Tuesday, September 8. 2009
Maggy, Andy, and Emily are now in Malawi, deeply entrenched in working on the Maternity Clinic, Doctor's House, and outbuildings.
This email was sent to me by Maggy on September 7th, and the story too touching not to share. It really brings home that they are all exactly where they are supposed to, and need to be. They are making the world a better place with the work they're doing in Malawi.
- Amber
Dear Friends,
Well this week has been testing to say the least. One of those weeks
where I wonder why I am here. But also one of those weeks where I
completely see why I am here.
Andy and I were sitting outside the clinic one morning early this
week, doing some planning and number crunching when Mrs. Nyali, the
only clinic nurse, tapped on the glass and motioned for us to come
over. Through the window she said, I am alone here and the clinic is
very busy, but I need someone to sit with this very sick baby until
her mother comes back. We immediately agreed, walked around, came
inside and went to the back room of the clinic. There was a 6-month
old baby girl lying alone on a big bed. Her clothes had been taken
off and she was wrapped in sort of a damp cloth. Her body was arched,
her arms outstretched and rigid by her sides, her eyes were rolling
around and into the back of her head, her breathing was laboured. I
recognized immediately what was going on. The week before when we
were staying at the guest house in Nkhata Bay we had a big BBQ with
some of the other people staying there, one of which was a Scottish
med student. He had just completed a stint in a Blantyre (Southern
Malawi) hospital and during our conversation about malaria he had told
us about the almost-always deadly cerebral malaria and how it
presented in children: arms outstretched and rigid by their sides. He
had shown us what this looked like and this is exactly what this baby
was doing. I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. Mrs.
Nyali explained that this infant girl had just vomited from her mouth
and nose and had been convulsing and she wanted us there in case it
happened again, but she really needed to get back to seeing the dozens
of other people who were waiting to be seen before the clinic closed.
This baby was obviously being taken to the District Hospital as
nothing could be done at the clinic, but the mother had gone to tell a
nearby friend she was going to the hospital who would then go on to
pass the message to her family who lived far away.
Andy and I were left alone with this tiny person who was suffering so
badly. We didn’t want to pick her up and make her even more
uncomfortable, so we just stroked her, rubbed her and talked to her.
We watched her for only twenty minutes or so, but I am serious when I
say there were several moments where Andy and I both thought this
little girl was leaving the world. Her breathing would go from heavy
and laboured to an abrupt stop in just one breath. Scared as I was,
we didn’t want her to die alone – we wanted her to feel the presence
of people around her, loving her. It all got a bit much though and I
teared up just moments before the mother came back to the room. I had
to quickly leave the room and dry my eyes as Andy said, “you have to
be strong for the mother.” She was very upset too – she tried, in
vain, to bend the baby’s arms, to uncurl her tightly clenched fists,
but to no avail. Things weren’t looking good. The motorbike came and
the woman was loaded into the covered side cart with her baby. We
were all sure she wouldn’t make the journey to the District Hospital.
The rest of that day, I thought of this little girl. I woke up in the
night and for two hours thought of this little girl. Wondering if she
had made it.
The next day and for days after I asked Mrs. Nyali to let me know if
she heard anything about the baby. But I think we were all hoping for
the best, expecting the worst. If it were, in fact, cerebral malaria
there was only a slim chance of her living especially as she was so
young and treatment had likely been very delayed. But still, I kept
asking and the answer was always, “No, sorry, I haven’t heard
anything.”
Yesterday, Andy and I were playing with some boys at the playground
when a couple walked up to me. The woman said, “Sister, look!” as she
pulled the cloth away from her baby’s face. This happens often.
Women always want to show me their babies, want me to take photos,
etc. But suddenly, I made the connection. I hadn’t been at all
prepared for this. There was the little girl, I immediately
recognized her bushy eyebrows. I couldn’t believe it – here she was,
fit and well, yet still a little subdued. The woman passed the baby
to me and relayed in broken English that Mrs. Nyali had told her to
find me and tell she me that she was okay. I hugged this little girl,
kissed her head. Andy and I both rejoiced. I took a photo with her.
I will cherish it forever.
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