opinion

The eyes of a true angel
by Katalina Durbin

It was my first period in Mr. Young’s graphic design class after coming back from Christmas break. I sat down at my computer, next to Dalisha, a friend, and started working. As I opened the programs, she asked me the question everyone asks on the first day back to school, “What did you do this break?”

What did I do?

I told her, casually, that I volunteered at the Hospital del Niño for three and a half weeks. When I said that, the look on her face was of shock, as if I just said something completely out of the ordinary, as if I was joking. But I wasn’t; not at all. Her reaction made me wonder what people really thought of me. What kind of person do they think I am? A party animal? A wild chick? That morning I sat before the computer trying to figure out the kind of person she thought I was.

The day after Christmas I applied to volunteer at the Hospital del Niño. My main reason for volunteering was to accumulate a few hours for the Congressional Award, a scholarship program. At the same time, I’m interested in becoming a pediatric nurse and I wanted a taste of what I would be doing. Since I have some experience with babies—through volunteering in an orphanage as well as babysitting—the hospital accepted me. As soon as I walked into the building, they sent me to the second floor. Upstairs there were two rooms full of cribs with babies and their families next to them. I was impressed to see many Kuna and Ngobe Indians who had come from as far away as San Blas, Darien, and Bocas out of concern for their children. Every baby had someone who loved and took care of them.

But in the last row, in the far corner of the room, was a baby alone, with no one caring for him. He was going to be my responsibility for the next few weeks. His name was Angel. He had been abandoned at the hospital the day he was born. His parents ran off when they discovered he had a severe health problem. Angel was born with cephalitis: a condition that doesn’t allow fluid to drain properly from the brain, causing the skull to enlarge. When I first saw him, tears swelled in my eyes and my heart broke, like fragile glass hitting the floor.

The baby stared back with a blank expression on his face. Because of the condition, he was blind. I touched his tiny arms and found that it didn’t feel anything like a baby’s soft, delicate skin but more like an old, used piece of rough, dry sandpaper. I then noticed a long tube running along the inside of the skin of his head that went down to his neck. I had no idea what it was and it scared me. The nurses told me that it was a valve to help him release brain fluids properly.

During those weeks, I spent eight hours a day at the hospital. I’d feed Angel, take him to physical therapy, help him stretch on my own, and put on a prescribed lotion to try to soften his skin. But beside this I had to keep him as relaxed and comfortable as possible. Angel would often have these horribly painful spasms that lasted 7-8 seconds. His legs and arms would shoot up in the air. His facial expression showed his fear and agony. He would become red, like a tomato, and stiff, like a plank of wood. When Angel had the first attack my heart sank to the pit of my stomach and it made me feel as if ants were crawling all over my body and down my throat. I’ve never been so scared in my life. To be honest, my first thought was that he was dying. He wasn’t; but there was nothing I or anyone else could do but gently rub his tummy and place one’s fingers in his tiny hands so he wouldn’t cut them with his nails. It hurt so much to see this poor, innocent child suffer so much pain without his parents there to show him affection or love. It made me angry to learn that there can be such selfish people in this world. In fact, the thought still disturbs me.

Yet, in spite of all the problems, Angel was as sweet as honey and he had the eyes of a true angel. I spent most of my Christmas vacation in the hospital, and on my days off I could be found in bed, sound asleep. Maybe I didn’t go out as much as my schoolmates over the break, or visit some extraordinary place, but I did gain true happiness by helping a complete stranger.

After staring at my computer for awhile, trying to figure out what people truly thought about me, I came to one gratifying and simple conclusion: it didn’t matter. I know who I am. To be honest, I haven’t seen Angel since the day I left his bedside, but he’s always on my mind and in my heart. Every time I pass the Hospital del Niño I look out the car window and wonder how he’s doing, praying that someone caring is with him. I’d like to visit him, but it’s complicated: a person just can’t walk in without permission.

It hurt to see Angel struggle with pain and not be able to help. That Christmas vacation I experienced emotions I never felt before; and most of these brought me to tears. If anything, I was weak while Angel bravely fought his daily battles. Every time I’d carry him in my arms he’d smile. And his smile was magical because at the end of each day I’d leave the hospital with a beautiful, indescribable feeling inside.

Katalina Durbin is a junior at Balboa Academy