Watching a mother watch her child die is something I never thought I would ever have to do. And, for some reason, the possibility of having to do that eluded me completely when I was back in the States trying to think ahead about what might be difficult about working at a children's hospital. Funny, huh? I mean, I guess it's pretty obvious. But I was thinking more about how it would be to have to see a child admitted into the hospital and then come for work the next day to find out that they had passed away.
But to become friends with a parent, and spend time with him/her for more than a month while their child goes through peaks and valleys of being sick, gaining and losing weight, in and out of the ICU, off and on the defribulator: it's a very different thing. You begin to wonder how much can happen before the parent breaks. And the strength of these people is astounding. But I guess that is the thing about a parent and their child. A parent can withstand anything when it comes to doing what they need to in order to help their child survive (whether in the Western world or here).
It is finally really getting to me. I am constantly thinking about what is happening...about whether or not I will come in to the hospital the next morning to find a bed empty. It breaks my heart, but in a strange way, because it's not really my broken heart to be had. And I turn and watch these parents, and, if my whole body could be heartbroken for them it would be. Selfishness aside, I'm lost for how to feel, for what to offer. I rub the mothers' backs, I say what I can (my speech is so limited in times like those), I search for a way to connect, to do what I can...otherwise, why am I here? Why are any of us here? And what can you do for a parent who speaks a different language than you and is struggling to hold himself/herself together for the fight of their child's life? What do you say?
I take pictures. It's becoming more and more difficult to get the camera out. But I get it out. And when I hand a print to a mother or father of their child, they don't tear up at the sight of their baby on a hospital bed with tubes coming out of him/her. Instead, they smile. They put their hands together and bow towards me, offering their thanks. It means something to them. And that means something to me.
