Sitting at the ward desk, I can look into Room 3 and see Antonio smiling
in the bed against the window. It is three months now and he's almost
ready to go home. One broken leg has healed, so he can walk with a
walker. The other broken leg still has some drainage and pain when
he puts weight on it. His abdominal and thigh wounds and incision have
closed, and the bed sore he got because he couldn't turn his big frame
with all of his injuries has healed. He has lost a lot of weight, but
he is gaining it back. He's a miracle--a good man with a good attitude.
But I can never look at him without remembering that the same landmine
that sent him to us took his eleven-year-old son from his side.
On ward rounds when we see some of our children with burns or open fractures and infected wounds, I am very thankful for the healing process that finally allows us to touch them to provoke smiles and laughter instead of screaming and crying.
Credito is three and a half with third-degree burns. His entire left arm and hand are raw tissue. His ears are charred. His face and head are otherwise not involved. It's a strange distribution. It is also strange that he shows the disicpline and control that few adults can match. As we change his dressings his little voice is intense but not loud, "Yo wei, yo wei"--"Oh, it hurts, oh, it hurts." Without realizing it, I put my head close to his and I'm whispering to him as I peel each layer of gauze off his burn.
"Tens tao coragem, you have such courage. Yes, I know it must hurt. I'm sorry. Tens tao coragem." And then I realize he is echoing back to me what I say in own fierce little whisper. And so we whisper back and forth to each other when he should be screaming.
Sometimes one is allowed to touch the hem of Christ's garment.
--Ann Stone, R.N., United Methodist missionary at Chicuque Rural Hospital,
Mozambique, 1997