TheBanyanTree: The Magic of Touch

[apmartin at canada.com]

               The Magic of Touch


I was admiring the fuchsia-colored flowers that edged
the courtyard of La Fuente, the restaurant in Antigua,
Guatemala where I ate lunch everyday, when someone
tapped me on the shoulder.

“Pat?” Agnes gasped before giving me a hug.  “It’s you.
 It’s really you.  I saw you from the street and
couldn’t believe my eyes.  What are you doing here?”

Agnes, an attractive Dutch woman in her mid-fifties,
worked at Camino Seguro’s ‘guarderia’ or daycare centre
in Guatemala City the previous year while I worked at
the live-in facility, Casa Hogar, in San Pedro Las
Huertas.  We started volunteering at the same time and
met during orientation.  

Later, we were reacquainted when the Project’s staff
and volunteers climbed Pacaya, an active volcano, as
part of a team-building exercise. Neither of us had
ever attempted anything so taxing and both of us were
terrified.  We encouraged each other up the steep-sided
cone to the rumbling crater at the top and
congratulated each other on our mutual success.  The
last I heard she had returned to Holland because her
father had died.  

“I’m back working at Casa Hogar; I couldn’t forget
about the kids,” I said.  “What are you doing here? 
Are you working at the Project in the city?”

“No, I’m working at Hermano Pedro Hospital with the
babies and the old people,” she said.  “I really like
it.”

Agnes sat down just as the waitress arrived.  I ordered
‘el menu del dia’ (the menu of the day) as was my
practice; for 15 quetzales or $2.50 I received a full
course meal, beverage and dessert.  At that price, why
cook? 

Agnes ordered lemonade.  “I can’t stay long.  I have a
Spanish class,” she said.

We were both excited to see each other and were
enjoying each others company but it wasn’t long before
Agnes glanced at her watch and said, “I have to go. 
I’m late.  Why don’t you stop in at the hospital some
time?”

“I’ll do that.  I don’t have much time left in
Guatemala but I would like to get together with you
again,” I said.  “And I want to see what it is like at
the hospital.  Maybe I will volunteer there sometime in
the future.”

The hospital was only half a block from my apartment,
yet I found myself stalling. Several days passed before
I mustered enough courage to walk through its doors and
find my way upstairs to the children’s ward.  Agnes had
told me that all the children were being treated for
malnutrition and some had birth defects.  

The ads on television requesting aid for skeletal-thin
children affected me profoundly; I couldn’t bear to
watch them. Seeing starving children in the flesh was
not going to be easy.  

A sign at the door forbade anyone except family members
from entering.  I hesitated before stepping into a
large room filled with cribs and strollers. Several
Guatemalan nurses in crisp blue and white uniforms were
busy with various tasks.  I met their curious glances
with a smile and a courteous, “Buenas Dias (Good
morning).”  

Seated next to a table, Agnes cradled a little boy in
one arm while spooning cereal (pablum) into his mouth. 
There was only one other Caucasian woman helping with
the babies.  Agnes liked to start work at 8:00 am when
there were few volunteers.  When the majority of
helpers arrived to assist with the 11:00 am feeding,
she changed wards to work with the elderly.  

“Hi Pat,” she said, smiling broadly.  “You made it.” 
Nodding toward the boy on her lap, she said, “This is
Carlos.  Can you believe he is four-years-old?”

I shook my head in amazement.  “No, I thought he was
about a year and a half.”

“The nurses only feed him milk.  I insisted on cereal
today.  None of them could believe it when they saw him
eat it.”

I studied the little boy’s face.  He had large, dark
eyes with thick black eyelashes. 

“That is strange.  Why only milk?”  I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes sparking with anger.
 “They said his parents can’t afford cereal and he will
only be fed milk when he goes home, but he will never
go home.  He is too ill.”

“He has beautiful eyes,” I commented.

Agnes sighed. “He’s blind.”

My stomach knotted.  “Oh,” I said.  “I couldn’t tell.”  

I set my purse down and scanned the room.  On the wall
behind Agnes, a white board listed the names of
twenty-one children, their crib number, their height
and weight compared to the average and their condition,
which ranged from moderate to severe malnutrition. 
Some babies had deformities noted as well.  

I took a deep breath before I walked from crib to crib
and greeted the children who were awake.   I saw two
children with Down’s Syndrome and three others with a
cleft palate.  All were thin and listless.  

“Many of these children only see their family once or
twice a month because they live so far away.  Some
don’t get any visitors,” Agnes told me when I returned.

