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| ©2008-2011 St. Nicholas Uganda Children's Fund |
An Unexpected Blessing
September 2008
"I was sick and you visited Me." --Matt. 25:36b
The words of Christ are unambiguous in the 25th
chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. Feed the hungry;
give drink to the thirsty; welcome the stranger; clothe
the naked; visit the sick; comfort those in prison. I
contented myself with the knowledge that our work with
needy children and their families covered most of these
bases. I was there whenever one of our children had to
be hospitalized for an injury--reading from a story book,
providing a treat and a soda. They were released after
a day or two and I felt that I had done my duty.
All of their semi-serious injuries were treated at the local
mission hospital. I had never set foot in the main
government referral hospital on Mulago Hill in Kampala.
That is, until seven-year-old Maria was hit by a small
truck while crossing a main road. Our associate,
Agnes, called me as soon as she found out. She was
there when the local hospital referred the child to
Mulago and she later told me she was sure the girl was
dead. Maria's thigh was broken and she had sustained
a serious head injury.
When I saw Maria at Mulago the next day, her leg had
been stabilized but not set. She was in a neurological
ward because of potential brain damage. She was
totally non-responsive and I feared she might be
comatose. Her mother and I knelt beside the bed and
prayed for healing. Then I spent some time at her
bedside, trying to comfort her through gentle touch.
Wards in Ugandan hospitals are large by western
standards, and hold many patients. Ward 3A was an
overflow ward: Neuro patients on one side, and patients
with other problems opposite. The hospital provides
basic medical care only, and it is up to the families to
provide sheets, blankets, clothes, food, and to do any
personal care required. The caregivers of longer-term
patients become a family unto themselves, watching
over each other's children when the mom needs to go
out for food or a personal break. After my second visit
with Maria, I began to get to know the other children at
her end of the ward.
Hospitals have never bothered me. As a child, my
doctor uncle used to let me accompany him on rounds.
However, I never considered myself called to a hospital
"ministry." I would visit a friend or a family member and
that was that. But now at Mulago, I found myself drawn
into the lives of the children surrounding Maria. There
was a little boy from the north in the bed on the left:
breathing deeply, unconscious, a tube in his nose. "He
will recover," his mother hopefully told me. A
hydrocephalic baby girl with some signs of dwarfism was
on the other side, fully awake and whimpering whenever
her mother left her. Across the aisle were two small
boys, Samson and Julius, who seemed happy and
normal, except for the tubes extending from their
abdomens and the plastic bags they carried whenever
they walked around.
Maria's mental faculties were slowly returning. A week
later, her eyes were open, although she didn't appear
to be seeing anything. I noticed that the unconscious
boy was missing. Another mother answered my anxious
inquiry, "He died." Stunned, I looked across the room,
pondering the fragility of human life. Samson was shyly
grinning at me, hoping I would notice him. I went over to
greet him and to give him and Julius some cookies I had
brought with me
September 2008
"I was sick and you visited Me." --Matt. 25:36b
The words of Christ are unambiguous in the 25th
chapter of the Gospel of Matthew. Feed the hungry;
give drink to the thirsty; welcome the stranger; clothe
the naked; visit the sick; comfort those in prison. I
contented myself with the knowledge that our work with
needy children and their families covered most of these
bases. I was there whenever one of our children had to
be hospitalized for an injury--reading from a story book,
providing a treat and a soda. They were released after
a day or two and I felt that I had done my duty.
All of their semi-serious injuries were treated at the local
mission hospital. I had never set foot in the main
government referral hospital on Mulago Hill in Kampala.
That is, until seven-year-old Maria was hit by a small
truck while crossing a main road. Our associate,
Agnes, called me as soon as she found out. She was
there when the local hospital referred the child to
Mulago and she later told me she was sure the girl was
dead. Maria's thigh was broken and she had sustained
a serious head injury.
