The mornings here are calm, as you read in my last post. The days wear on your soul as the hours get later in to the night, and then the buzzing of mosquitoes keep you awake to remind you where you are. This is Africa. I left Natalie with a friend at the front of the hospital, Dan and Ron had already warned us the peril that awaited inside the gates. It was up to me now to advocate for John's future. Sammy led me past the two security checkpoints on the way to Ward 6 where John was lying in his own filth. The guards at each gate hassled Sammy for carrying a box of latex gloves and the precious medicine needed to heal meningitis. This is a hospital run by the government, the doctors tell families what medicine to buy in town and then drink tea as you insert an IV line into your dying child.
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| John during the filming of Glue Boys |
Phil first met John in 2005 and featured his story on "Glue Boys". He is 14 and sleeps on the streets of Kitale. He has no shoes and his clothes fall off his emaciated body as we lift him into the vehicle to transport him to a better hospital, Sister Freida's hospital. As I sit with John on his bed, stroking his head to assure him I care, two men in rain boots push a gurney down the dorm style pathway between 20 beds, most piled with two people fighting for every breath. A doctor calls from the other side of the ward "bed 11!", and the men in rain boots load a body, wrap it in a blanket and push it back out the door.
We went to visit a friend of Sammy's who is waiting for care, and in the bed next to him is a small child, maybe 6, sitting picking at the open wounds on his shins and calfs bubbling with puss. This is the surgical ward now, and there are doctors crowded around a bed with scalpels and gloves, cutting into a man's side as his neighbors sit and watch, eager for their turn to have infection cut out.
I didn't think John would survive the dirt road and bunny ride to Sister Freidas', the 20 minute drive took forever. I held his head as he had no strength, praying there would be no permanent brain damage from this ride. He laid in bed awaiting death at the district hospital, so it was worth the risk transporting him out to Sister Freida's. We waited for a while, the staff wanting a deposit to treat him, a sort of insurance policy that I wasn't dumping a street kid on them. As soon as they gave him fluids and medicine he perked up, asking for a soda and soccer ball. John has a long way to go for recovery, and when he's better he'll be back on the streets, huffing glue and chasing people for fun.
John is a street kid, he is a child of Africa. My life at homes seems like a waste compared to my day today. We must fight for those who have no hope, even if it's so than can live another day.
Ever hopeful,
Dalene
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