COMMUNICATING WITH CHRISTY

This is the story of an angel who briefly touched my life one year ago, March 17th 2009. Gabriel Patrick. With hardly a push, he entered the world. His little rump and spindly legs plopped into my right hand while my other hand caught his dark-haired head. A preterm breech delivery of a baby boy. I placed him on a starched white sheet (no cozy warm blankets around here) and proceeded to dry him, he made no protest. I snapped on a blue clamp and cut the cord which had been his in-utero lifeline. I carried his featherlight, unmoving body to the hospital's only incubator and began giving careful puffs of air with the ambu-bag. It was just the two of us, the other nurse was attending to his mom in the room we had just left. I could see this little guy's heart fluttering behind his thin chest wall and I willed him to take a breath on his own. He gasped instead. I continued to help him expand his lungs until his irregular gasps evolved into one shuddering breath after another. A modified nasal cannula supplied oxygen. His gray skin tone subsided a bit as he started to squirm and look around. So very small, too small. I knew that he needed more assistance than I could possibly provide. I cupped his head in my palm and apologized. In the United States he would have had a fighting chance for survival, but his birth in a remote Kenyan village sealed his fate. I wanted his brief time on earth to be spent skin-to-skin, warm next to his mother's chest. After swaddling him in a clean yellow rag which could have almost passed for a receiving blanket, I brought him out to meet his mom. She asked if he would live. I explained to her that he was born too early and that is why he was struggling so much to breathe. She did not want to hold him. Back to the incubator. I went down to the X-ray department and invited my American colleague, Lauren, to come see this itty-bitty boy. Together we named him and admired the flawlessness of his miniature hands and feet. I dug out a textbook and tried to determine his gestational age, perhaps 27 weeks? His mom claims she didn't even realize she was pregnant, yesterday she was admitted to St. Camillus with severe malaria and this morning her sudden wave of abdominal cramps resulted in Gabriel's untimely birth. Now, three hours later, we were about to lose electricity (the generator shuts off at 12:30pm daily), thus ending our supply of incubator heat and oxygen. Gabriel's breathing had become erratic again, gasping, responding less and less to external stimuli. Lauren said she could not bear to watch him die so she slipped out of the room. The power cut out. I lifted Gabriel from the incubator, not even two pounds in my hands. His brow creased with every heave and indrawing of his chest. I lightly kissed his forehead and whispered that he could relax now if he wanted, it'd be okay. I offered Gabriel's mother one last opportunity to hold him, but she declined and turned away. In our small room I rested Gabe on the length of my forearm and sang to him. A co-worker passed by and chastised me for removing him from the incubator, she wanted him in a semi-warm environment. I protested that he didn't have supplemental oxygen and was likely taking his final breaths, but regardless of this, Gabriel was closed off in his plastic capsule. I left him in this other nurse's care. When I returned an hour later, Gabe was alone and motionless, no one was aware he had died. I wrapped his body and later that day his father took him home inside a small cardboard box from the pharmacy. My hands had been the first and last to hold Gabriel, I consider it a great honor.

I met Gabriel early on in my St. Camillus volunteer experience. After Gabriel, I decided to start naming each baby who spent time in our Incubator Room because oftentimes the parents do not choose a name until a few days have passed. This "interim name" was given in alphabetical order. Gabriel was joined in Heaven by several others from the Stork List:

Alexis, born with anencephaly.

Elijah, meconium aspiration syndrome.

Forrest, probable sepsis.

Hewey, born with exstrophy of the bladder/cloaxa.

Kimberly, preterm twin.

Lucy, preterm twin.

Miriam, preterm, probable sepsis.

Patrick, born with a myelomeningocele with hydrocephalus.

The babies who we were taken home by their parents include:

Beshel, triplet, 2 lbs 8oz

Claire, preemie with RDS, 3 lbs 7oz

Dori, preemie, 3 lbs 7oz

Ian, preemie, born via c/section 2* cord prolapse, 3lbs 8oz

Julia, preemie, induction 2* premature ROM, 3lbs 5 oz

Nellie, preemie twin, 2lbs 6oz

Olivia, preemie twin, 2lbs 4oz

Quinn, probable sepsis, 3lbs 9oz

I wrote the following poem one year ago, I remember it like it was yesterday. I sat outside on a concrete bench and watched the sun set into Lake Victoria as I scribbled this onto scratch paper (I love scratch paper!). Now, I am back in the United States which is an ocean away from that concrete bench. I flew into Minneapolis on Sunday evening, my first thought upon looking down from the airplane and seeing pinpoints of light scattered across the farmland of southern Minnesota was, "Ohmygosh, look at all that electricity! Every single one of those family farms is connected to electricity! That is just so incredible!" I've continued to have similar "Wow, no way!" moments each day I've been back- the first glimpse of my niece's closet (Look at all those clothes!), my first trip to the supermarket (Look at all those boxes of fake food!), my first sighting of schoolchildren (Look how pale they are!), my first observation of a trash pick-up (Gosh, a robotic arm picks up the can!). It's like I'm seeing America through a brand new set of eyes, maybe I'll get inspired and write a poem about reverse culture shock. In the meantime though, here's last March's attempt at 1st grade poetry:

Mzungu = White Person
Christy Stutsman

March 7, 2009

“Mzungu! Mzungu!” you yell out to me,
your eyes brightly shining, your face lit with glee.

“Ciao! Ciao!” the toddlers chorus,
a greeting of the missioners who came here before us.

“America! America!” Lauren and I shout in reply,
we’re not European, we say “hi” or “good-bye.”

Warm greetings are common, a nod or a wave,
more often a handshake, it’s their absolute fave.

Wet hands, sticky hands, hands dripping nasal goo,
oh yes, what a pleasure, it’s nice to see you too.

We part and move on, striding down a dirt path,
by the lake there are children enjoying a bath.

No matter where we go, the landscape doesn’t change,
deep brown to vivid green spans the full color range.

Cows, donkeys, goats, dogs, and pigs,
a multitude of creatures wandering about on four legs.

African animals are harder to spot,
well…except for the hippo that Lauren just fought!

Both knees are gashed, left arm is achy,
but I’m the one who knows her story’s a fakey.

She was running with me when she tripped on a rock,
the blood began to drip in a jagged line to her sock.

Kenyans had to gawk, on Doc Balient’s door we did knock,
he gave a tetanus booster so her jaw would not lock.

We joked about ways to get out of here,
we were doubting survival in Karungu for a year.

But, our perspective is now brightening,
it no longer seems as frightening,
we’ll make it in this place
with just a little bit of grace.