When I saw Maria at Mulago the next day, her leg had
been stabilized but not set. She was in a neurological
ward because of potential brain damage. She was
totally non-responsive and I feared she might be
comatose. Her mother and I knelt beside the bed and
prayed for healing. Then I spent some time at her
bedside, trying to comfort her through gentle touch.
Wards in Ugandan hospitals are large by western
standards, and hold many patients. Ward 3A was an
overflow ward: Neuro patients on one side, and patients
with other problems opposite. The hospital provides
basic medical care only, and it is up to the families to
provide sheets, blankets, clothes, food, and to do any
personal care required. The caregivers of longer-term
patients become a family unto themselves, watching
over each other's children when the mom needs to go
out for food or a personal break. After my second visit
with Maria, I began to get to know the other children at
her end of the ward.
Hospitals have never bothered me. As a child, my
doctor uncle used to let me accompany him on rounds.
However, I never considered myself called to a hospital
"ministry." I would visit a friend or a family member and
that was that. But now at Mulago, I found myself drawn
into the lives of the children surrounding Maria. There
was a little boy from the north in the bed on the left:
breathing deeply, unconscious, a tube in his nose. "He
will recover," his mother hopefully told me. A
hydrocephalic baby girl with some signs of dwarfism was
on the other side, fully awake and whimpering whenever
her mother left her. Across the aisle were two small
boys, Samson and Julius, who seemed happy and
normal, except for the tubes extending from their
abdomens and the plastic bags they carried whenever
they walked around.
Maria's mental faculties were slowly returning. A week
later, her eyes were open, although she didn't appear
to be seeing anything. I noticed that the unconscious
boy was missing. Another mother answered my anxious
inquiry, "He died." Stunned, I looked across the room,
pondering the fragility of human life. Samson was shyly
grinning at me, hoping I would notice him. I went over to
greet him and to give him and Julius some cookies I had
brought with me
As weeks passed, Maria regained her sight and her
hearing, and she began to speak a word or two.
Instead of being fed through an n/g tube, she could now
chew and swallow. "What do you want?" I asked her in
Luganda. "Cake," she whispered.
I brought small matchbox-sized cars for Maria and her
brothers, and for the boys and the other children
in the ward. Soon the little vehicles were rolling all over
the room. Maria's leg didn't heal properly and she was
transferred to the orthopedic ward, number 7 in the old
section of the hospital, to await surgery. The first time I
went to Ward 7 to visit her, I knew that I had to go back
to 3A. The 3A children were thrilled to see me. I'm sure
they thought that I was as gone as my patient. The
other mothers asked about Maria.
In Ward 7, I met Gloria, a fifth-grade girl from Gulu who
was awaiting surgery for a broken elbow. The nurse on
duty saw me speaking with her, and suggested I go and
greet the others in the ward. "You will take away their
pain," she said. "You will be a better pain reliever than
Ibuprofen."
I visited as many patients as were conscious. There
was a teenage girl, also from Gulu, a town far from
Kampala. She was alone and seemed mentally
impaired and non-responsive. I greeted her in her
Acholi language, not spoken in the south, and she
grinned with joy. There was a woman who looked
older than she was, with the hollow eyes and sunken
cheeks of someone in the latter stages of AIDS. She
spoke Luganda and we went through the traditional
greeting ritual. She held onto my hands as if drawing
life from me. I maintained an attitude of cheerfulness
until I left the ward. Then the tears involuntarily began
to flow.
Maria's bone repair appeared to be successful, but the
trauma of the operation took away what little speech
she had recovered. It had been eight weeks since the
accident and I suspected that she may never function
normally again. I've made some new friends in 3A,
including Enoch, a five-year-old who was injured in a
boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) accident. One eye is
patched and he is covered with bandages, yet he
happily giggled while I tickled the soles of his feet.
