The night shift with Greg

I am on my second of three night shifts, working in the ICU with baby Greg.

There are three problems that I have found thus far with Greg. One, as I promptly informed his mama upon meeting her: Greg is not an African name. African babies are supposed to be named Darling Boy, or Handsome, or Allusain, or ideally, something that I cannot pronounce correctly. Not Greg.

Secondly, everyone seems to think Greg is five months. If Greg was standing up, I am fairly sure he would be taller than my almost three-year-old niece. Also, rumour has it that before he was intubated, he could talk. My extensive experience with the newborn population has taught me that five-month-olds do not talk. But, whatever.

Thirdly, Greg was born with a cystic hygroma: a very large, fluid-filled cyst on his neck. This potentially is the biggest problem plaguing Greg at present. The name thing he can deal with later in life when all his Liberian school mates with proper Liberian names exclude him from football.

But, five hours were spent on Monday "debulking" baby Greg's hygroma, and now it is gone. Greg has been left with a very large pressure bandage where his neck is supposed to be, and a tube down his throat so that his swollen neck doesn't cut off his air supply. In a couple of days, if all goes as planned, he will be extubated, transferred out of his personal NICU back to the regular ward and will begin to heal and recover. And, whilst I am confident that this goes against some universal rule regarding counting one's chickens before they hatch, I can't help but recognize that this was a "job-well-done" by some incredibly talented, devoted doctors.

I feel like so many of my memories from this time and place will be consumed by the very traumatic, dramatic stories of patients who had near or actual misses. I will never forget Sadie or Benjamin who will forever be entwined in our minds as we remember the beginning of this outreach. I can't help but be overwhelmed by the incredible transformation of Alimou. The picture in my mind of Abraham's little burned face will be one that I will carry with me long after I leave Africa. I tend to be greatly impacted by drama.

But, I want to remember the Greg's. The patients whose stories might not have initially gripped my heart or made a great story to tell when I get home. So much of what we have been doing here has to do, not necessarily with heroic life-saving measures, but with helping people in small, tangible ways. Maybe saving their lives. More likely demonstrating compassion that has been unparalleled in their world by meeting a practical need in their lives. I want to remember the babies who had their little cleft lips repaired and will therefore be accepted into their families and communities instead of living a life of shame and rejection. I want to remember the countless children who had their club feet repaired and will soon be running and playing with their friends. I want to remember the conversations that I have had with patients about the little things. Their lives and their families. I want to remember playing Jenga with Thomas. And how Gbor would want me to tuck her in and lay in her bed with her on the nights she was in the hospital by herself. And how Jennifer liked to sing Christmas carols while her bandages were changed.

Nobody can deny that it is the little things in life that make up life. Sometimes a seemingly insignificant word or conversation can change our entire perspective on a subject. A single act of kindness can change how we view others. If I have had the opportunity to be a part of these conversations or acts of kindness for any person here, than my time has been well spent.

So, hopefully nothing dramatic or life-changing happens on my night shifts with baby Greg. Hopefully, I just get to be a small, forgettable, invisible part of something that will someday positively affect his little life. And in that way, I will get to be a part of a miracle.