"After six weeks on the precipice, the paralysis is finally relinquishing its grip and Anna is regaining strength."

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The youngest of the Riggins “band of brothers”, Noah, at 10 months, locks eyes on mine, leans in, we bump foreheads, and simply in doing so, halts the downward spiral of my difficult day.

What is it about babies and small children? How is it that they speak so loudly before they can utter an intelligible word, profoundly affecting our hearts and minds? How does an infant so readily transcend all differences of culture, class, and race, while the rest of the world struggles, so alienated by distinctions?

However one might explain the power and impact of babies, don’t waste my time with a superficial soulless response. I am too old and too enmeshed in meaning to listen to platitudes, however intellectual they may seem. The echo of a child sounding deep in my heart, when I allow room to listen, doesn’t originate from the seen world. It belongs to the deep.

Nearly three dozen of these inexplicable beings, much sicker and most of them much smaller than robust Noah, occupy their mother’s arms and fill our Children’s Ward. A battle is being fought in every one of them. Some of them struggle for every breath. Diarrhea drains them of nutrients and fluids. A tight belly or a stiff neck threatens impending disaster.

We are not without weapons. Our arsenal includes fluids, antibiotics, vitamins, nutrition, and more. We apply our fragmented knowledge and considerable experience. We exhort, encourage, and persevere. We pray with and for each other and for the little ones entrusted to our care.

Almost always we win the war. In victory, a grateful joyful mother exits the ward, homeward bound, her baby resting securely within a woven baby-sized hammock known as a bilum, suspended from mom’s forehead, slung across mom’s back.

But “almost always” seems infinitely removed from always. When a child dies, all else is swallowed up in grief and misery. In the immediate aftermath, normalcy and routines are obliterated by tears and wailing. In the long run, regrets haunt and resist and persist and even now exact their toll.

A wisp of a child greets me with a smile every morning for the past two months as I enter the children’s ward. In the early days of her hospitalization a smile, and sometimes just barely that, was all she could muster, for Anna suffers from a nearly total paralysis.

At the onset she lost all ability to move, from neck to her toes, within a quick and devastating 36 hours. For weeks, she hovered near death as her respiratory muscles were weakened to the point of failing. Unable to cough, her secretions plugged her airways and became the fertile soil for multiplying bacteria and the resultant pneumonia's.

After six weeks on the precipice, the paralysis is finally relinquishing its grip and Anna is regaining strength. Her vigorous smile now has room for words and laughter. Shoulder shrugs, arm swings, and wiggling toes portend a hope and a future for this precious child.

It is our great joy and privilege to share in the lives of these children and their families. It is however a privilege that comes with risk, at considerable cost, and often accompanied by pain. We treasure them and you and your prayers on our behalf.

Dr. Bill McCoy