The rain is pouring tonight as I reflect on a day I know I was suppose to be a part of. Not that there’s ever a day we’re ‘not’ suppose to, per se, but you know how some days just feel far more accomplished and purposeful than others? Well, I had one of those days. And what’s interesting looking back, is that it was one of the scariest and most painful days I’ve had here, let alone on earth, but it scarred me to a degree that I guarantee will never be undone.

Adam had a temperature all afternoon. He’s one of the preemies and has only been at Amani a few months. He hasn’t gone a week of these months without being ill in some manner. Adam was dropped off at our gate and left with no history to pull from. The child probation officer called him six months, but our guess is he’s probably eight or nine. When Adam arrived, he tested positive for HIV and pneumonia. He was likely held on the back of a worker his first months, given that he was paralyzed to the fetal position when arriving at Amani. This week was special because Adam straightened his legs for the first time.

Anyway, his temperature was rising steadily and a chronic cough was making it difficult to breath. When he started vomiting, we knew it was urgent. I’d been caring for him, so it seemed natural (in African standards) that I would take him to the hospital. Standing outside as a group, the Mama’s panic-strikenly wrapped a cloth holder around me, stuck an umbrella in my hand and commissioned this life to the care of my hands.

The path was muddy and Adam’s cough was out of control. I had to stop twice to clean-up his vomit. Arriving at the hospital, he was in hysterics. I’d never been to a Ugandan hospital (which was basically a house and a mishmash of people who were supposed doctors and nurses) and certainly never cared for someone in this degree of sickness and struggle. At this point his temperature had risen to 103.6 and I’d been prepared for the worst.

The doctor rushed us in immediately and as I held Adam in my arms, he screamed as the doctor took vitals and voraciously read through his medical record. His first guess was malaria or a relapse of pneumonia, so he sent us to a separate room for blood tests. Oh—this was painful. I held little Adam in my arms and kissed his sweating head as I’d never kissed anyone before. I had to hold his arm taunt for the blood drawings and mine as well have taken them myself, given the mechanical, unsympathetic movements of the so-called lab-tech. I’ve never seen a baby so weak and yet so strongly in pain. I was crying—Adam was crying—it was bad. The tech had me hold a swab to Adam’s bleeding skin. We were going downhill fast. The doctor rushed-in and gave him some sort of sedative to stop the vomiting/coughing/crying.

For a few minutes Adam clung to me as if for dear life, literally. Then slowly, with his head rested on my shoulder, his arms melted into a tender embrace around my neck. I rocked him and rocked him, for what felt like hours, as we waited for the results. It was during these minutes that I realized what had just happened—the urgency, the love, the trauma, the pain and the danger. There was a point in the chaos where I was literally and bare handedly holding back the spattering of HIV and probably AIDS infested blood. I was holding AIDS—holding its venom in the palm of my hand.

Thank God, Adam’s blood tests came back negative and showed a less severe viral infection. For tonight, at least, he is free of Malaria and Pnemonia. His system is so weak that a relapse of either will likely kill him. By the time we left the hospital, the rain had stopped and he was asleep in my arms. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling on the way home—too much to process. Too much to be grateful and overwhelmed by. Too much to be scared and exhausted by. Too much to thank God for—and to question of Him.

The odd thing is that my two most profound days here have been when I woke despondent and unwanting to step forward. On both occasions, it took everything in me to be honest before God and explain how inadequate and selfish and unwilling I was—it took everything in me to find myself on my knees, needing Him to get through the next step. And on both occasions, I’ve had the chance to look back on a day like this one and see that not only did I have nothing to do with its outings or outcomes, but I also could’ve done nothing of its profundity in my own mind or strength. There was obviously something of the extra-ordinary fighting for, leading, and following me. It’s days like these that find me, saying, “Wow, I think God might really be true.”

***

Now I know.

I worked in the clinic today. I won’t be doing much medical work, per se, but have mainly asked to be an extra hand where needed, which will sometimes include procedures, but most times paperwork, giving meds, or doing weekly weigh-ins.

There is a lot of tracking that must be done with these babies, so that one of my roles includes filling out the medicine charts each week. The upside of this is that I love to be around health related topics, treatments and conditions (I’m a closet wanna-be-med-school-student).

The downside is that now I know the severity of every infant’s illness. I know who has HIV and I know who has AIDS. I know who has TB and I know who has Pneumonia. I know who was chronically abused as a baby and now has Syphilis and deformed genitals. I know who has Fetal Alcohol Effects (no longer “syndrome” in Uganda?), Malaria and malnutrition. I know who will never be adopted. I know who will not celebrate a fifth, tenth, or fifteenth birthday. I know who will never marry. I know who will not have kids of their own. I know who will not live through the end of this year. Now I know.