My brief time at a local hospital…
Walked over puddles and the cracked ground, through piles of coal, next to a good-smelling kitchen and some bad-smelling garbage bins, next to an industrial sized laundry room with it looked like one person manning it, down a hallway with peeling paint. Into the children’s ward. Rooms after room of children. Vomiting and diarrhea in one room. Burn victims in another. Broken bones in another. And there was another. And another. And another.
12 beds in the room, only three of them with adequate space. Two benches. A few chairs, some with the bottoms coming out or the stuffing falling apart. Some of the beds were made. Some not. All occupied. Children with bandages. One had been burned with hot water. A two year-old burnt with fire awaiting skin grafts. Another little girl burnt with fire and awaiting skin grafts. The oldest child in there was 8. She had some injury on her feet.
They don’t have anything to play with. No coloring books. No TV. This active 8-year old girl with the amazing smile had nothing to do but lay there all day. Her mother was so exhausted she was stretched out on the wooded bench asleep. She has another sick child at home.
A little boy. Lungelo. A tumor. Something living in him sucking his blood and they couldn’t remove the tumor when the operated. He has been in the hospital since November and is waiting to go to South Africa. His stomach, legs, and feet are so swollen. His arms, neck, and head are shriveled to nothing. He can’t sleep except for sitting up and even then only goes in and out. He is so hot all of the time, even when it is cold and raining. His mother constantly fans him with a bent laminated piece of paper. He is in pain. Lungelo is 5 years old.
Story after story. Some children crying. Others just look at you with sad eyes. But a few, a few smile at you in the midst of their pain. A few can still laugh.
And the mothers. The mothers. They sit there with their child. The nurses do not take care of their children; they do. At night, they sleep in the ward with the child on the floor on a piece of foam. Maybe they have more children at home. Maybe some have to leave in the evenings to go home to take care of the family only to come back the next day. Exhausted. Watching their child suffering and being unable to do anything about it. Or maybe they have no one to come help them or to visit because the family stays so far away. Each life has a different story, each mother, each child. One is forever in my memory, the words echoing back to me. “Her father burned her.”
A little boy who loves to walk everywhere was there. He has some sort of bite or sting on his foot and can’t walk anywhere. He has been there since Friday. When I took him from the mother to give her a break, he was soaking wet. No diaper.
As bad as this sounds, going to the hospital gave me life. I have been struggling. Going to the hospital, though, I saw people I could help. With my broken Siswati and some of their broken English, we would talk. I could sit with them. Talk to their children. Provide a distraction. It is heartbreaking now and I cannot get it out of my head, but I could not wait to get back. All they need is time, for someone to care. They laughed at my Siswati and the way the children stared at me. They laughed. And that laughter was a beautiful sound. A light in the darkness. HOPE’S NAME IS JESUS.




