Death Encore

I'm not even sure what time it is as I stumble like a drunk man trying to walk the line over to the hospital. It has to be after midnight and there is no moon leaving us in cave like blackness. Only my dim head lamp briefly lights up the grass on either side of the path like the headlamps of a car going in slow motion.

David thanks me for coming and I mumble something in reply. I just can't clear the cobwebs and I didn't even take a Benadryl or anything. Maybe it was the four hour surgery earlier on top of three previous one's that day capped off by learning that the patient died three hours later. While it wasn't a surprise since he'd had intestinal volvulus for over a week, it still is draining.

I exam the child. He's panting, his eyes are wide with that starting to get vacant stare. His belly is swollen and tender. He hasn't had any bowl function since the morning. He needs an operation.

I manage to scribble out some orders and then weave my way over to where the night watchman has slung out a thin, lumpy cotton mattress on the cement in front of the clinic. I tell the nurses to call the OR team and wake me when the patient is ready.

I collapse. My whole body wants to sink through the mattress and through the cement even. As I drift off, I beg God to somehow give me the strength to do this operation.

Simeon is shaking me awake. "We're ready."

I wearily get up and enter the surgical suite.

A few moments later, as I stare at the 18 month old boy lying naked on the blue plastic covering the OR table I have a hard time imagining that I'm actually going to shortly be taking a very sharp scalpel and slicing open his belly.

But I do and pus comes out in clumps mixed with slippery, inflammatory fluid. We suction and suction all the corners of the abdomen until we've gopped most of it up. We rinse out and then I start looking for the source.

I find nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I stuff the intestines back inside and suture up the midline incision. As I take off the drape, I glance at the urinary catheter and see pus coming out instead of urine.

Of course, a severe kidney infection. We've already given antibiotics so I write to continue him on them.

He has been stable throughout the surgery and we move him out to the ward.

The next morning he is doing a little better but still breathing fast and not really waking up. His urine has cleared up though and his heart rate has decreased.

Half way through the day the nurses call me. I rush over to his bedside but find that he is actually a little improved over the morning.

It seems like he'll make it.

That night, the nurse calls me to see a kid she's hospitalizing. I go over to the Pediatric ward and notice an empty bed.

The little boy died a few hours ago.

I can't wait for the day when "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)