Saturday, November 14, 2009

Chicken little

She was admitted to a corner bed in D ward this summer. A tiny 5 month old, hardly the size of a newborn. Her mama's eyes were hard set, her smile hidden beneath months of having a baby she never bonded with, a baby with a deformity that often makes these precious little ones the subject of cruelty, outcasts of society.

She watched as baby Hubert, another little one, put on weight. She saw the nurses coo and celebrate everyday he showed a gain. In her corner of D ward her eyes became more distant, her baby starved in so many ways.
With virtually no gain, we had nothing else to give. We had to have the bed for another patient, we didn't have a pediatrician, the list went on. We had prayer, but we had always had prayer. Countless people prayed, but nothing changed for this little baby. I volunteered to follow her outpatient. Palliative care wasn't full, we had time, and I was switching back that same day. Her surgery was canceled, and a new card was filled out for November, wishful thinking at that point for many.

For so long nothing changed for this little babe. Anicette continued to stay the same, but we did see a change in her mama. It had started in D ward. She began dressing Ani in cute clothes. She smiled when she had to get up in the middle of the night, joking with us in whispers while the bottles warmed.



In the hospitality center, the visitors continued to pour in. Daily, Ani and her mama were getting loved on, prayed for, sung with. A girl in HR was a known pediatric dietitian in the 'real world', she was on the case, and was able to somehow get new formula sent from the States, faster than anything has ever been shipped.
Each week I found the coordinator of our feeding program. At first the reports were a gain in ounces, a few hundred grams maybe. Then she would lose those grams the following week. We feared the worst but desperately held onto a faith we prayed would change the story that was unfolding. She began to gain, each week I saw the mom we would communicate in sign language. It was a simple thumbs up or down, and every week we hugged after a big thumbs up.

I was October, and after months of praying for Anicette, loving her as we know Jesus loves her, I cried when I heard the news she was heavy enough for surgery.
He did it. God did it.
Through all of the heartache, all of the pain I have felt these past weeks, my joy has been consistent. It rests in this story of a little baby. It rests with my God who heard the prayers of so many, who loves Anicette more than any of us could imagine. Before her surgery I snuck some pictures of her as she slept in my arms.



I watched her surgery, even managed to hold it together enough not to cry in the actual operating room (don't want all those men thinking I'm some over-emotional nurse or something).


When I went into the recovery room a while later, checking to see if she was awake, I finally let myself give into the tears when I discovered Anicette awake and eating. Her mama looked at me, and in the English she has picked up over the last months, with tears in her own eyes, she said "Thank you God"
The next day, my friend Meg wandered down to the ward with apparent super-hero timing. She caught this picture which I promptly printed and put in a place I see every day. It makes my heart smile. Seriously, its medically possible. My heart smiles.


When I first met Anicette back on D ward, I had the pleasure of being her nurse. In those first weeks I lovingly nicknamed her chicken little. She had tiny little chicken legs, and rather than just call her chicken as I had originally started, chicken little seemed to fit just right.

Last week I brought Ani and her mom for a second round of vaccinations at a local hospital. After her jabs, Ani cried her way into the car. She ceased only when we sang, which we all did the entire drive home, my translator and her mama laughing at my newly learned French the whole way.
Jesus, you are good
Jesus, you heal

Jesus, you are God
(below, a picture of Mama singing in the car)

Her strips are off, her lip is healing, and she has a ticket to come back for her second surgery next year when we return to Togo, Benin's next door neighbor. I'll be there, and hopefully I will be her nurse so I can share in late night whispers with her mama and early morning cuddles with chicken little.



Jeremiah 29:11
"For I know the plans I have for you declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."