A few days later I returned to Mulago for my regular
visit. As I walked toward Ward 7, I considered the
challenges in caring for a mentally disabled child in the
difficult slums of Kampala. I approached the entrance
expecting to find the strange, fearful, non-verbal child I
had last seen. Instead, a bright little girl with shining
eyes and a huge grin spotted me as I entered and
called out “Muzungu Peter!” My jaw dropped in
disbelief. I sat with her on the bed as we sang together,
counted to twenty in English and Luganda, and talked
about her family and the teachers at her school. Maria
had miraculously returned to us.
Samson and Julius had successful operations and were
discharged. All of Enoch’s bandages except his eye
covering have been removed and he is running around
as if the accident had never happened. Gloria’s elbow
surgery was also successful and she will be released
soon. I'm going to miss all my little friends when we
return to the states in October; they will always be in my
heart. God created temporary families in Ward 3A and
Ward 7, and He allowed me the privilege of being a part
of them. Each visit was emotionally difficult, but the joy
of the children's smiles overcame the pain, for them and
for me. I have been given a great gift, for which I will
always be grateful.
hearing, and she began to speak a word or two.
Instead of being fed through an n/g tube, she could now
chew and swallow. "What do you want?" I asked her in
Luganda. "Cake," she whispered.
I brought small matchbox-sized cars for Maria and her
brothers, and for the boys and the other children
in the ward. Soon the little vehicles were rolling all over
the room. Maria's leg didn't heal properly and she was
transferred to the orthopedic ward, number 7 in the old
section of the hospital, to await surgery. The first time I
went to Ward 7 to visit her, I knew that I had to go back
to 3A. The 3A children were thrilled to see me. I'm sure
they thought that I was as gone as my patient. The
other mothers asked about Maria.
In Ward 7, I met Gloria, a fifth-grade girl from Gulu who
was awaiting surgery for a broken elbow. The nurse on
duty saw me speaking with her, and suggested I go and
greet the others in the ward. "You will take away their
pain," she said. "You will be a better pain reliever than
Ibuprofen."
I visited as many patients as were conscious. There
was a teenage girl, also from Gulu, a town far from
Kampala. She was alone and seemed mentally
impaired and non-responsive. I greeted her in her
Acholi language, not spoken in the south, and she
grinned with joy. There was a woman who looked
older than she was, with the hollow eyes and sunken
cheeks of someone in the latter stages of AIDS. She
spoke Luganda and we went through the traditional
greeting ritual. She held onto my hands as if drawing
life from me. I maintained an attitude of cheerfulness
until I left the ward. Then the tears involuntarily began
to flow.
Maria's bone repair appeared to be successful, but the
trauma of the operation took away what little speech
she had recovered. It had been eight weeks since the
accident and I suspected that she may never function
normally again. I've made some new friends in 3A,
including Enoch, a five-year-old who was injured in a
boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) accident. One eye is
patched and he is covered with bandages, yet he
happily giggled while I tickled the soles of his feet.
A few days later I returned to Mulago for my regular
visit. As I walked toward Ward 7, I considered the
challenges in caring for a mentally disabled child in the
difficult slums of Kampala. I approached the entrance
expecting to find the strange, fearful, non-verbal child I
had last seen. Instead, a bright little girl with shining
eyes and a huge grin spotted me as I entered and
called out “Muzungu Peter!” My jaw dropped in
disbelief. I sat with her on the bed as we sang together,
counted to twenty in English and Luganda, and talked
about her family and the teachers at her school. Maria
had miraculously returned to us.
Samson and Julius had successful operations and were
discharged. All of Enoch’s bandages except his eye
covering have been removed and he is running around
as if the accident had never happened. Gloria’s elbow
surgery was also successful and she will be released
soon. I'm going to miss all my little friends when we
return to the states in October; they will always be in my
heart. God created temporary families in Ward 3A and
Ward 7, and He allowed me the privilege of being a part
of them. Each visit was emotionally difficult, but the joy
of the children's smiles overcame the pain, for them and
for me. I have been given a great gift, for which I will
always be grateful.
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| See pictures of the Mulago Hospital children. Click here |
| See a short video of Maria after her recovery. Click here |
