the fake-out

Little five-year old Jean Claude has more trouble than just the twisting of his left foot. We're not sure why, but he suffers from cerebral palsy. It's not always easy to get an accurate health history here; in North America mamas would be quoting Apgar scores back to us and citing down to the second the time their children were without oxygen. Here, it's a little foggier. We don't know if something happened at birth or before, but the result is our little boy in Bed Fifteen.

One look in his direction, and his face is transformed by the biggest, toothy grin I've seen in a long time. He shrieks his joy when toys are placed before him, rising up from his classic indian-style pose to rest on his knees and reach for whatever you're holding. He unabashedly grabs pens and cups and hair, and will nestle into your embrace like you're the love of his life.

We sent Jean Claude off to the operating room this morning knowing that he'd be much less pleasant when he arrived back. We're so used to seeing our happy, smiling kiddos transformed into growling bears, flat out on the stretcher when they're wheeled back from the recovery room.

Jean Claude tried to fake us out.

When the recovery nurses rolled through the door, my little friend was perched in the middle of the stretcher, sitting straight up with his newly-casted foot crossed over the other one. There were tear tracks down the sides of his face, but he was looking around at all of us, sharing small smiles from underneath the blue operating room cap that some kind nurse had tied around his head. From all appearances, he was absolutely unconcerned with what had just happened to him in the operating room.

His fake benevolence was short-lived. As soon as we got him into bed and left him in the charge of our pediatric orthopedics nurse, he took the first opportunity that presented itself to let us know how he really felt. With a small sigh, he flung himself face-down, his little body half off the side of the bed. His little blue hat floated to the floor, and I think it was only the new weight of his cast that anchored him to the mattress at all.

We posted a stricter watch over our little friend after that, and by the time I left the ward, I had only to call his name from across the room to be rewarded with his familiar wide smile.

I think Jean Claude is going to forgive us after all.