About 11 pm a few days before Christmas.
Along with the nurse anesthetist, I had just wheeled back a patient from the operating room to the ICU. There is no intensive care unit (with careful monitoring and close nurse supervision). There is simply a room that we call the ICU because we put the sickest patients there.
The room was dark and crowded. All beds were filled with patients. Family members slept on the concrete floor between and under the beds. This is the usual situation here and in most third world countries. The family takes care of the patient: food, bedding, bathing are their responsibility. The nurses check vital signs, give IV fluids and medications, and change dressings.
In the bed next to my patient’s was a young woman had given birth to twins by Caesarean the day before. The weather was cool, and most of the people on the floor were covered with sheets. Mother was asleep and Grandmother was under the bed with the newborns. The twins looked tiny.
Grandma held out one baby to me. It seemed limp. I touched its arm: Cold. I didn’t see any movement or breathing.
Grandma said something I couldn’t understand. Her eyes said, “Doctor: Look!”
“Oh, God,” I thought, “This baby may be dead.”
Two seconds later, the baby cried loudly.
I said, “Wi, bebe bèl,” (Yes, beautiful baby) to Grandma, and finished the post-operative orders on my patient.
