Her mother brought her to the door, weak, unable to eat, unable to walk. She had been discharged from the hospital, seizuring. On and off for more than three years, she would have fits of illness. Her muscles unable to hold her head up, her eyes suddenly dark, her hands cramped into stiff, excruciating balls.
I begged her mother to take her home. In the worst moments, she should be with her family. Her mother refused. I can’t take it any more, she wept. Please. Please. She handed me a packet of papers from hospital after hospital. Requests for lab work. Prescriptions for vitamins. Blood test results. I sighed. 14 years old and just 24 kilos.
I carried the little girl up the stairs. The mom went home in silence. I was prepared for palliative care. I briefed the girls, Brittany and Jordan, and told them how we would handle things and what their roles were to be. They moved quietly, quickly, with prayers on their lips. Just like I taught them to.
We put her on a bed near the washroom so we had easy access. All the other rooms were full, anyhow. The girls monitored her every hour, giving her sips of water, carrying her to the bathroom, rubbing her stiff and hurting limbs. We prayed out loud and held our breath. It was so bad. Many times we thought she wouldn’t make it through the night. Doctors had long given up on her. Surely, there was nothing more for us to do.
Two months later, her blood tests are clear and her chest x-ray is clean. She is well.
Yes, we have fed her. And given her medicine. And cared for her. And nursed her with gentleness and love, the best we knew how.
And we prayed that God might have mercy…
We are good at what we do. I know that.
But I am careful to give all the glory to a God who says that He heals.