She's a teacher at the Academy, our on board school for children of the families who live and work here. When she picked up the slip of paper with Mickey's name on it, she had no way of knowing that Mickey would end up being one of our long-term patients. (Forty-nine days at last count.) He's a little man who had plastic surgery to release burn scars on his hand. The first time his bandage was changed, everything looked so good we considered sending him home. The next time we changed it, we were afraid he would lose a digit; infection had spread and threatened the skin grafts between his fingers.Mickey started out shy. He was tiny, with little stick-thin arms and legs and he screamed every time a white person came near him. Dorothy never seemed to mind. She doggedly visited him, day after day, until finally her persistence paid off. I was working the other day when she called. Is it okay if I come see Mickey boy now? Or course it was okay. It's always okay for someone to come to the wards and tire out the children who seem to be feeding off an energy source I'm sure the US government would love to tap into.
When Dorothy's face showed around the door, Mickey gave a shriek of glee and toddled at top speed across the ward to fling himself into her arms. He's not shy anymore. In fact, he pretty much runs the place, getting pulled around the halls, perched like a sultan atop a pillow in a laundry basket, by willing servants.One of the other nurses working that night noticed that Dorothy was wearing her white Mercy Ships shirt. In fact, Dorothy wears that shirt every single time she comes to visit Mickey. The nurse, curious as to why her apparel was so limited, asked her about it. Dorothy's simple answer stunned me.
I figure the Liberians don't have a lot of different clothes. And you nurses always wear the same uniforms. It doesn't seem right for me to come down here and flaunt my wardrobe. So I just put on this shirt.
That's the closest thing to Christ I've heard in a while.
