12:05 p.m. Friday: The pea green-tiled walls of the surgical suites have been filled since morning. More families continue to arrive today, hoping we can somehow make room for them, too.
Getting to hospital from our hotel is an education in patience. The streets of Guatemala City are mere inches from total gridlock. I was sitting in the front seat of the van, chatting with our driver, rapidly using up all the Spanish I could muster. How long do you think it’s going to take us to get through this intersection? Five minutes, he answers, without a trace of assurance. It took ten, likely because the traffic cop was standing over on the sidewalk, staring off into the smoggy haze.
Once we finally arrived, all 29 members of our team donned their scrubs and spread to their assigned posts to begin performing miracles. I’m ensconced in the corner of the pre-op room, sharing a rickety plastic picnic table with the medical records. I look over my left shoulder to three blue metal cribs. The children are spending their last minutes before surgery more in the reassuring arms of their parents than in the beds.
Gloria, a 20 month old sweetheart who is completely missing the center of her upper lip, is wearing a skirt of traditional woven fabric. Blues, yellow and green in random patterns. Her dad scoops her up, gently rocking her as he shuffles near the crib. Mom, dressed in a similar skirt, sits looking through the doorway into the recovery room. Within one or two hours Gloria will have a new lip and be able to close her mouth for the first time.
Nelson, a tall blonde 14 year old, lies on his bed eyeing the surgical leggings covering his feet and legs up to his knees. Two month old Elisa is wheeled in and is clearly letting us know that she is the least happy person to be in here.
5:20 p.m. Friday: Two more children are still awaiting their turns in surgery. The team has hours to go before the last will be out of recovery. A local Rotary volunteer steps in bearing a heft tray of thick, nut-covered chocolate brownies. Despite the rule against food in the OR area, we are all offered a late afternoon pick-me-up. Nelson’s parents savor their brownies; no such luck for him, minutes before surgery. His good fortune will come in about an hour.
Mission director Frank Leake just stepped in to us know that the first bus will leave for the hotel at about 8:00. He’s requesting that the hotel restaurant stays open for us. There’s no estimate for how late the second bus will be.
Getting to hospital from our hotel is an education in patience. The streets of Guatemala City are mere inches from total gridlock. I was sitting in the front seat of the van, chatting with our driver, rapidly using up all the Spanish I could muster. How long do you think it’s going to take us to get through this intersection? Five minutes, he answers, without a trace of assurance. It took ten, likely because the traffic cop was standing over on the sidewalk, staring off into the smoggy haze.
Once we finally arrived, all 29 members of our team donned their scrubs and spread to their assigned posts to begin performing miracles. I’m ensconced in the corner of the pre-op room, sharing a rickety plastic picnic table with the medical records. I look over my left shoulder to three blue metal cribs. The children are spending their last minutes before surgery more in the reassuring arms of their parents than in the beds.
Gloria, a 20 month old sweetheart who is completely missing the center of her upper lip, is wearing a skirt of traditional woven fabric. Blues, yellow and green in random patterns. Her dad scoops her up, gently rocking her as he shuffles near the crib. Mom, dressed in a similar skirt, sits looking through the doorway into the recovery room. Within one or two hours Gloria will have a new lip and be able to close her mouth for the first time.
Nelson, a tall blonde 14 year old, lies on his bed eyeing the surgical leggings covering his feet and legs up to his knees. Two month old Elisa is wheeled in and is clearly letting us know that she is the least happy person to be in here.
5:20 p.m. Friday: Two more children are still awaiting their turns in surgery. The team has hours to go before the last will be out of recovery. A local Rotary volunteer steps in bearing a heft tray of thick, nut-covered chocolate brownies. Despite the rule against food in the OR area, we are all offered a late afternoon pick-me-up. Nelson’s parents savor their brownies; no such luck for him, minutes before surgery. His good fortune will come in about an hour.
Mission director Frank Leake just stepped in to us know that the first bus will leave for the hotel at about 8:00. He’s requesting that the hotel restaurant stays open for us. There’s no estimate for how late the second bus will be.
1 comment:
Jerry,
Congratulations on a great effort on the photos and the words.
The best from all of us back up here at Sebastopol Sunrise.
Bruce
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