The lobby was a hot, open room with a tiled floor and a dozen mothers and fathers holding their sick, dying, and crying babies. Some were nursing. Some were sleeping quietly in their parents' arms. All were painfully innocent, and had succumb to more pain and suffering in their short lives than any adult I have ever known.
We had arrived at the aptly named home for “sick and dying babies”.
Once our collection of donations had been wheeled in, we gingerly made our way through the lobby and to the grounds. Beyond the lobby lie countless sick children. Some are orphans, but most live there due to a lack of proper medical care at home. Babies cried in their cribs, their bodies too thin to hold up poorly fitting cloth diapers that hung low off their hips. There were older kids too. Playing with blocks, or sheepishly making their way over to us in a hope to be noticed. Of course, we were happy to oblige. We held them, fed them, played with them, and gave them the special attention that a handful of overworked and underappreciated nuns and workers couldn’t always provide.
One young man in an orange Tigger shirt took a liking to me. I don’t know if it was my smiling face or sweaty shoulder he was using for a pillow. Either way we were a good fit, and saying goodbye was more difficult than I expected.
Today was surreal. There wasn’t our jobs, or bosses. There were no tall buildings, no morning commute. There was nothing for us to grab on to to define “reality” as we knew it. There were only people. Babies, kids, sisters and workers, and a loving group of Americans that, for a couple hours, held and fed sick and dying babies.
No comments:
Post a Comment