¡Pobrecita!

It was Friday of our 3rd week in Copan, a day much like any other, as we walked into the Centro de Salud. One of the doctors was out for the day, so Lindsay and I had both joined in with Dra. Karla. As expected, children with colds and sore throats, the occasional case of scabies, and a handful of routine pregnancy checks came through the door to be seen, when all of a sudden there was an urgent knock at the door! In rushed another volunteer, a Swiss lady who was manning the vitals station. In her wake followed two middle-aged women and an adolescent boy carrying what appeared to be perhaps a newborn wrapped in dirty clothes. The Swiss lady quickly explained in Spanish that the child needed to be seen immediately…as the situation did not look good. With a hesitant rush the young boy placed the babe in his arms up on the examining table, eager to get help, but seemingly afraid to let his baby sister out of his care. As Dra Karla unwrapped the swaddling, the sight that met our eyes left us chilled and empty – a one-month baby girl who weighed no more than 5 pounds: her eyes were sunken, her fontanelle a crater on the top of her head. She was more skeleton than body. As we hurriedly examined the child, more and more of the family crept into the room, until there were close to fifteen persons crowded close to see what could be done.

There was no help to be found in Copan; the Centro de Salud had minimal IV supplies, and that only for adults, and we could find no vein large enough to stick. Dra Karla told the mother that there was a chance, but it meant a four-five hour journey to Santa Rosa. The look of shock and defeat that swept across the mother’s face was too much to bare – the impossibility of paying for the trip and her fear of traveling even farther from home left her frozen, speechless. With a fierce determination in her eyes and a warm gentle touch, the Swiss lady picked up the babe and lovingly held her close. “How do I get to Santa Rosa, and is there anything to be done now?”

With that, Lindsay and the Swiss lady ran to the nearest pharmacy to purchase some Pedialyte to try to stave off death for the young child. Dra. Karla and I continued to question the family and examine the babe, and when Lindsay and the Swiss returned, we all emptied our pockets to pay for transportation to Jarral, from where they could get an ambulance the rest of the way to Santa Rosa.

The circumstances surrounding this poor child are unfortunately all too common. The family is poor, has more than seven children, and is uneducated. Sadly, the mother also suffers from epilepsy and was unable to effectively feed her child for fear of dropping her. As such, the child was being intermittently fed cow’s milk and water. The severe malnutrition and dehydration had left the child in the throes of death. Not until a neighbor saw the child was the family convinced to make the journey into town to seek help.

Death in the aldeas of Honduras is a way of life, not an end. Children die during the night because of limited healthcare access, families wait too long to seek help for lack of money as well as acceptance of the child’s fate. Unlike our society, the true mother-child bonding does not seem to occur until months later, when the mother is more sure of the child’s survival. Death is a way of life.

The following Monday, we again saw our Swiss friend. The child survived the ride to Jarral and from there was transferred to Santa Rosa. God willing, she survived.