anthony

I don't know exactly when joy came back to the wards, but I know when it came back to me.

Today I got to take care of the smallest patient in the whole hospital. Anthony is six days old and had surgery to repair a meningomyelocele. Now, instead of fairly certain paralysis and almost certain death from infection, he's snuggled up next to his mum, making small, squeaky baby noises. When I move his blankets, he kicks his feet. Both of them. Hard enough to dislodge the wires hooked up to monitor his heartrate and breathing patterns.

I sat with Anthony's mother, Grace, after I changed the dressing over his surgery site, and I explained how the surgery had gone. How, instead of the golf ball-sized lump protruding from the bottom of his spine, Anthony now had flat skin. How his legs were working (and so was his bladder, since, in true little boy fashion, he had tried to pee all over me twice during the dressing change). How everything looked good. A wide smile broke across her face.

Now, something the Liberians love to do is shake hands. We greet each other constantly in the streets and on the wards. In general, handshakes here are rather sedate affairs. In fact, by American standards, they're often downright limp. The only real exception I've seen to this 'rule' is in cases of extreme excitement.

This was one of those cases. She pulled her arm back as far as it would go, her smile got even wider, and she shook my hand as hard as it's ever been shaken. Laughing, she pointed to her name tag and said, 'The Lord has shown me mercy, and He has given me Grace.'

I'm going to take Grace to the Sunday meeting here on the ship. She wants me to take a picture of myself and Anthony for her. 'I will show him when he grows old. This is Alice, and she cared for you.'


'She cared for you.' If that's all the legacy I leave here in Liberia, it will be more than enough.