Sick baby day

Today was sick baby day. I don't know why, but for some reason all the sickest little ones came today, on Tuesday, all together in the afternoon, when we were beginning to get foot sore and weary.

Some were limp over their mother's shoulders, cheeks mushed, too weak to hold up their heads.

Jenni calls them fever babies. "We've got another fever baby here," she'll tell me.

Great.

That means I have to give a shot.

Patient after patient, they bring their prescription slips from the doctor to the pharmacy window, and I pull up the teeny cocktails of ceftriaxona, gentamicina, dexamethasona, and metamizol sódico in the syringes, the different thicknesses of medicine swirling together.

We drape the babies over their mother's laps, bottom up, and while the mom firmly holds the torso, Karen pins down the legs and thighs for me. Usually the babies start craying way before the actual needle stick. The wailing begins as they are placed on their tummies and see a white girl in blue scrubs fussing with alcohol and cotton.

But they scream later, when the medicine infuses into their little muscles. They scream so hard they forget to breathe, then choke as they gasp for air. I put on a cute colorful bandaid, and Karen gives out stickers, but it doesn't seem to help much.

I feel terrible. I hate to make them cry.

So today, when it was just one sick baby after another, I wore out real fast. In a few families we even had to give shots to siblings, which was a traumatic experience for all involved, especially the mothers.

I got to my eleventh or twelfth shot and my hands were trembling. The screaming was getting under my skin.

"Jenni, can you help me?" I asked.

I gladly traded with her and took over crowd control.