patient stories

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.

Reason Number 4,571 that I Love My Job:

As I walked onto B Ward this evening, admittedly less than excited to be starting my second of four long night shifts in a row, my little friend Abraham caught sight of me. He jumped up from his place on the floor, thought briefly about putting on his slippers, decided against it and danced across the room into my arms, blowing kisses the whole way. Emmanuel, Mercy's proud big brother, was close on his heels and little Mickey, a small one who used to be screaming afraid of white people, toddled along behind. Within fifteen seconds of stepping foot onto the ward, I was on the floor with little brown boys draped across every part of me they could attach themselves to. Probably the best way I can think of to start a shift.


I'm sitting here in the darkened ward, the generators once more beating out their insistent pulse, and I'm so happy. I can hear little Mercy crying like a small kitten in the corner, quieting as her mother reaches for her. I had to settle an argument between Mercy's mama and Mickey's grandma earlier in my shift. They called me over to their corner, and I took Mercy in my hands, curly-haired and feather-light. It turned out they were in disagreement over how long I'd been in Liberia. Mercy's mama figured I'd been here before, but Mickey's grandma stauchly proclaimed that this was my first visit. I have been here since February. I were not here las' year. Mickey's grandma looked triumphant. That how I tol' you. She jus' speaking Liberian. Yongo a clever girl!

Abdullah, the man in the next bed over, decided it was time he got involved. What mean Yongo? he wanted to know. Mickey's grandma explained to him that it was my Kpelle name. Abdullah looked confused for a moment, scratched his head through the bandages wrapped around it, and wanted to know why that white girl needed a Kpelle name anyway. The answer came swiftly.

Because her heart Liberian.

And somehow, after that, the nights don't seem so long after all.

This is Abraham. He gives me more smooches than I've ever dreamed of.

His wrist was bitten by a snake a while ago and healed in a frozen mass of scar tissue. We had him with us at the beginning of the outreach; he was one of my balloon party friends. And now he's back, because he has infected ulcers on that arm that just wouldn't heal.

He endures two dressing changes every day. Ten minutes of his arm being soaked in vinegar while he winces and yelps and then comes back to the ward proclaiming cheerfully, They finish changing bandage. My hand bettah nah. I wan' stickah. I wan' go outside. I love you very much, Good Charge Nurse.

He never stops loving.


The plastic surgeon will be here for two more weeks. We have fourteen days to get rid of his infection (an infection that has lived on his arm for months) or else the doctor won't be able to do the surgery to release his wrist back into a normal position.

And whether or not he ever gets that surgery, we'll keep changing his bandages, and he'll keep slipping his twisted hand into mine as he throws his good arm around my head to pull my face close for yet another kiss.

And we'll both keep loving.

I'm starting to wonder how anyone can live their lives without getting ridiculously excited by the fact that God is in control.

Today was my day off this week, so I decided with a group of friends to head into Monrovia for lunch. As we passed through town on the way home, my friend Tim and I jumped out of the car on Broad Street, bent on trying to find Cathi and Matthew. I knew what hotel they were at, but we weren't quite sure where that was; we set off on our adventure through streets teeming with people and taxis.

After a short trek up the hill led us to the abandoned Hotel Ducor and a dead end, we realized that we were probably lost. But Liberia is a friendly place, so if you're ever at Hotel Ducor, ask for Joe. He's the commander up there, and he'll be happy to show you around. Or, if you're stuck in our boat (the boat of the directionally challenged), he'll be happy to recruit a nearby friend who knows which winding path to take down the other side of the hill, between concrete and tin houses and over piles of garbage until you're safely deposited on the right road.

We made it to the hotel and called Cathi's room. She came downstairs to meet us in the lobby, Matthew asleep in his little quilt, arms folded contentedly across his small chest. She explained that she hadn't come back to the ship yesterday (as was planned, for a checkup with our doctors) because she'd gotten a major electric shock as she first moved into her room. She touched the corner of the blanket Matthew was wrapped in, a blanket quilted by loving hands somewhere else in the world, donated to Mercy Ships and given to him when he came in out of the rain on Tuesday. The blanket you gave him saved his life. I got shocked, but I wasn't touching his skin. I think it's what saved him.

We discussed plans as Matthew gurgled and coughed and smiled in his sleep. Because they were already in the process of adopting, she has all the paperwork she needs to get him home except for a visa. This could take a while, so we exchanged numbers and I'll speak to Dr. Gary about repairing his cleft lip if they're still in Liberia when he's old enough for the surgery. Tim stood next to me, a wide grin across his face as we chatted, reaching out occasionally to touch Matthew's silky hair. It was easy to forget that I met these people just days ago.

And here's where God showed up yet again. It was five thirty, rush hour in Monrovia, and we were getting ready to hand Matthew back and try to catch a taxi home to the ship. No easy task on a good day downtown, finding a car during the busiest time of the day is an endeavor that can have you waiting hours. I looked out the glass doors into the courtyard of the hotel to see a tiny blond girl playing with a puppy. She looks familiar, I thought to myself, a split second before realizing that she was accompanied by her mother, Katharina, and that they were standing next to their Mercy Ships car.

In any other situation, I might have been tempted to call it a coincidence. You happened to be at this hotel, and they happened to need a bathroom and you got a free ride home. So what? But when you factor in the baby with my brother's name in my arms, his weary mother sitting on the couch and a big white ship who just might be able to help after all docked across the harbor, things just don't add up properly.

We sat in the back of the car, bouncing home over the rutted roads. Tim caught my eye, and his grin spread even wider as we repeated one of our favourite Liberian refrains to each other.

God is good?
All the time.
All the time?
Good is good.