In My Head, In My Heart

I have this picture in my head of a little boy, two-months old, and so small, that the first time I saw him I asked his mom 3 times to be sure I was getting the age right.  I couldn't believe a 2 month old could be that tiny.  His mother assured me that yes he had been born two months ago.  He also as it turns out was born two months early.  I have a picture in my head of a little boy so tiny that the blanket he was wrapped in completely swallows him.  I have a picture in my head of a little boy who was only being fed 3 or 4 times a day because his mom thought he wasn't hungry.  See he wasn't eating that much at one feeding because his little tummy is so tiny so the mother thought he didn't need any more milk.  I have a picture in my head of a baby boy whose mother promised me wasn't being fed buffalo milk, but I know how expensive formula is and since she isn't able to breastfeed, I know the likelihood that he is getting exclusively formula is slim.  And if he is being fed buffalo milk, it is only a matter of time before he gets sick with diarrhea.  I have a picture in my head of a boy so small that I know his little body will not be able to fight off any sickness.  I have had this picture in my head for the last week since I met him for the first time, and every time I close my eyes, I've seen his little face staring back at me.  With this picture in my head, this week I went back to the village where he lives armed with a baby scale, formula, and some teaching on preemie care.  Upon arrival at his house, I learned he had been taken to the hospital the day after my last visit and no one had heard anything since.  Now with this picture entrenched even further, the next day I tracked the little boy down at the local hospital.  I hate it when I'm right.  He had gotten an infection from a dirty bottle/buffalo milk combination.  Now he has meningitis.  If I can read the doctor's chicken scratch correctly(seriously apparently doctors all around the globe have the same terrible handwriting), he weighs right around 4lbs.  His cry is sickly.  Don't think me callous, but this is the situation. The baby boy looks simply pathetic.  And as I looked at him yesterday in the hospital, I tried to tell myself to be reasonable.  I am a nurse after all, and I've lived here long enough to know the harsh realities that await this baby.  If he survives, and that is a big if, he will battle illness and be behind developmentally all his childhood.  Still as I looked at him, I was filled with hope.  Praise G#d.  I have hope.  That is something the darkness and weariness of this place cannot take from me.  I have hope in a Maker who heals and is all powerful.  I know the One who created that life.  I know the One who loves that life the most, and I know the One who can heal that life.  I shared all that with the mother and grandmother yesterday in the hospital.  Then I pr@yed with them in the name of the One who died for all our lives.  I've started calling the baby David.  No, that's not the baby's real name, but the way I see it that little boy has what seems like an insurmountable fight ahead of him.  By calling him David, I hope to always remember that against the Almighty One no adversary is too big.  So now this picture is no longer just in my head, but it is in my heart as well.