One of the smallest babies began to cry.

“You can hold her,” Agnes said.  “It’s okay.  Go ahead.”

I hadn’t held a newborn baby in years and felt awkward.
 It took me a moment just to figure out how to let down
the side of the crib.  When I lifted the little pink
bundle up to my shoulder and patted her back, her
crying ceased.  A few minutes later, a nurse came for
her.

A little boy who looked to be four-years-old rocked
back and forth in his stroller, mouth wide open, and
didn’t seem cognizant of what was going on around him. 
Crouching down next to him, I said quietly, “Hola. 
Hola.  Como se llama? (Hello.  Hello.  What is your
name?)”  

“That is Manuel,” Agnes said.

He did not look at me or respond in any way so I
reached over and gently stroked his cheek and head; I
wanted to connect with him.  I wanted him to know I
cared.  The change was immediate.  He closed his eyes
and rested his head against my hand.  The most
wondrous, blissful smile lit up his face.

I stayed with him for several minutes speaking to him
in murmurs, tracing his features with my fingertips,
marveling at his joy.  My eyes filled with tears to
think that such a small act of kindness could mean so
much to him.  Seeing his need made me think of how
vulnerable we all were.  How all of us came into the
world longing for contact and needing to be loved, but
not all of us were so fortunate.  Finally, I moved on
to speak with the other children.  

One pretty little girl in a stroller reached up toward
me, straining her arms so hard she lifted her bottom
off the stroller’s seat.  She wasn’t able to speak but
her message was clear:  Pick me up.  I obliged. Agnes
said, “That’s Alejandra.  She is one of the favorites
with the volunteers and always gets attention.  

A little boy, one of the thinnest, sickest children,
appeared close to death from starvation.  He began to
cry but he had no strength and the sound he made was
weak.  He moved a toothpick arm through the crib’s
rails, reaching out for someone.  Agnes was holding a
baby against her shoulder but she went to him and took
hold of his hand.    

“He is so sick. He has an abscess in his mouth and
can’t eat,” she said.  She touched his forehead.  “I
think he has a fever.”

She moved to leave and the boy in the crib started to
whimper.      

“He just wants someone close to him,” Agnes said as she
took hold of his tiny hand again.

Why had he been allowed to get so thin? I wondered. 
How could his family watch him fade away to bones and
do nothing?  

“You can put Alejandra outside in the playpen,” Agnes
said.  “They like it out there in the fresh air.”

When I returned, she pointed out a crib.  “No one
visits Paula and the volunteers don’t bother with her. 
Why don’t you take her?”

Paula lay quietly in her crib; she appeared happy when
I picked her up.  Cradling her in my arms, I joined
Agnes who was now sitting on a bench outside near three
occupied playpens.  Paula stared into my eyes and I
stared back at her, my maternal instinct telling me how
easy it would be to become attached.  I remembered
doing this with my daughter, Michelle, when she was a
baby.  This little girl wanted someone to love her;
someone to trust, someone to bond with.  It hurt to
think she had nobody.  

“She has to be fed directly into her stomach,” Agnes
said.  “See the tube.”

Only then I saw the rubber tube poking out of her
pajamas.  Again, I found myself holding back tears.

On a bench nearby, a father and daughter visited. 
Agnes whispered, “You wouldn’t believe what she looked
like when she came in.  She was in a wheelchair; she
couldn’t walk.  She can walk now but look how thin she
is.”

The little girl looked to be six years old.  She wore a
pretty red dress but her arms and legs were nothing
more than bones covered with skin.  Her knees looked
like walnuts on sticks.

What a sad place this was.  

Just then Paula grimaced as if in pain; I waited for
her cry but none came. Instead, a wet puddle appeared
on the front of my slacks.

“Oops.  I just got peed all over,” I said with a wry
smile. 

“It’s the way they (the nurses) put on the diapers,”
Agnes said, shaking her head.

“Should I take her to a nurse?”  

“No, put her back in her crib.  The nurses only change
them at certain times.”

The wet stain on my pants gave me the excuse I needed;
I had seen enough suffering for one day.   

After making plans to meet Agnes for dinner, I said. 
“I’m going home to change and then I’m off to Casa
Hogar.  See you later.”

My eyes rested on Manuel who sat in one of the
playpens, off in his own world. 

“Adios,” I said, gently stroking his cheek.  My throat
constricted when the same look of complete happiness
brightened his face.  It reaffirmed for me that the
best gift any of us can give each other is something
even the poorest can afford:  our time and loving
attention.

***