Boston

Boston is 14 months old. He is not walking or talking and weighs just over 6kgs. Boston’s mother brought him regularly to the feeding program at the house of Frank’s mother-in-law. When I visited her at home with Boston several weeks ago, I held him in my arms and could feel the reverberations of illness in his lungs against my chest with every breath he took. I don’t know if he has ever been healthy; I have never seen him well. His father died last year. His mother is unemployed and lives with her parents and her two older children (ages 4 and 6). She is thin although not sickly in appearance, but the image of Boston in her arms portents an ominous fate. Most likely this mother will lose her child, her children will lose their mother, her parents will lose their daughter and their support. Death is inevitable but the order here is wrong.

During that visit Sister Namaleu and I convinced Boston’s mother to take him to the pediatric ward; he has been there ever since. Last week I visited and he looked better. I held him in my arms resting his head against my chest emitting a weak cry of complaint only occasionally. Boston has a soft brown stuffed triceratops. It lives by his side. When I passed Boston to another friend I took his little dinosaur and with exaggerated sounds made it give him big kisses on the cheek. In response, Boston smiled faintly. I imagined that inside he was laughing convulsively like a healthy little boy, squealing with glee as I did it again and again. I’m sure that’s what he would have done. I was thrilled to see even his little smile.

Yesterday I returned to the hospital and found Boston with an IV line. His mom sat him up to feed him and managed to get a spoonful of milk in his mouth. He cried and coughed until both the milk and phlegm came up. I tried to support him in a seated position but after several minutes of his moaning let him lie back. Sister Namaleu inserted a nasogastric feeding tube. In the crib next to Boston another mother held her baby of perhaps two years also feeding her through a NG tube. Beautiful unbelievably long eyelashes framed her half open eyes, now set deeply in a face that was little more than skin pulled tight over bone. Where is the justice? What do we pray for? For these children to recover from their current illness, only to face another and another? For them to die in peace and let their parents suffer their loss? Without understanding how it might be possible I pray for an end to suffering.

I stopped in Pediatrics today to visit Boston. The girl with the beautiful lashes died last night. Boston continues to deteriorate. He was propped up against folded cloths, awake but still, using all his energy to take in air.