Gracie
Gracie came to clinic with a fever of 104.1, a thin eight year old with narrow eyes long tangled hair. Doctor prescribed an injection to combat the fever and infection in her lungs, and wrote a note for her to return in six hours for a reevaluation.
But she wouldn't let me give her a shot. She lay on the bench in the pharmacy, yelling and screaming, refusing to turn on her tummy so we could inject her backside. I sat with her and talked to her for awhile. "The shot will hurt a little, but it will help you feel much better. It is a very fast thing, and then you'll be able to rest and sleep." She pushed me and refused to turn, even when I tried to gently help her.
The mother tried to assist in the situation, to no avail. Gracie cried even more, and that started her toddler brother on a sobbing spree as well.
I was beginning to get frustrated. I didn't want to pin her down and just proceed; I didn't want her to be traumatized and despise gringos from this day forward. But there were other people waiting for their medicines, and this little girl had to have that shot.
I called for the Doctor. He came in, moments later. "What's going on?" he asked.
He didn't need to inquire. He could see the situation immediately. "Are you ready?" he asked me.
I took the alcohol swab in my hand. Doctor scooped Gracie up in his arms, turned her over, and managed to hold her still enough that the injection could be adminstered, although she was screaming hysterically the entire time.
She couldn't walk home. She was too weak, too exhausted. Her mother had the toddler to carry, so I volunteered to carry Gracie.
We walked up and down rough muddy streets with little rivers of sewer water running down their middles. Trash covered the landscape. Neighbors eyed us from their crooked doorways. Gracie borrowed into my arms, her head heavy on my shoulder. She cried a little. I was soaked with sweat from the sun, but her skin was dry and taut.
We arrived at their house a while later, a thing of cardboard with a scrap wood roof, built up on stilts. They had one room up above a murky marsh of water below. There was one small bed on the floor. I laid Gracie on it, softly, and her eyes closed as she rolled over.
I touched her head, pushing back her hair with my fingers. "Take care, little one," I said, "We'll see you soon."
When I made it back to clinic the team had stopped for lunch. I sat down on a bench, trying to find the appetite to eat. How could I eat?
What an unfair world, I thought. I was numb. I could still feel her in my arms, burning with fever.
But she wouldn't let me give her a shot. She lay on the bench in the pharmacy, yelling and screaming, refusing to turn on her tummy so we could inject her backside. I sat with her and talked to her for awhile. "The shot will hurt a little, but it will help you feel much better. It is a very fast thing, and then you'll be able to rest and sleep." She pushed me and refused to turn, even when I tried to gently help her.
The mother tried to assist in the situation, to no avail. Gracie cried even more, and that started her toddler brother on a sobbing spree as well.
I was beginning to get frustrated. I didn't want to pin her down and just proceed; I didn't want her to be traumatized and despise gringos from this day forward. But there were other people waiting for their medicines, and this little girl had to have that shot.
I called for the Doctor. He came in, moments later. "What's going on?" he asked.
He didn't need to inquire. He could see the situation immediately. "Are you ready?" he asked me.
I took the alcohol swab in my hand. Doctor scooped Gracie up in his arms, turned her over, and managed to hold her still enough that the injection could be adminstered, although she was screaming hysterically the entire time.
She couldn't walk home. She was too weak, too exhausted. Her mother had the toddler to carry, so I volunteered to carry Gracie.
We walked up and down rough muddy streets with little rivers of sewer water running down their middles. Trash covered the landscape. Neighbors eyed us from their crooked doorways. Gracie borrowed into my arms, her head heavy on my shoulder. She cried a little. I was soaked with sweat from the sun, but her skin was dry and taut.
We arrived at their house a while later, a thing of cardboard with a scrap wood roof, built up on stilts. They had one room up above a murky marsh of water below. There was one small bed on the floor. I laid Gracie on it, softly, and her eyes closed as she rolled over.
I touched her head, pushing back her hair with my fingers. "Take care, little one," I said, "We'll see you soon."
When I made it back to clinic the team had stopped for lunch. I sat down on a bench, trying to find the appetite to eat. How could I eat?
What an unfair world, I thought. I was numb. I could still feel her in my arms, burning with fever.
posted by Ansley at 2:25 PM
2 Comments:
If only we could see this truth more clearly, more often, and more honestly!
Ansley, I can tell that God is really using you there in Peru. Who knows what kind of a lasting impression you've made on Gracie's family? I'm praying for you.
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