This is my first Autumn in 20 years that I won't experience the crisp air, steamy breath, crunchy leaves under my hiking boots, or the pumpkin pie that accompanies Fall. And even though I don't follow football like I did when I was young, I still associate the game with this season.
It's Friday night in late September and for many people that includes the "Friday night lights" of football season. But things are different here in Chad. It's after midnight right now & I just returned from a walk. I couldn't sleep so I decided to look at my own Friday night lights. Here in the bush in Africa it is pitch black dark and the sky is intensely illuminated by stars in a way that many people have never experienced because of city lighting. Honestly it's beyond extraordinary.
As I walked to the open field behind the hospital, I paused in front of the old church that is now the pediatric building.
I stood quietly and listened for trouble that comes in the night.
All the windows in this old building are open so its easy to hear any commotion if someone is doing badly...and too frequently someone is. Peds is my responsibility and it is the most agonizingly rewarding place I have worked in many years. I know we are making a difference for many of these kids. I worry at night though. Last night a baby boy and a baby girl died in Peds from malaria. They were new arrivals in the middle of the night and didn't survive until morning.
I make rounds first thing each day before starting the surgery schedule. Today rounds began with that sad news: 2 admits in the night but both died within hours of arrival. I don't know that there was a lesson learned from their deaths. Nothing was completely preventable. Kids are malnourished, they get very sick and arrive in desperate shape. Sometimes we can save them & sometimes we cannot.
I keep wondering about the
things some of these mothers may have been thinking or seeing. Imagine that its night and the baby has been getting sicker for a few days. They have no money. Can she wait until morning? The baby is burning with fever. Now she's breathing badly and finally convulsing. The mad scramble ensues as the mother walks 5, 10,or 20 kilometers in the dark through muddy paths and rutted dirt roads. Only to have the child die on arrival... Or maybe the baby survives because their are people here who care.
Despite all of the headaches, hassles, and heartaches, I believe in what we are doing. Nearly every day a mother will come to our door or sit under the tree outside of our home asking for Kim and I to help a child. Nearly everyday I provide anesthesia services for people who may have suffered without me. And nearly everyday we offer financial or physical or spiritual assistance to people in need.
So here I sit tonight under my Friday night starry lights asking myself questions. Why am I here? Am I making a difference? What's my purpose?
I don't have all the answers but God knows I'm trying.
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