Kids’ Doc in Jos

(by Barb)

She was six months old but I met her only the day before yesterday. Saralynn and I found her in the female ward, isolation bed 2, lying on the bed of her sick mother.

Nmembe had been on admission with diarrhea, vomiting, malnutrition and failure to thrive. But when her mom needed to be hospitalized, Nmembe couldn’t stay in the pediatric ward as there was no longer anyone to feed her and care for her.

My taking Nmembe home to care for her was seen as a ray of hope for her mom. Now I feel like a failure, like I let the mom down and Susan too, the HIV nurse who has been a good, caring friend to Nmembe and her HIV-infected mom.

Nmembe didn’t make it through the night, her second night with us. Mike tried to resuscitate her to no avail. She was gone, her eyes still open, dark and sunk deep in her tiny face.

Yesterday morning, I took Nmembe with me in the car to drop off Luke at school and go visit my friend Young Boon. Luke wanted to show his new teacher his baby, but we were running late and Mrs. Maguire never got to see Nmembe.

Young Boon will never forget our visit. She was touched by Nmembe’s story and it was painful for her to hear the high-pitched shrieks and not respond by letting her drink all she wanted for fear of her vomiting it all up.

After lunch, we packed Nmembe in the stroller and went to visit Mom in the female ward. They both seemed happy to see each other. I didn’t know then it would be their last visit. As we left, I promised to return for another visit today.

On the way home, I tried in three shops to buy mini Pampers. No one had any. At 7:00, Mike tried to give her oral antiretroviral drugs, but she vomited everything up. So I cleaned her up and put her to bed. She never woke up.

See Susan Bertrand’s and Saralynn’s blog entries about Nmembe

Barb with baby David the night before he was adopted

Last week we said good-by to Baby David and handed him over to his new adoptive parents, an Igbo family that lives two hours south of Jos. Seven of us packed into the Pro-Life Evangel office for the ceremony. All except the new mom were invited to make a speech.

The chaplain’s challenge to the new parents was to not expose David to anything that would send him to hell. The hospital administsrator said he had never been to a ceremony like this before, and he proceeded to tell the story of Dr. Blyth’s saving his boy’s life as a child in 1991.

The advice of the matron (head nurse) was to not let relatives and neighbors tell David that he is not their real son. The new dad said something about how happy he is to have a son, and that God knows his (the dad’s) heart. My own brief contribution was to say that David was a very special boy whom our family is sad to see leave us, and that the parents should please enjoy him as the delight he is.

Baby David had just turned two months old, and I really do miss him, his sweetness, so new fresh, and unaffected. He weighed 2.9 kg when we got him the day he was born, July 31. By the time we handed him to his new parents, he weighed at least 3.8 kg and his face had filled out so that we could see the dimple in his left cheek that hadn’t been there before. His hair had grown into a soft, fluffy afro, and he just kept on getting cuter and cuter.

I’ll probably have to wait now until after Sara’s wedding before I agree to care for another newborn from the crisis pregnancy center. Mike is somewhat less enthusiastic about the night feedings and related added stresss, but he helps me a lot and is very tenderhearted when it comes to babies and children.

Written 5 July 2006

The potato man died last Thursday. I never knew his name, but he was the old Muslim man who always sat just inside his tiny stall selling potatoes and onions between the fruit vendor and another vegetable stall.

He always wore a white riga (shirt-robe) and hula (hat) in true Hausa fashion, and he always greeted me as I arrived to buy fresh produce from the row of vendors each week.

“Madam Likita! Sannu! Ina kwana?” His greeting was typical, but his use of the title, “Madam Likita [Mrs. Doctor],” has a fifteen-year history. Before I ever knew Potato Man, he was Mike’s friend from the early days when Mike was learning Hausa and would walk a certain route through town so that he would repeatedly encounter the same men and practice his new Hausa phrases for the day.

I will miss Potato Man. He drove a hard bargain at times. He set out two or three basketsful of potatoes, taking care to arrange a few large ones on top of the tiny ones to prove that he was selling big potatoes. After a discussion about the price, he would rummage around in his big wooden chest for a plastic bag and tip the basket into the bag, reserving the basket to measure the next batch. “How about two baskets?” he would invariably ask.He has always seemed old to me, but I have trouble figuring out the age of Nigerians because the difficulty and hardship in their lives tend to make them look old early. Mr. Magit thinks Potato Man was probably in his eighties, and that seems about right.

