Maybe That's How Love Changes Things

Chelsea and I were washing laundry. We had our blue and green bins filled with laundry and water and soap. Water was clinging to our skin up to the elbows. The air that day seemed to weigh especially heavy on our foreheads and chests. Washing laundry by hand was refreshing because the cold water seemed to hold the weight of the air for a short time.

We heard the gate click, and Papa Henrry entered. With a tone of urgency, and yet with his typical calm demeaner, he explained, with mixed English and Spanish, that there was a patient with burns and we should come quick. Chelsea and I patted our arms dry on our jeans. I ran to my room to get my audio recorder, my notebook, and my pen. I placed them hurriedly in my little purse, grabbed my water bottle, and raced across the street. I thought we were making a home visit so I raced into the clinic ready to go.

There she was sitting on the operating table in our clinic room. Eight years of perfect little girl. Her forehead was wrinkled tight and tears seeped through her lashes. Her Mama sat next to her with arms wrapped around her sweaty body. After catching a glimpse of her foot, I stood stunned. I was surprised there weren't more tears or more whimpers.

How was I supposed to help? I was just the journalist. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't handle bodily fluids, wounds, or pain with any form of grace. I'd felt decently capable of helping in the pharmacy where all I needed to do was fill prescriptions and hand them off saying, "Esto es para ti." But, I felt quite unhelpful now.

Suddenly I felt thirsty. Thirsty for water, for cool and dry air, and for a world with no pain.

"Should I get her some water?" I muttered. It was all I could think of.
"Yes." Papa Henrry replied. I walked to the kitchen and lifted my favorite mug off its hook. I filled it with our filtered water. It wasn't cold, but it was clean.

When I reentered the small clinic room I felt a little more prepared to help where I could. I handed the mug to the girl. Her mama helped me hold it to her weak lips. She took a small sip, and then she looked right into my eyes and managed the smallest smile. Her eyes seemed to say both "Thank you" and "Make this better." I sat mug on the table. I smiled back trying to say "Of course sweetie!" and "I would if I could."

Her perfectly brown feet were charred black. Her toes were swollen together like they had been baked with too much yeast.

Isaac gave her a syringe filled with pain medication.

As Papa Henrry started to work on her foot her tears turned to steady whimpers of, "Mommy. Mooommy. Mommyyyyyyy." She pressed her forehead into her mom's firm hold.

A thick layer of skin sluffed as Papa Henrry rubbed it with a saline dipped cloth. The black gave way to fresh, live pink. Her screams grew more forceful. The humidity seemed to play with each cry, tossing it across the yard and echoing it. I held my phone close to her foot for extra light. But, my ability to watch gave out.

I handed my phone to Chelsea and stepped out to find "fresh" air. Another child in the neighborhood sympathized. I could hear screams coming from another yard. The waiting room was filled with the girl's family. Each sitting with still, solemn faces. I walked back.

Papa Henrry was cutting away at the damaged skin. She screamed louder. Each scream etching it's presence into time, into memory, into history. Taking a deep breath I quietly reached out to stroke her hair. She looked up slightly. I was surprised when she tried to manage another smile. It pulled weakly at the corners of her mouth as the tears kept multiplying. And then Papa Henrry yanked at the skin again and her screams resumed.

The skin had to be removed. If it was allowed to stay it would heal, but it would heal wrong. It could knit her toes together. It could prevent full mobility and leave her crippled. It could get infected and result in amputation. It would leave even worse scarring. The skin had to be removed.

Ideally, she would have been rushed to an emergency room and given stronger pain medication. Ideally, the doctor would have given her anesthesia and allowed her to wake up when the procedure was over. Ideally, she wouldn't have been burned in the first place. But, ideal isn't always possible.

I stroked her hair. The sweat and grease making my hand feel oily. Her mama had sweat running down her own compressed forehead and pooling on her nose. It looked as if the pain were stinging her nearly as bad. Ever few moments she would wipe the tears off her daughter's face with girl's dirty, yellow shirt.

I prayed, "Lord, if anything, allow this little girl to remember the love the Christians showed her. Help her to look back and think of the water I gave her. Remind her of Isaac's sympathetic smile, and my words of "You're going to be okay." (Even though she probably can't understand them.) Somehow, allow her to feel some ounce of hope through our presence."

Her screams echoed. It sounded like she was saying, "I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. Oh! Mamaaaa, I'm gonna die." At least, I thought I heard the word for die, and that's something I would have said had our roles been reversed.

I remember being fully amazed at her stillness. Her screams could curdle blood, and indeed might have if my adrenaline hadn't risen so high. And yet, she sat perfectly still. She didn't fight Henrry's help at all. She didn't try to pull back. She didn't try to squirm.

Henrry and Chelsea were now wrapping her foot with sterile gauze while Isaac held her foot. "How did she get burned?" I thought. I tried to ask Henrry later, but either he didn't know or my question got lost in translation.

After she was all bandaged up, her Mama lifted her off the table and carried her out to the family. Her screams had stopped, but her tears were still fresh.

And just like that, it was over. She was sent home, and we were sent back to scrub our laundry. We walked soberly back, trying to calm our flip-flopped stomachs.

We weren't the emergency room. We didn't have strong enough pain medication. We weren't ideal. But, we were present, and that was what she needed. And maybe, just maybe, I could hold that in my heart. Amid her tears, we were present. In her screams, we were willing. And maybe that is how love changes things.