Due in equal parts to my having a slightly uneasy stomach before beginning the night, and following up the drinks at home with a few vodka tonics while out, I woke up at 6am feeling quite unwell. As in, throwing up. My initial confidence that it may just be related to the drinking was eroded when I started experiencing the full gambit of unpleasant stomach big symptoms. I returned to bed around 9:30am and hoped like hell I could sleep it off. Around 2:00, Ray informed me he was ordering pizza. I felt well enough to try a piece. I felt well enough to try another. After another four hours, I still felt fine, and, ravenously hungry from completely losing all of the contents of my stomach that morning, I ate another three pieces before I went to bed.
It turns out, unsurprisingly, that this was an unwise thing to do. I woke up sick again, with the sheepish awareness that it was a sickness born of stupidity and pizza-greed rather than any actual valid, unavoidable cause. The positive to this, however, that I was well enough to go to Casa Jackson as scheduled by the afternoon. After realizing last week that the afternoon shift entails leaving rooms full of sobbing infants and toddlers when the escort from Nuestros Ahijados arrives at 4:30pm, Ray and I had worked out that he would come pick me up on his way back from work around 5:15pm, thus enabling me to hopefully hold some babies until they fell asleep, as all tiny little babies deserve.
I arrived at CJ and got down to business. Selvin, a 21-month-old boy who has a massive concave hole of sorts in his ribcage and an absolute disdain for sitting up, was laying on the mattress in the main room with Magaly when I arrived. A nurse brought Sandra in and placed her between them. I rolled Sandra and Selvin to face eachother and tried to get some social play going. Sandra, ever the friendly one, smiled and chatted away to Selvin, who was more interested in taking her toys. After gathering enough toys for the three of them, I sat Selvin up (he threw himself back promptly), propped Magaly up as best I could without putting pressure on her spine, and got Sandra in a supported sit between my legs, and ran a tiny little 'playgroup' with them. Selvin caught onto the routine quickly, imitating my sign for "dame" (give me), trying to imitate the gestures for the songs I sang, and clapping when I said "yay!" Magaly, strong-willed and opinionated little sprite that she is, pointed to Sandra and Selvin's toys and demanded, "ish! ish! Ma! Ish! Ma!" while tapping her chest in an attempt to say, 'give me those!' And Sandra, sweet little Sandra, sat there trying to keep her head up while looking from side to side at her friends, belly-laughing, and looking up at me every minute and a half and saying "Aaaaaaaoooohhhh!" I can't be sure, but I like to think she is saying "te amo," which I have been saying to her for the past two weeks, exaggerating the vowels and waiting for her to imitate me.
It was a sweet little time that we had before it was time to feed the afternoon bottles. Magaly can thankfully hold her own, as I was entrusted with both Selvin and Sandra's. Selvin, in addition to sitting up, also loathes to hold his own bottle. Feeding them both simultaneously was impossible, as giving Sandra her bottle requires some strategic positioning and intense concentration on my part to monitor her swallows and try to minimize aspiration of her Pediasure. I fed Selvin, and then propped Sandra up to feed her. Unlike Saturday morning, when she was incredibly reluctant to eat or drink anything, she drank hungrily. I was torn between satisfaction that I was getting the calories into her and anxiety about the terrible, ever-present gurgling and wheezing that began after her first few gulps and remained 10 minutes after she finished. After many attempts to get her to imitate my cough in an effort to get her to clear some of the liquid from her throat, I laid her down on her side to 'play' with Magaly. Magaly reached for her hand and held it, cooing affectionately, "Hi nene, nene..." (nene being Spanish for 'baby'). With her free hand, Sandra played with the giant stuffed snake (adorable and kid-friendly reptile that it is) I had laid down next to her and tried, very slowly and with great effort, to poke it in the eyes, approximating the exaggerated "ahhhh!" sound I made whenever she touched the snake when trying to get her to reach for it earlier.
After some diaper changes and donning of pajamas, it was time for bed. The children are put down at 5:00pm. Many are tired, although most are not ready to fall asleep without a fight. I changed Sandra and got her ready for bed, and laid her down on the mattress in the main room with Magaly again while I went to calm some of the crying babies. The other volunteers had left with the escort when he arrived a half hour earlier. I was overwhelmed with the realization that in order to rock some babies to sleep, others would end up simply crying it out, and how cruel it feels to have to choose one helpless little five-pound infant over another to comfort and soothe.
