Sometimes a Run Can't Shake a Face

So I am writing this while it’s still fresh in my mind, and the emotions are still intact . Woke up this morning got a run in before work. Always a good thing; riding that high, I got to work…

Walked in and a boy is already sitting patiently waiting for treatment. Stanford and I take a look; yep definitely scabies. Down both legs and between the cheeks (per usual). Fair warning to those about to read this; I am not going to hold anything back. I am going to write exactly how we handle this. Even if you don’t handle things of this nature well, I implore you to continue reading. This is the closest thing the majority of you will get to experiencing this and what these children go through:

Get him in the shower to begin the process. We have the boy strip off his dirt clad clothes. It exposes his dark skin ravaged by tiny sores on the lower half. I look into his eyes and try to tell him in what little Wolof I know that it will all be okay. Those eyes are so full of fear stemming from the knowledge of what hardship he is about to experience. They reflect back at me, he can sense the sorrow I already am being to have for him build within me. I take a cup full of the frigid water and pour it over the boy’s head. This liquid sets off an immediate autonomic response in him as he begins to shiver. His skin is no longer faded by the dust and sand, but instead glistens like a shiny, new paint job that it still wet from application. Starting at the top (always the easy part first to gain the trust), I begin to scrub him with rough rag and soap. The tentative half-grin I flash him doesn’t work. He knows what I have to do; and those brown eyes convey a look of just get it over with. I give him a nod. As the rag meets the infected area, I hear that sound that I have come to hate. That first whimper is always the worst. You have no choice but to continue despite their pleading. You have to almost lose that innate ability for a human being to care for another to help them. The thought that blood is in fact THICKER than water comes to my mind. I watch the crimson run down the legs to meet the water standing below. It creates some sinister slick of human blood and water. It swirls. Got to focus. I’m rough with this rag because I know it’s easier than what still has to come. I look him over to make sure I have scrubbed everywhere. Shit, this poor boy has it on his penis and scrotum as well. More cold to wash off the soap and red life force that continues to ooze from his body. Pass him to C, who dries him off and ushers him into one of the rooms. I give a look up to ceiling. A futile attempt to get God, Allah, or whatever it is to give me a look back. The same plain ceiling remains. Some higher power authority isn’t going to take away the pain this child is about to endure. I look down at my gloves; they resemble some off white canvas with streaks of red, crimson, and some hue of brown. Almost mocking the fact that the job, the painting isn’t finished. Detachment, that’s the word for what I feel now. I have to, there is no other choice. I walk into the room as Stanford and C get the child up on the vinyl covered table. I throw away the used gloves for some new canvas. C and Stanford begin wiping down the crusted skin with Dakin. You have to be rough at this stage as well. Worse can still come. The purple mixes with the crimson and yellow. His body is doing everything it can to fight a losing, uphill battle. Tweezers are the worst part. The sheer sight of the reflective, metallic instrument sets the child into a terrible fit. He’s lucky though, at least they are the good ones. Stanford, either subconsciously or consciously, has grabbed the best pair. C, one of the Senegalese volunteers, and I assume positions around the child. We begin with the rear first, maybe it’s so we don’t have to see the poor kids face. I don’t know, but it seems to always happen that way. He screams and writhes like a possessed being. Despite his attempts to escape, he can’t overcome our combined efforts. Thankfully, Stanford is quick and efficient. Re-Dakin, apply the Ascabiol. I don’t really think that Ascabiol is effective with cases this bad. It’s better than nothing at the end of the day. The cream colored liquid is wiped around the newly opened lesions. The rouge is applied; leaving a pinkish hue against his dark skin. We flip him over. Give him a break and some water. The crying fades for a short period of time. I man the legs, as another volunteer holds his upper body and arms. Stanford and C attempt to do both the legs at the same time (quicker is better for this). The boy successfully squirms so much making it impossible for the pair to work at the same time. C takes over and meticulously begins to remove the sloughing skin from the body. It’s unnatural. Le gale has a way of making the skin begin to deteriorate, defeating the whole purpose in which nature created it. I give another look up. Same ceiling, same unanswered plea from the boy and myself. My senses are dulled. His cries are faint and thankfully I can’t smell that stale smell that accompanies any medical facility. I feel bad for C and Stanford in that regard. C finishes. Re-Dakin, apply the Ascabiol, apply the rouge. Gauze is applied to the biggest, isolated sores. The clusters of hellacious craters that cover the knees are wrapped in gauze roll. Apply the betadine. The Cover-All is too difficult to work with gloves on. Stanford takes hers off, and I follow suit. So what if either of us gets le Gale. At least then maybe one of us would have some small idea what this boy has already been through in his short life. The Betadine runs through and a brown stain is left. I hate that stain. That color. I hate it because I know what lies beneath. Something that makes me question my already faltering faith. I see a sucker on the table. I grab it and hand it to the boy. Our eyes meet again; they always do when you are working on these boys. I attempt that signature half-grin of mine again, as I look into that pair of dark saucers. He flashes a slight smile. Avert my gaze, and wipe my watery eyes with my forearm covered in beads of sweat. I can’t see them, but I know they are gray at this moment and not blue; despite the light blue shirt. We give him new clothes. Before he can even leave the room, another boy has come in. He has the le gale also. I already have subconsciously put on new canvas for the next horrid painting. I walk outside to feel the African sun beat on my skin that’s attempting to change its hue. I don’t bother to look up and plead this time. I’m sure the sky is beautiful though; but its beauty won’t change anything right now. Grab two quick long drags off another volunteer’s cigarette. Walk back into the room to do it all again. It’s still only 10:32 in the morning, and I don’t think my run can negate the meeting of eyes I will experience this morning. I won’t forget that slight smile the boy has given through all this, never forget…

We are fighting forest fires with Dixie cups over here. All of you that read this know me. I don’t ask for much, if anything. I am pleading…NO…scratch that…I am a humble man…I am begging you guys if you have any access to the following things (or know someone who does) please help these kids. If you would like to send anything (clothes, medical supplies, financial support, etc.) please contact my father for the address. I will personally reimburse everyone for the postage. Off the top of my head I can think of the following things that would be greatly appreciated:

Gloves, Gauze, Cover-All, OpSite, Iodine, Hydrocortisone cream, Triple Antibiotic Ointment, scissors, tweezers, forceps, scalpels, stitching kits, medical/athletic tape, Oral Antibiotics, Ibuprofen, Tylenol, Topical analgesics…and more specifically for Scabies: 5% Permetrin Topical crème or Ivermectin

THANK ALL OF YOU IN ADVANCE. EVEN IF YOU DON’T SEND ANYTHING AND YOU READ THIS. AT LEAST NOW YOU ARE AWARE. AND KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE. SORRY THAT IS MY FUTILE ATTEMPT FOR SOME HUMOR TODAY.

Song of the Moment: Hope – Fat Freddy’s Drop