As far as I know, Potato Man died a Muslim. I don’t know for sure where he is spending eternity, but I am likely never to see him again. I never spoke to him directly of his need to accept salvation through Christ. Did he even know the Good News? Did knowing me as an occasional customer make any difference to his eternal future? Should I feel a greater urgency to share my faith with friends like Potato Man? I wonder …

Written 19 June 2006

It was Monday, about 10 PM, when Justina called from the hospital. Justina is a hospital chaplain and the crisis pregnancy center coordinator. “I have a Pro-Life woman in labor. Can you take the baby?”

I wanted to take the baby and foster it until it was adopted, but Mike said no, not now when we have houseguests and visiting family members to feed and entertain.

I felt bad and somewhat responsible to find placement for this baby because all the other missionaries fostering Pro-Life babies have left Nigeria.

The last two I cared for went back to their families after counseling, time, and reconciliation. So I dared to ask God for this laboring mom to please so fall in love with her newborn that she would want to keep him and raise him, making foster care placement unnecessary.

Then, in the middle of the night, Mike got a call from the pediatric ward about a baby just born, small for gestational age (4 lb 6 oz), HIV positive mother, should he be admitted?

That’s it! Like a flash the solution came to mind. If the Pro-Life mom in question was HIV positive, her baby could be cared for by women of Mashiah Foundation.

A week or so ago Mashiah founder Bayo Oyebade told me he was actively advertising for unwanted HIV-affected babies to be cared for by the women in the Mashiah Foundation ministry, who are also living with HIV/AIDS. He told me he could immediately place six such babies.

Tuesday morning Sara Lynn returned from the hospital morning report before I left for my weekly grocery shopping. “We talked about the Pro-Life baby born prematurely last night,” she said, “the mom is HIV-postive.”

On my way out of the hospital compound, I stopped to tell chaplain Justina about God’s answer to my specific prayer for that baby, that she should contact Bayo and someone from Mashiah would care for this new baby. Justina seemed relieved and hopeful.

On Wednesday, Sara Lynn came home with a new sequel to the story. Mashiah had been contacted and had sent two ladies to collect the baby. They patiently waited a long time for the mom to come and pray for the baby before he left the hospital. When she finally arrived, she dropped a bombshell and revealed her decision to keep her baby!

It was a good lesson in faith for me. As good and noble as it is for me to foster newborn babies from crisis pregnancies and for Mashiah Foundation to care for unwanted babies born to HIV-infected women, God’s heart desire is that a mom fall head-over-heels in love with her baby, treasure him, cherish him, and commit to nurture him to adulthood. That is God’s plan and that is God’s best for every child.

photo from Bezer Home page, Mashiah Foundation website

Written Monday, June 5, 2006

Baby Tina is gone. I had about 24 hours notice, then a group of relatives came Sunday morning and took her. The plan was to take the early bus the next morning to Kogi State where a relative will care for Tina and free her mom to resume university studies.

So that’s it for us. Our job with Tina is over almost as quickly as it began. Tina was born on Tuesday, May 16, 2006 at 10 PM to Rachael who had been sheltered by Pro-Life Evangel Crisis Pregnancy Center since rejection by her family. This was “an abomination” to the family.

There was reconciliation in the family, so that’s a good thing. To some degree the estrangement has been healed and relationship restored. I can go along with that even though it meant saying bood-bye to Tina and probably never seeing her again. Healing will come.

It amazes me, as I look back, how rapidly we adjusted to Tina’s presence in our household and lives. We had even become accustomed to the routine of night feedings and other accomodations to her demands that frequently interrupted our schedules. It didn’t take us very long to get used to having Tina a part of our family.

I miss Tina, twelve hours old when I brought her home from the maternity ward and already encased in many layers of thick knitted clothing. Her sweat-matted hair and beads of perspiration on her forehead were enough indication that she was very overdressed.

