Saying no never gets any easier. The plastic surgeon has boarded a plane for his home in South Africa, and Abraham's arm is no better. When I opened up his chart at the beginning of my shift, I found a handwritten referral letter for the MSF pediatric hospital in town. He'll leave in the morning.We're not going to have another plastic surgeon here during this outreach. The ship is going to be in Benin next year, Guinea the year after that, and then we don't know. But probably not Liberia. So Abraham will probably never get his surgery. There's a good chance he'll prove to be a prophet (albeit one with a twisted hand) since he told me last night, after tomorrow, you will not see me again.
I tucked him into bed with a heavy heart. It's not fair that a little five-year old boy should be tearing through life with one hand just because he lives in the bush and got in the way of a snake while he was playing football with his cousins. I hate that we're sending him home with open sores on his arm. It doesn't make any sense that, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't fight off the infection and we can't do his surgery.
And still he laughs and kisses me and makes silly faces and seems to have no idea that he's crippled. Which is why saying no feels so wrong.
His life is better for having been on your ship, in your care though. That much is certain. Hugs.