the mohameds

My cup is overflowing right now. For some reason, the eight hours I just spent on the ward were some of the best this whole year. Maybe it was the end-of-the-school-year feeling that pervaded the hospital as we packed up D Ward, hopefully for the last time, and moved all those patients up the hall to A and B. Maybe it was the beautiful kiddos, peeking out from behind bandages and tubes in their noses, lifting up skinny arms to be held, snuggling their tired heads into the corner of my neck. Or maybe it was just a good shift, something that last happened so long ago that I seem to have forgotten what it feels like.

In beds nine and ten are two little boys of similar age, both named Mohamed. I was taking care of Mohamed Number One in bed ten, and ended up by proximity chatting a lot with the mama of Mohamed Number Two. In French. My paltry grasp of the language made me the best interpreter until Dennis showed up at eight in the evening, so we spent loads of time laughing together as I searched for words for things like recovery room and endotracheal tube. (Had no idea how to say either, so I settled for when his eyes open, you will go to him, which seemed to get the point across.)

In the meantime, Mohamed Number One followed me around like a shadow, chucking his bright orange balloon at my face and laughing hysterically when I head-butted it back to him. Thanks to Amy's photographic skills, I can show you how both his ears were covered in a thick bandage, which actually made no difference in our communication in the long run; he doesn't speak a word of either English or French. Good thing I speak fluent balloon.

Mohamed Number One's mama is a stout lady who wraps her head in a red scarf that tends to clash with whatever else she's wearing. Early in my shift, while the room was a chaos of patients being moved, babies crawling around and beds being shuffled, she quietly approached me. Sister, I need to pray. She gestured helplessly at the melee around her, silently asking me for a quiet place where she could kneel in peace. I led her to an empty room, unused because of the thunder of the generator below. It's really loud in here, but God will hear you anyway. She beamed her thanks and spread her lappa on the floor.

Later, when the father of Mohamed Number Two came to visit, Number One's mama asked me if she could show him to the room so they could all pray. I assented, and as they headed for the door, her voice floated back to me above the beeps and wails. That girl, she really know how to love us.

I'll hold on to that on the days when nothing seems to be going right.