I went to the room with the most cries- Carlos, Yessenia, Armando, and Juan Antonio, all under five months old. Carlos and Armando were crying; Yessenia, usually a crier herself, was actually already asleep. Juan Antonio looked at the ceiling passively. I picked up Armando and bounced and rocked and bounced some more. I rubbed his little head until his eyes got heavy, took a chance, and put him down. He seemed content enough, so I moved to Carlos' crib and picked him up. He's four months old and has this worrisome tendency to grip his hands together tightly and wring them constantly; something about this little guy gives me the feeling that he is going to show some more serious delays as he gets older. More than the typical malnourished infant, that is.
Carlos was an easy sell; a few minutes of head rubbing and his little dark chocolate eyes began to close. His lids fluttered less and less frequently, settled together, and I tucked him back into his crib. Yessenia woke up and began to cry. I picked her up, marveling at how at four months old, she was still smaller than my first niece was at birth. As I rocked her, she looked up at me, eyes very wide, and examined me with what looked like a tremendous amount of anxiety. It's something that I see in a lot of these little faces. At the age where most infants are with their mothers or other familiar and consistent caregivers all day long, these babies are being handled by a rotating pool of nurses and volunteers. Some come for a day and never return. What a tremendous unknown for such a small person.
Anxious or not, Yessenia searched my face for a few more minutes, but she too succumbed to the head rub that seems to work wonders on all of these babies. I've perfected my technique and have yet to meet a Casa Jackson infant it doesn't work on: hold baby firmly, rub head softly from back to front and pause for a few seconds with hand over their eyes, nuzzle face into theirs and block out as much light and sound possible. Repeat until sleeping. Five minutes, maximum. Done and done. Happy, sleeping baby, guilt-free Amy.
After a quick stop in the very-tiny-baby room to marvel again at the twins and do the head-rub on their roommate Paola until she fell asleep, I headed to the older girls' room. Gricelda lay in her crib, uncharacteristically crying. I held her for a few minutes until she settled, put her down, and went to get Sandra.
Sandra, adorable and fuzzy in her footie pajamas, giggled when she saw me approaching to retrieve her from the mattress in the main room. I scooped her up and returned to her room, where Gricelda lay moaning again. I stood next to her crib, Sandra cradled against my chest and nuzzling in, and rubbed Gricelda's head until she fell asleep. Every few minutes, Sandra lifted her head back, opened her mouth wide, and leaned in towards my face for a kiss. I kissed her little mouth, and she dropped her head back to my chest, satisfied. It was a simple moment, and a sad moment, but it occurred to me that there couldn't be a single place on earth that I wanted to be at that moment. All these girls needed was comfort; a hug, a kiss, simple touch. I had it. I gave it. They took it. A simple exchange to them, but so profound for me.
I sat in the corner of the room with Sandra, feeling guilty that out of all the children I had cuddled today, that this was the moment I had been so waiting for. I draped a blanket over her, settled her into my arms, and held my hand over her cheek as I softly hummed "Rock-a-Bye-Baby." At first, after each verse, she lifted her head back to grin at me and get another kiss before laying her head back to my chest with a yawn. Ten minutes later, her eyes were heavy and her breathing became steadier. She crawled her hand up my chest, resting it on the collar of my scrub top for a minute before draping it over my arm that lead to the hand on her cheek. She fell asleep like this. I waited a few minutes and took a few quick pictures. I wanted to remember every sensation; that small little hand, usually so tight, rested loosely on my arm; those long eyelashes laying on her cheeks; her full cheek cupped in my hand; her breath on my wrist. It hurt to think of putting her down and leaving, but being able to finally do so without seeing her tremble in anxiety was a comfort to me. I laid her in her crib, her coming to briefly and beginning the tremble, but calming and falling back asleep when I laid my hand on her cheek and rested my forehead next to hers for a minute.
I can't say anything profound. I can't elaborate. I can't make a statement about the injustice, the sadness, the frustrations. To describe what I feel now, when I consider those fifteen minutes of watching her fall asleep in my arms, would only be a cheap attempt at capturing a feeling that exists far beyond the realm of words.
I love this little girl.
In three days, I have to leave this little girl.
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