I miss Tina. Shw was so soft and sweet and cuddly, so little and smooth with a broad, squashed nose and a crease across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was tiny, soft black curls. Her fingers were quite long and her eyes large, alert and bright. She is definitely a precious treasure, hand-crafted in God’s image and for his pleasure.

by Barbara Blyth (c. 1995)

Lord, you know me quite well.
You know I’d much rather stay home
in my stifling hot kitchen and bake cream puffs
than take a liter of yogurt
to that Fulani lady down there at the hospital.

She doesn’t know my language
and I know very little of hers.

She seems sad and depressed and refuses to move
from under her blanket.
But I’m sure I’d feel the same way
if I had burns all down my arms and legs
and all I felt was pain
and somebody tried to make me move
and the pain was just too excruciating.

Visiting Zanaabu does not lift me up, Lord,
and I don’t want to linger
in her tiny room at the end of the corridor.
The dozen or so ladies resting on mats along the corridor wall
greet me as I pass them.
I have been this way before and they remember.
The courtyard of hard-packed earth
is strewn with plastic basins and cooking pots.
The chain-link fence is draped with freshly laundered wrappers
adding color and cheer to an otherwise drab place.

Why do you compel me to return to Zanaabu
with more yogurt when the jug is empty?
She seems convinced she will die.
She refuses drugs and treatment and food
but she seems to be eating my yogurt.

Do you want to take her to be with you?
She suffers a lot beneath those big white bandages.
Do you want to take her because you know
it will be too hard for her to live with her tribe,
now that she follows you?
Or do you want to heal the burns
and use Zanaabu as a light to her people?

Meanwhile, make me faithful in my small task
of carrying my one-liter jug of yogurt
past the ladies who greet me
to the end of the long corridor
to Zanaabu’s room
May I be your faithful instrument of hope and peace.

Nine days ago Chaplain Justina brought Zion to us to foster. He was quiet, shy, skinny, dirty, had very little hair, and seemed to carefully watch all that was going on around him.

Justina said he was seven months old, that he had been abandoned by a teeneage mother who disappeared aftr leaving him alone in a house for as long as five hours. The grandmother didn’t want to have much to do with the baby. The grandfathre lived apart from his wife, but from time to time would check on the condition of his grandson.

Zion came to us through the new ProLife Evangel crisis pregnancy center. Nine days later he is very active. He sits, crawls, climbs onto the couch, waves good-by, eats mashed banana, avocado, rice, oatmeal, Golden Morn cereal, pancakes, French toast, and he drinks a liter of formula every day. He smiles readily and sweetly. He isn’t afraid of the dog, but he cries out in terror when stuffed toy animals or bath toys come near or touch him.

Will Zion really return to his family as rumored? Will there really be someone to love him and nurture him and educate him and dream big dreams for his futuer? I wonder …

She seemed determined, despite her fear of the barking dog, as she edged the ten yards from the gate to my front door, keeping her eyes on the dog.

Finally she entered the door and I greeted her, unsure of who she was at first. A little plumb, probably in her early teens, she stood just inside the door. The silence lingered some minutes.

I waited as patiently as I could. Then she spoke haltingly, “I have a problem.”

Still I waited. Several possibilities raced through my mind. Is she pregnant? Did someone abuse her? Trouble at school? Is she in need of school fees?

“What kind of problem?”

“I have a problem, a problem in my church.” Well, this called for more explanation.

“What do you mean, a problem in your church? What church? Where?”

She seemed unable to start the story at the beginning and tell me everything in logical sequence. I was forced to piece together the fragments of information.

It seems that to conclude Youth Week at Bishara 2 church (across the street), the youth were collecting money to prepare themselves a special dinner. This girl and her sister had drawn numbers indicating they would be in the group to bake cookies and contribute 1700 naira ($12.50) to the fund along with the twenty other youths. That’s about twice as much as I pay my house help each week for 20 hours of work.

Her father refused to give her the money, so she was asking me very indirectly and with considerable reluctance.

“Did you remind me?” That question didn’t make any sense at first. I asked her which house was hers. I finally figured out that this was the youngest daughter in the family whose mom suddenly died about a month ago. I had participated with the other women of our hospital compound to collect food and money for the bereaved family.

