baby greg

I remember one of the last days I worked in the PICU back in the States. I was in charge, and it was early in the shift when I got the call from the ER that baby Mark (not his real name, since America actually has HIPAA laws) was on his way up. Mark had been at home, snuggled in with his parents, when his heart just stopped. We had no idea why. What followed were three weeks of heartbreak and confusion and pain for his family as they watched him slip away. Mark's mum was the constant. She never left his side unless it was one of the nurses she trusted caring for him. She kept meticulous notes, writing down facts and numbers and events as if a complete catologue could somehow be the key that would allow her out of her prison of grief. She played classical music constantly, explaining ruefully that she didn't think he was going to make it, but just in case a miracle happened, (and she firmly believed it could) she wanted to give his little brain the best chance it had.

I spent long hours in that room, whether I was caring for Mark or not. I would sneak in after my shift, pull up a chair, prop my feet up next to the baby, and we would talk about anything but what was going on in that bed. She told me stories about meeting her husband and related the funny things their two-year old had said. I told her about Liberia and about why I was quitting the job I so clearly loved to go live on a ship for a year or two.

I wasn't working the day Mark went to be with Jesus, but the nurses I work with called me to let me know it had happened. Truthfully, it was for the best, and we all know it, his parents included. As Mark's mum walked out after saying goodbye to her baby, she handed the CDs to his nurse. Please give these to Ali. I want her to play the music for the kids in Africa.

Why on earth, you must be asking, are you telling this story? What could possibly posess you to bring that all up again? Why think about it? It's because I'm listening to that music right now, sitting in the ICU next to another baby who needs a miracle. The strains of Canon in D weave in and out through the sounds of his labored breathing, and I'm left praying for the impossible.

Baby Greg is a tricky one. Born with a tumor on the side of his neck that was slowly growing to cut off his airway, the only chance for his survival was an operation to remove it. What we didn't know before surgery was that his little airway never had a chance to form properly. It's weak and floppy, and it means that now, despite the fact that the tumor is gone and may never return, baby Greg still can't breathe. In America, this would be simple. We would throw in a trach, set mom up with homecare nurses and supplies and send Greg home to wait until he outgrew his condition (which, almost invariably, these kids do).

But this is Liberia, my heart cries. Liberia. Which means that, yet again, the latitude and longitude of this sweet baby's birth will most likely be the parameters that rule his death.

I don't often do this, but I have a proposal for you: I'll hang out here in the ICU. I'll jury-rig CPAP and I'll suction his throat and I'll put his food right into his stomach through a tube so he can use every ounce of his energy to grow. And all of you, oceans away or maybe living just down the hall on this very same deck? Please pray. I'm firmly convinced that we have a God who absolutely loves to do what we think is impossible, so let's storm the gates of heaven for baby Greg. Pray that he would gain weight and that his airway would strengthen so that he can breathe well without all the support we need to give him right now. Pray for his mama. She's young, but she's already lost two babies, and rumor in the village has it that she's cursed. And pray for all of us, that we would make wise decisions and that we would be able to care for and love on baby Greg in just the way he needs.

Go team.