A BandAid Can't Fix Everything

As my time here in Manila draws to a close, I'm trying to fit as many memories and opportunities in as possible.  In doing so, I spent my Monday afternoon on another feeding. This was to a location I had heard was something you could only experience, so I was excited to finally have the chance to go. As a group of twelve of us began to load the van to head to our location, the driver asked my friend Rebecca and I if anyone in our group could help with triage.  Normally, a nurse working at the missions compound goes on the feedings to administer first aid to the people living there. Today however, was different. The nurse was unable to go with us, but triage was still expected to take place.  Rebecca and I looked at each other, and she said she would be willing to do so. I hesitated, realizing how far outside of my comfort zone something like first aid in a third world country is. As soon as I decided to not help with triage, I felt God tell me, "Paige, do this for My children." So I did.

The location was nothing that I could have expected. It was an even poorer neighborhood than the area in which I'm staying, which seemed hard to imagine. Little boys and girls were running around without pants or shirts. We saw several children without a real pair of shoes. The people were all in the street outside their homes that were little more than wooden shacks with a tin roof. As we drove into the area, we saw a tent set up in front of a house with several men sitting in front of it. They were gambling. In the Cuatro neighborhood and ones like it, this happens when a family member dies. The body is kept outside of the home and the family members gamble for money until they have enough to bury their dead. We have seen this take place three times during our two and a half weeks here.

Once we stopped the van at our location, the children swarmed to receive food. The meal is scalding hot, but the starving bodies eat it right away to satisfy their hunger in that moment. No number of feedings could completely satisfy the hunger these people face every day. The rest of the team piled out of the van and began scooping food or playing with the children. Rebecca and I grabbed the toolbox that is used as a first aid kit, put on gloves and got to work. We talked about it later, once we were back on our missions compound, and realized that both of us felt entirely ill-prepared for the work we were about to do. A couple of college aged girls with expired first aid certifications was the best we could offer.

Several children who came up to us initially had minor scrapes that hadn't entirely healed yet. We knew what to do for those. A little antiseptic, some Neosporin and a band aid. Then a grown man came up to us and pointed to his leg. His entire right calf was covered in oozing sores and infection that was without a doubt, a fairly advanced staph infection.  Rebecca tackled it like she knew exactly what to do, and after we'd cleaned him up and put a bandage on it to prevent spreading, he asked us for medicine to heal it. Only a large dose of antibiotics was going to truly clean up his leg and we could not offer him anything. We advised him to keep his leg bandaged and clean with purified water, and he was gone. I can only imagine what a few more weeks of that infection will do to his leg.

After the man, a girl of around ten years old was brought to us by her mother. Her mom turned her around and pulled up the back of both shorts' legs. We saw a very similar sight behind both knees and thighs as we had seen on the man's calf. Several infected sores had already burst and were scabbed over, but there were many more that would soon burst and leave her legs exposed to any number of other infections around her. We provided the same care for her and instructed her mother to take care of her with clean water. Who knows if her mother understood any of the English we spoke to her or not. My heart breaks for the girl whose body is already so riddled with disease and infection.

Most of the other "patients" we saw were minor. There was a baby with oozing sores on her head, a few burns we soothed and wrapped up, and many more cuts. The one treatment I provided that stuck with me the most, however, is another girl around eleven years old. She appeared healthy and happy, and simply pointed to her left leg a few inches below her knee. There I saw a cotton ball stuck to a wound the size of a half dollar or so. Assuming this cut was recent and the cotton ball was just to stop the bleeding, I changed my gloves and knelt down to look at her. I touched the cotton ball and felt her whole body cringe. The wound was not new, in fact it was almost entirely healed. Instead, the cotton ball had fused to her skin as the wound healed around it. It was graphed into her skin and was not going to come off easily.

I turned to Rebecca and told her that I wasn't sure I could do it. I saw her busy with another girl and knew that I had to do this. As I turned back to the girl, I watched her finish pulling off the cotton ball herself. She was grimacing as she put the cotton ball into my hand and I threw it away. On her leg was a fully opened, eighth of an inch deep wound that I had to take care of. I prepared myself to clean the girl's leg and told her to be strong because it was going to sting. She nodded, grit her teeth and tensed up. I stopped the blood flow with some cotton balls then cleaned the wound out with antiseptic spray.

I have never seen a stronger child in my life.

As I cleaned her wound, she didn't make a sound. She stayed tense and her face said it all. This was excruciating pain cleaning out a wound that was infected and newly reopened. I kept encouraging her that it was almost over and she was doing great. I finished cleaning it, put Neosporin on and covered it with a gauze that could not form to her skin as the cotton ball had. As I finished, I told her to leave the bandage on and to clean it with clean water. I told her she was strong and how proud of her I was. The smile that lit up her face as she heard those words made the gruesomeness of her injury melt away. She touched my heart with her courage and strength.

Other than the few particular instances that I've written out, most of it runs together in my head. It turns into a sadness knowing that many people I treated will eventually die because of the infections running through their bodies. These people live day in and day out wondering if they'll eat a real meal, be able to bathe, and wake up to see another day. They live in a state of perpetual filth and disease, yet they're filled with joy. They are grateful for what they have and love to welcome strangers into their neighborhoods who will brighten their lives once a week.

They have a strength that inspires me. Only, I hope that I can be filled with a strength that comes from the Lord. I want they're infectious joy and strength to rule in my life coming solely from the Lord Jesus Christ. I'm continually reminded that life is fragile and I should be representing Christ in each word that comes out of my mouth, action that my body performs, and thought that runs through my mind. How else can I hope to change the world?