night shifts and parkas

Some things make night shift totally worth it.

It was five-thirty in the morning, and I had to start getting my patients up and washed for surgery today. Benjamin was in bed three, and he's first on the list, which means an early start. I pulled back the covers to find him there, swathed in a heart-printed hospital gown and a lavender, fleece-lined hooded parka. I guess it gets cold here at night. I handed him his cup of water, the last he'll get until after his operation. He drank it quickly but refused a second, so I told his mama it was time for him to take baf. (This phrase, accompanied by a motion that looks like throwing water over your shoulders, was one of my first in Liberian English and has never failed me yet.)

I bent my head to my charts, and when I looked up again, little Benjamin had doffed his hospital-issue gown and was wrapped in a clean, white towel, the ends tucked securely under his armpits. He held his toothbrush like a trophy in a tiny clenched fist in front of him as he padded in his neon orange slippers towards the bathroom. The door shut, a series of yelps emitted (for which I can hardly blame him; having your bits scrubbed with a betadine-soaked brush can hardly be pleasant first thing in the morning), and Benjamin reemerged, clad once again in his gown and parka, hood up to ward off the arctic chill.

I put him back into his bed, pulled the covers up to his chin and planted a kiss on his soft, round cheeks (pretty much the only part of him still visible). Two solemn, brown eyes peered back at me from the pile of blankets and he grinned briefly before turning over and settling back to sleep.

Mandy, my roommate and night shift buddy this week, put it best after I pulled her onto my side of the ward a few minutes later to see Benjamin and his mama, kneeling side by side on top of the bed, praying that Jesus would protect him in the operation room today. Why can't our jobs be this much fun at home?

There's something so wonderful about these people; it defies my best efforts to describe it. But it's going to break my heart to leave them in December.


Addendum:
As we nurses sat in a circle getting ready to pray before report, my little friend appeared from his side of the ward. He made a silent beeline for me, pushing aside my startled-but-rather-amused head nurse's chair to make a path for himself to get into the centre of the group, and came over to rest his head on my knee. Instead of a toothbrush, he now held a crumpled five LD bill. When I asked him what he was planning to buy he whispered back. Col' wata'. Which didn't seem to make sense in light of the parka.