Francisco

The Pediatric wing is divided into four rooms, each with a large label above the door. One is for infants, one room is for crawlers, one for toddlers, one for school aged children.

The baby I'm here to see is in the infant room, although he is three years old. His name is Francisco, and that's my blood hanging in the bag above his bed, dripping into a line in his foot. We're both O positive.

The room is big, with fading paint, a peeling ceiling, and cracked glass windows. About 12 patients and their mothers and a few fathers share the room; there are no curtains, no privacy. Francisco doesn't seem to mind his screaming neighbors or the nurses in their turquoise pantsuits, hustling around. He doesn't seem to notice anything.

When I first saw Francisco I thought, "That baby is going to die." His arms and legs were like pick up sticks. His head looked like a bare little skull with skin pulled over it. I could, and still can count every rib in a protruding row down to his sunken stomach.

His diagnosis by the hospital is marasmus with pellagra. Both of these are a result of poor nutrition over a long period of time. At three years old, his muscles are severly atrophied. He has never walked or even crawled. His symptoms include skin discoloration, nerve dysfunction, mental symptoms, thinness, poor muscle development, and chronic diarrhea.

When I look at Francisco, it hurts my heart. And it makes me upset. There is enough food in the world, I think. It's not fair. No baby should have to be so hungry for so long. No baby should have to suffer like this.

Franciso has been so long without adequate nutrition that his body rejects whatever formula his family or the nurses try to dribble in his mouth.

We met him at our last clinic. We met his mother, eight siblings, cardboard house, lack of paternal presence, and total lack of financial support or food sources. Francisco, as the baby, was the worst off.

Jenni and I launched into action, getting to know the family, providing emotional support for the mom, organizing frequent home visits, bringing small donations of food specifically for the baby, and little by little, trying to monitor the situation. But Francisco got worse.

His limbs started swelling, and he began to vomit uncontrollably, and he was hospitalized. Some insurance is available for children like him, and although medicines and supplies aren't provided, he can stay for free.

And now I stand at his little bedside, looking down at him. I am afraid to touch him, afraid that his discolored and peeling dry skin will melt away in my fingers. I watch the blood drip in. Will it help? Will he make it?

I look at his face and it is hard to have hope, hard to know if anything good will come of this. But I want to believe that this little guy is going to make it. I want to believe it so badly.

These pictures were taken two weeks later. I went on my weekly visit to see Francisco and was thrilled to see him sitting up with support, and not only eating, but feeding himself. His cheeks were a great deal rounder than before. When his sister wiped his face, he squawked at her. Victory! This was the first time I had seen him display any emotion. He still has a long road to travel, but I praise God that he is doing better, little by little.