a complete mission

I have two stories for you today. After such a long dearth, I suppose it's only fair. They really have nothing to do with one another except for the fact that they both happened during my shift this morning, neatly packaging the day together like bookends.

It started out with the dreaded 'outside call'. The phone rings a funny way and you know it's someone who has gotten ahold of the ship's number. Nine times out of ten, that person will not be able to peak English, and will assume that you, in fact, can speak whatever tribal dialect they've chosen. When I handed off the phone to one of our translators, I heard the phrase that clutches every charge nurse's heart. There's a sick baby at the gangway. Nine times out of ten, they're not babies we've operated on, and since we're not a medical facility, nine times out of ten we have to turn them away. But I'm a big softie, so I figured we could at least deliver the news in person. I already knew what I would say, some variation on the theme that runs through our days at the end of the outreach. I'm sorry. We can't help. There is no more time. I'm sorry.

I grabbed a trusty translator, Fulbert, and we headed to the gangway. Empty. We walked to the back of the ship, where we saw some people sitting on a pipe at the side of the dock. They were all old, with no children in sight, so we figured the only other option was the gate, all the way at the other end of the dock. We started to make the trek when Fulbert had a stroke of genius.

Before I knew it, I was perched on the back of his zemidjahn, the cool morning wind whipping through my scrubs as we raced down the dock. About fifteen seconds later, we had arrived. (Shortest trip ever, but at least we made it in style, and it's the only time I'll ever be on the back of one of those bikes.) The baby was on her mama's back, all covered with a cloth, and the papa explained that she was born with a tumor on her head. He showed me the size in his outstretched palm; at least the size of a small orange, and my heart sank. There was nothing we could do.

I went through my whole speech, and then lifted the cloth to find a beautiful little girl with a big lump on her head. Curious, I poked it. Soft. An idea hit me like a flash to lightning, and I turned back to the dad. Was she born at home? When he told me it was the hospital, I started to laugh. They used a machine, no? To pull her out? She was stuck? The papa was astounded, his eyes as big as saucers, wondering how on earth I knew all this, and I went on to explain that the bump caused by a vacuum-assisted birth goes away with time and that his baby was absolutely beautiful and would only grow more so.

After shaking hands and convincing the young parents that the lump would not, in fact, burst if the baby happened to roll onto that side of her head, we jumped back on our trusty bike and headed off into the sunrise. As we neared the ship again, Fulbert turned and summed up the entire experience.

A complete mission.


And then, much later, near the end of the day, I was reminded all over again why I love being a nurse. We've been caring for a lovely old lady named Christine who developed a huge infection at the site of a hernia repair. She's been growing such nasty bugs that for the last ten days, she's been shut into the corner of the ward, walled off behind curtains and forbidden from touching anyone or anything. Of necessity, she's been an outcast in the very place that was supposed to accept her. Over the last ten days she's gone from a joyful, outgoing woman to one who rarely speaks and spends most of her time sleeping. She's felt alone and cut off; she cried when I first hung the curtains on the day that her wound culture showed us the infection.

Today, after three more surgeries to clean away diseased tissue and more IVs that I can count to deliver the caustic medications to her veins, her final wound culture came back. With my heart in my throat I turned the paper over to read the words we were all praying for. No growth.

The party was immediate. Mel, one of the nurses, ran across the room and tore down the curtain. A very startled Christine looked up at me. The infection is gone? she asked, hardly daring to hope. Our smiles and cheers told her the answer, and she grabbed her walking stick and immediately left her bed. To the sounds of laughter and congratulations, she paraded up and down the ward, greeting all her friends again, lifting prayers of thanksgiving to her God. The two other women admitted with wounds raised their hands from their beds, praising God for her healing.

And when the surgeon came into the ward a little later, she leaped up from her bed again. He came to meet her, and she grabbed him in a huge bear hug, which he returned just as enthusiastically. She had tears in her eyes again, but this time it was so different. This time she was rejoicing.


Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.