kg (~4 lbs) and looked great! I got to hold Lydia for the first time yesterday, and she was so tiny. Lydia's parents are Fulani, so I can almost guarantee they won't name her Lydia. (The Fulani are a nomadic cow-herding tribe found all over West Africa, and in Nigeria - at least - they're predominantly Muslim. So my giving her a temporary New Testament name is quite ironic, when you think about it.)I'll miss my babies. But Elizabeth and Peter are still in the SCBU incubators, and I anticipate seeing them every day for a long time... unless Elizabeth's fever (?malaria) takes her home before her mother does.
Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...
Lydia, Elizabeth, Peter, James, and John!The nurse laughed at me when I came in on Sunday to visit the incubator babies. The next morning, she asked me in Hausa how my children (yaranki) were. I was confused; did she think I was married and had children? She explained that she'd meant the incubator babies! I laughed and went to check on them. None of them have been named yet, so I've named them all in my head.
Elizabeth and Peter were both 14 weeks premature and are each about 1 lb, 13 oz at two weeks old.
Lydia (upper left) is about 4 lbs and should go home today!And three-week-old James (3 lbs, 8 oz) and John (4 lbs) share an incubator (upper right). They're two of a set of triplets, one of whom died before he was a week old. Their mom is finally feeding them herself, so they're rapidly gaining weight.
These are my babies, yarana, and they bring me joy!
Why do I love spending time in the paediatric ward? Because of...Nehemiah!"Your shoes are wet," I told the little tyke who wandered into the paediatric clinic after hours today as the rain came pounding down outside. He looked at his shoes and looked at the floor behind him. "My shoes are dry," I said. "See?" He looked at my shoes and nodded. I held out my hand, and he grabbed it; it was cold. While his mother tried to talk the doctor into examining Nehemiah, I sat, warming Nehemiah's cold hand. He didn't talk, and I didn't talk, but we were friends. He nodded when I asked if I could "snap" him (take his photo). He was just so darn cute.The doctor refused to see him today, since it was after clinic hours, so we had a short visit. As Nehemiah walked out, I said goodbye, and he finally spoke."Bye!" he called behind him as he hurried after his mom.I look forward to seeing him again tomorrow!