“Did you remind me?” meant, “Do you remember who I am?” Yes, I remembered. I started to feel angry that the church youth group was demanding a contribution of money from a family that was still grieving a major loss and could ill afford such an expense.

“What will happen if you don’t pay the money? Will someone beat you? I don’t think so. Will they shame you?” She nodded.

I decided not to give her the money since I didn’t really understand the whole situation. But I did want to help her, once I realized who she was.

I thought of the carton in my kitchen cupboard, containing about 150 Nasco biscuits. They had been there since a patient had given them to Mike at Christmas seven months ago. They aren’t really our favorite snack.

What if I offered her the whole carton of Nasco biscuits? Her group wouldn’t need to bake cookies and she wouldn’t be guilty of not contributing anything.

She hesitated and then agreed it was a workable solution. I breathed a quick prayer of thanks as she happily tucked the carton under one arm and headed home. I don’t think she even noticed the dog.

“My head is stuck!” This was the only complaint we heard from Luke these five days of fever. First Mike gave Luke Tylenol. Then he tried treating him for malaria. When that didn’t have any effect, he started an antibiotic, thinking maybe he has pneumonia.

Poor boy! He isn’t suffering much. He goes in and out of periods where he lounges around, wants to be held, and falls asleep. In between, you can hardly tell he’s sick. He wants to go play with Grace Yohanna and Jachabed Gwamna and ride his bike outside.

He’s been refusing most food, asking for cornflakes or cheese and apple juice. He’s even pushing aside his favorite peanut butter “samurch,” bananas, and cookies.

Mike reassembled the bunk beds, anticipating Sara Lynn’s arrival in June, and Luke is thrilled. He insists on occupying the top bunk even though we can’t find the ladder.

I just got back from Gada Biyu Market. Eight-thirty wasn’t early enough to go — I still got hot and tired walking there and back. It would have been much more stressful to take Luke, though it would have been good for him to get out of the house during this week of Easter break.

We were nearly out of flour and sugar. I used to buy 100-pound sacks from Vincent, but the last few years I’ve been buying flour and sugar by the mudu [measure] at Gada Biyu. They don’t sell it in the “supermarkets” where I usually do my weekly shopping.

Sometimes I have Magit the driver drive me because 5 mudu of flour and sugar is quite heavy to carry, 14 1/2 pounds to be exact. By walking, I had a chance to look around, notice the changes, and greet people.

There is a new metal walk-over bridge now so that I can safely cross the street in front of the hospital. I chose not to use it today, preferring to cross at the Polo roundabout. There are many more taxis and motorbikes clustered there than there used to be, and there are more new tiny shops hugging the road between the roundabout and the market, selling charcoal, used clothes and shoes, sacks of grain, linoleum, luggage, and prepared food.

The river had rushing muddy water in it since it poured rain last night, our second rain this year. The bridge railing is skimpy and barely exists, and the pedestrian sidewalk is barely wide enough to pass — quite scary.

The steep banks of that river are encrusted with garbage as ever. As I walked across the bridge I had to step into the heavily trafficked roadway to pass a teenage boy who was dumping yet another wheelbarrow of garbage into the river. I felt so sad; I hate seeing that. Of course the boy couldn’t see upstream or downstream where others were using that same water to bathe, wash clothes, urinate, and even drink.

The market was very busy at 8:30 this morning, teeming with even more people than usual because all school children are on Easter break, some for two weeks, others for a whole month. It still amazes me how these ladies can make a living, each sitting on the ground with her little piles of tomatoes, onions, red peppers, and “spinach” in front of her, next to other ladies selling exactly the same items.

I walked past dozens of such vendors to get to the tin shacks where provisions are sold. Actually, I never entered the market itself; I’ll do that another day.

The 100-pound sacks of rice, flour, beans, sugar, acha and gari are all open and outside the shack in the open air. The flour and sugar are not sold by weight but by volume, a little more subjective I would say. Sometimes they heap the mudu measure quite high, and sometimes they don’t. The guy dips the flour and sugar out with his hands, the same hands that handle the money and who knows what else. My bill was 490 naira ($3.63).