los quemaditos

This is an entry from my personal journal a couple days ago. It’s not the most cheery of posts, but hopefully it gives you and idea of my reactions to some of the more serious situations we’ve encountered.

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After our time in the hospital, we, along with the rest of the volunteers at Hospitals of Hope, visit various orphanages and other hospitals throughout the city. On Thursday we drove downtown and visited the main hospital in Cochabamba. With books, toys, necklaces and coloring pages, our purpose there was to play with the kids. While some stayed in the main pediatric unit, I along with four other girls went to the children’s burn unit in another part of the building. 

The ward was small - there was one long hallway with three or four large rooms with glass windows on the left side. When we entered we had to put on another smock (on top of our scrubs and volunteer vests) and brought a few children’s books in Spanish with us. There were about four beds in each room, and some kids were lying in gurneys in the hallway too. 

My heart broke. Many of them looked to be in bad shape - many of their faces were bright red or purple with layers of dead skin or black scarring all over their eyes, nose and cheeks. Their hands and feet were wrapped in many layers of white bandages and then strapped to the sides of the beds to keep them from moving in bed. Their small bodies looked tiny in the adult beds they occupied, and they had multiple IVs running under their bandages at their extremities.

I walked into one room with four beds, but only one was occupied by a small child who couldn’t have been older than two. Both her arms were so completely wrapped in gauze you couldn’t find her elbows, and her entire left leg was completely bandaged as well. Only her right leg seemed unharmed, but even that was strapped to a block that was tied to one end of the bed. She was dressed in a faded Micky Mouse onesie, but with the bottom completely open and a diaper, now sodden with pee, had been placed right underneath her. Her face was completely red, her cheeks were covered with a shriveling layer of dead skin on each side and there were black scorch marks all the way up to the crown of her head. Her hairline was barely visible, and her eyebrows were almost indistinguishable from the blotchy complexion across her forehead. 

The name plaque next to her bed said her name was Esmerelda. Holding a Magic School Bus book in Spanish in my hand, I sat down beside her with no words. For her condition, she was surprisingly calm, and her eyes followed me as I walked into the room. Her eyes - her big, deep brown eyes had thankfully not been harmed by her accident. The whites were made whiter by the rest of her face being so red and scarred. They were beautiful. While her face didn’t move much, Esmerelda looked at me with an expression that told me she was very much alive, despite everything that had happened to her. As I looked at her, all I could feel was helplessness. I realize the irony in that sentiment, but the moment I saw her I knew there was nothing I could do to make her better. I couldn’t cradle her head, I couldn’t hold her hands or let her suck on my fingers. I couldn’t hold her in my arms like any other child her age. I could only stare at her and say her name. 

I was soon joined by Leah, another girl from Wheaton, who seemed to be in the same state of mind as I was. So we prayed. We grasped for words to capture our emotions towards Esmerelda, but the most we could produce were broken phrases of hope and desire for quick healing and that the Lord comfort her in ways only he can. I trust the Holy Spirit spoke more than we did, for there was very little for us to say in those moments.

Trusting that our prayers were heard, we decided to read to her. I read Dora the Explorer to Esmerelda, who’s brown eyes were following the pages. She sometimes spoke in Spanish baby babble, always the same phrase, but I couldn’t make out what she was trying to say. I was relieved that she seemed to be enjoying the story, and I liked reading the Spanish words to her slowly, knowing she wasn’t judging me if I pronounced them wrong. When we finished we started reading the Magic School Bus, but I quit halfway through because she didn’t seem interested. She kept glancing out the window into the outer hallway, saying something that ended in “mama”. Leah and I started to rub her toes and feet, and sometimes her toes seemed to try to grasp our fingers. I liked to think she would appreciate the gentle human touch. Soon though, she began to repeat “mama” over and over again, and her face started to distort itself into a cry. All Leah and I could do was look at her and touch her feet. I tried to coo to her but it didn’t calm her down, I was a poor substitute for who she really wanted. A nurse came in and swept past Leah and me to feed her something through a straw and her crying ceased. Feeling defeated, I asked the nurse what happened to Esmerelda. Hot water, said the nurse. Her skin had been burned by hot water. 

I later learned that most of the burn injuries these children suffer are due to accidents involving exploding propane tanks or boiling water. In Bolivia, hot water from the tap is rare and it must be heated on the stove. Many kids will unintentionally pull the boiling pots of water off the burners and onto themselves if unsupervised. 

I left the burn unit in a solemn state. The ride back I didn’t talk much, I just sat behind our driver and watched the city pass us by. The air was cool and crisp and I found the variety of shops, foot traffic and graffiti to be soothing as we drove back to the hospital. Far off on the horizon were the biggest mountains I’d ever seen in my life - jagged pyramids thrusting heavenward with the clouds hanging just above them. The bigness of it all made me feel tiny, like a small child cradled in the palm of our great God. Praise Him that He heals and protects us, because I most certainly cannot. 

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If you made it to the end of this post, please pray for the healing of Esmerelda and that she can return to her family soon. Sometimes it’s difficult to pray for someone you don’t know, but thankfully the Holy Spirit intercedes on our behalf and God knows how to care for his children better than anyone else. 

elizabeth