HOPE Center

During a recent day off, I was able to go to the HOPE Center (Hospital OutPatient Extension Center) where our patients go after discharge from the hospital if they live far away and need to return to the ship for dressing or cast changes, or for another surgery. It is a wonderful time to go to visit with and play games with the children and adults outside of the hospital, not as a nurse, but as their friend.

 Ravette was there. She came to the ship several weeks ago, with legs severely malformed as a result of an childhood injection which caused the muscles in her legs to atrophy and weaken. Without the muscles to pull the bones straight as they grew, her legs bent backwards. She had surgery, and just the other day, her casts were removed. She has straight legs now. And a beautiful smile that is almost a permanent fixture on her face. Have I mentioned lately that I love my job?

Ravette

Silence and Art

One of the many ministries that the ship is doing here in Congo is giving art classes at the local deaf school. Most schools teach only the basic courses, and for the children in this school the art lessons are a real treat. These children are some of the lucky ones who are able to go to school, despite their disability.

I am caring for a deaf girl in the hospital right now who is being treated for burn contractures. She cannot read or write, and communicates as best she can by miming. She follows me around the ward, copying me on her own clipboard as I take notes on my patients and write in charts. Her "writing" looks like that of a three year old, just a line of loops and circles. I weep for her and wish that she could have the education she seems to desire so much. She wants to say so much, but cannot communicate beyond basic ideas. I gave her a laminated copy of a photo taken of the two of us in the ward, and she treasures it. She will show it to anyone and everyone who comes along, then if I am on the ward, she will come put her arm around me in an imitation of the photo.

My Deaf Patient

Seeing these children in the school who can read and write and communicate with sign language gives me hope for the future of those in Congo with disabilities. These children are so eager to learn and they love that I can communicate a little with them in their own sign language. So far we have covered pencil sketches, watercolors, and right now we are working with chalk. One young boy at the school was a patient in the hospital earlier in the field service, and has become a celebrity amongst the other deaf children as the only one who has been on the ship.

These children are so precious. May we leave them with the knowledge that they are precious, valuable, and dearly loved.

The Q Word

Nursing Superstition: Never say the Q word. If you say it, chaos is sure to ensue. 

 Case in point: Tonight was a "quiet" shift on A waard. Patients were complication free and everything was going well. I type my handover note for day shift, letting the next charge nurse know how the shift went and any pertinent information that they might need to know. I mentioned that the shift was "quiet".

Enter shift change.... The evening shift nurses are quietly giving report to the next shift when we begin to hear the sound of rushing, gushing water. Hot, steaming water is pouring out from beneath the sink and spilling out all over the floor. Our hot water pipe has burst. 

Handover is forgotten as nurses and day crew rush to grab bowls, towels and blankets. The towels and blankets are lined along the floor in an attempt to keep the water somewhat contained before the whole ward floods and bowls and buckets are filled, while I call reception and ask them to page the duty plumber immediately.

 

Mamas and patients hear the commotion and come rushing to see what has happened. The mamas jump in to help the nurses, pulling blankets off of their own beds to help stop the lake of water from moving beneath patient beds. Bucket after bucket of water is being hurriedly dumped down the shower drain as we wait for the on duty plumber to respond to our urgent page for help. Help finally arrives and the hot water line is turned off. The flow of water ceases and everyone applauds.

But the work is not done yet..... we still have a small lake of water to get rid of. With the mamas, day crew, and nurses working together we get the towels and blankets wrung out and taken to the laundry and the floors dried. There will be no need for night shift to mop the floors tonight, this floor at least is now very clean. Mamas are given new blankets to replace the ones donated from their beds, and patients are encouraged to go back to bed. Mamas are thanked and given tea. Nurses finish giving report.

 

Peace has returned to the ward. Hopefully it will last.

 

 

A Mother's Broken Heart

Today, my day off, I volunteered to assist with security at the eye screening. Because cataract surgery is such a quick and relatively simple operation, we can operate on approximately 50 patients per week. That is 50 people each week of whom it can be truly said, "I was blind, but now I see." Mercy Ships holds an eye screening twice a week to look for patients with operable cataracts. People with vision problems eagerly line up, hoping that the problem causing their blindness or vision problems is a cataract, so that Mercy Ships can fix it.
These people know that we are Mercy Ships, and often people with other medical conditions will show up, asking us to help them, hoping that Mercy Ships can give them a miracle. Often, we have to sadly say. "I am sorry, but we can not treat your condition." or "I am sorry, we would love to help you, but our surgery schedule for your problem is full, and there are no more places on our waiting list."
Today, the very first woman in line for eye screening, was one of those people looking for a miracle. She held in her arms, a small bundle, a baby. I saw what looked like a tumor on the baby's face. Her body was wrapped in blankets, so it was hard to tell, but I was hopeful. I knew that we did still have open places in our surgical schedule for our Maxillofacial surgeon. Perhaps we could help this baby.
We took the mama to the side, and I unwrapped the baby. Instantly my heart broke. This sweet baby girl, who could not have been more than 3 months old, had only been born with part of her brain. Where there should have been a round, firm skull above her ears and eyebrows, her head was completely flat. When I touched the top of her head, there was no bone, only soft skin and tissue separating my fingers from her fragile brain tissue. What I had first thought to be a tumor, was actually a portion of her brain, covered in skin and protruding down over one eye. She appeared to me upset, and maybe hungry, opening her mouth wide and arching her back. I asked the mama if I could hold her, and she passed the little bundle to me. It was then that I realized that this was not a fussy or hungry baby. This precious little one was having seizures. Her back would arch and she would stiffen with her mouth wide open as she stopped breathing for several long seconds. Then her body would relax and she would breathe normally for a moment, before another seizure made her stiffen once more.
I knew that there was nothing that we could do surgically for this little one. Even in the States, this little one would not live long. The most that we would be able to do is refer the mama to our palliative care team, for good end-of-life care for the baby.
Our team was starting to screen the hopeful people in line and I was needed to help with security. I kissed that sweet little head and handed her back to her mama. I indicated that the mama should wait where she was. We would come back to speak with her with a translator as soon as we could.
I was sent down the line to keep people orderly, and assist those with the worst eyesight that needed help. When we went back to talk to the mama, she was gone. Perhaps, she knew already what we were going to say. I am sure that she had already been told by others that there was nothing that could be done for her baby.
But my heart broke for her. She had come to us hoping for a miracle, hoping that her baby would be taken to the magical white ship, where she would be fixed so that she could grow up to be a normal little girl.
There was so much that I had wanted to tell her.
I wanted to tell that mama that I thought her baby was beautiful, I wanted to tell her that her baby was loved by an ever loving God. I wanted to tell her that she hadn't done anything wrong, that what was wrong with her baby was not her fault. I wanted to tell her about the One who had said, "Let the little children come to Me, for such is the kingdom of heaven." I wanted to tell her that I would be praying for her and her baby.
Somewhere in Congo tonight there is a brokenhearted mother, holding a precious little baby girl who will not be much longer in this world.
When you pray, please pray for them.