March 22, 1988
Today I visited the pediatric AIDS unit at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Walk with me while I visit each small patient.
As we enter the unit, on our left is a crib with a 7 or 8 month old baby girl. Black ringlets frame her face, and the white tape holding the oxygen tube in her nose contrasts sharply with her coffee-colored skin. Her left arm is taped to what looks like the Styrofoam packaging that contained the grapes you bought at Publix yesterday; that tape holds the I.V. needle in her tiny arm. A pink dress doesn’t quite cover her Pamper, and blue knit socks hug her feet. She’s not crying, but is fussy, and she feels slightly warm to the touch. The nurse writing on her chart tells us that she just came back from having an EKG. When we ask her name, the charge nurse tells us, “Carr. I don’t know her first name; just Carr.”
At the crib next to Baby Girl Carr, sits a woman in a rocking chair, rocking a baby boy. He’s wrapped snugly in a blanket, and is sound asleep. He could be anyone’s baby; his hair is slightly damp (maybe from crying hard), and his lashes rest lightly on his brown cheeks. Only the oxygen tube taped to his nose belies the appearance of health; look again, and see the tiny I.V. tube snaking out from under the blanket.
As we continue our walk toward the other end of the Unit, we come across a young man sitting proudly in a walker with all the skill of someone nine months old. He’s waving to us with his right hand. How can we resist; let’s get down to his level and say “Hi!” He reaches his chubby hands up toward us, and quickly grasps an offered finger. He doesn’t smile, but he bounces excitedly up and down in the walker. We can’t help smiling at him, however; it’s then we realize that his lack of a smile probably means he’s never learned how. Smiling is a learned response and there probably haven’t been too many smiles in his short life.
Behind us, a medic is using a vibrator on the back of a young fellow he calls “Junior.” Junior is not too happy about the treatment to loosen the mucous in his lungs; he’s complaining as loudly as he can – and that’s really not too loud. Probably it’s hard to take deep breaths and really cry when your nose is filled with mucous, vying for space with the ubiquitous oxygen tube. The treatment ends, the medic moves away after speaking soothingly to Junior. Junior resumes playing with the toys in his crib, still snuffling. As we move to his bedside and speak to him, he responds only with a guarded look and an enormous bubble from his right nostril. Junior just wants to be left alone.
Next to Junior’s crib sits, “Grandma”, one of the several foster grandparents who come to visit these AIDS babies. Grandma is braiding the hair of one of the two children who are walking around. This young lady is about three years old, and sits still for Grandma, while her I.V. slowly drips fluid onto the floor. We bring this drip to Grandma’s attention, and she gently chides the youngster for not telling her. The medic will take care of it. When we compliment this little one on her hairdo, we are graced with the same guarded look that Junior gave us. Grandma continues to braid, speaking gently all the while to the one she says will be the “prettiest girl in the Unit” when she’s through. She is pretty – oxygen tube and all.
From behind a chair peeps a pair of big brown eyes, housed in a slightly Oriental-looking face. Ah! At last a smile! A shy smile, to be sure, but this slightly built four-year-old miss obviously has learned how. We attempt a game of “peek-a-boo”, but she seems uncertain. This isn’t a game for her; she’s hiding from the strangers.
As we prepare to leave the Unit, a medic emerges from a room carrying a little boy about three or four years old. He’s just had a bath, and not only doesn’t have any tubes – he isn’t wearing any clothes! There’s no sense of the freedom of being au natural, however; just a docile, uncomplaining baby preparing to be diapered and placed back in his crib.
Leaving the Unit, we stop to say a silent goodbye to Baby Girl Carr, and pray a quiet prayer. She’s less restless now, her head turned to the left, toward the wall – away from the reality of her world.
All of these babies are now symptomatic. All of them have now been diagnosed “terminal.” A few weeks, a few months, a year or two. Baby Girl Carr seems to know the futility of it all. Our baby boy in the walker still reaches up, still waves “hello,” still embraces life. He wants to do, to learn, to grow.
To grow up.
boomergran 