A Thanksgiving To Remember

This is the time of year that we all give thanks, or at least that is the theory, for the blessings we have. My thought had always been that while heads were bowed during grace, the blessings are for more material things. Mom is giving thanks that her best china hasn't been broken to pieces, Dad is giving thanks that as soon as this is over he can take a nap before the football game. Bradley is giving thanks that he found a part for his car, Bella is giving thanks that she's not pregnant and little Billy is giving thanks that he can play his video games when all this family stuff is over.

Years ago I worked on the pediatric ward of one of our local hospitals. Now I know many of you are thinking, how sad, all those sick children. True, it could be very sad. But, as Art Linkletter used to say (yes, I am old) "Kids say the darnedest things".

This tale is not, however, not a happy one. It is the story of a little four year old Arabian girl who touched my heart in such a way that I will never forget her.

It was this time of the year and on the pediatric floor we were very busy. It's the middle of respiratory season. Children with asthma, sinus infections and chronic bronchitis are the main admissions. You can walk onto the floor and almost hear the oxygen tents at work. It was my year to work Thanksgiving and my shift began at three o'clock. Because of the holiday, several of the children had been discharged earlier in the day and most were expected to leave during my shift.

After, what would be considered the dinner hour, admissions called stating they had a child to be admitted with a fracture caused by a fall at her uncle's home. She was visiting from nearby Toronto in Canada for the holiday. Oh, she was tiny and timid, obviously scared to death. All I kept thinking was, here is this poor little girl, in a strange country surrounded by all these people poking and prodding, not understanding a word we said. How frightening that must be.

It was during the admission process while I was getting her into a gown, that I noticed a red marking on her back, a welt you might say. The welt was about an inch and a half wide and approximately four or five inches long. Of course, this was pointed out to my charge nurse who immediately called on the attending resident to look at. To all of us, this looked like it was done by a belt. This gets the ball rolling with Child Protective Services (CPS) in a heartbeat. I was asked to stay with her until her family returned from completing the admissions process. I picked her up, took her to the rocker and sat there with her, stroking her hair, humming and telling her that everything would be just fine, no one would hurt her again. She, of course, didn't understand the words I was saying but I believe she did understand the tears in my eyes and my gentle touch.

Her mother, back from admissions, took a chair but made no move to comfort the child. She sat there with her eyes darting back and forth like a scared rabbit. This really was not unusual. Many of the women I had encountered over the years at the hospital from Yemen or any of the Arabian countries do not speak English. I looked at her, smiled what I'd hoped would be a comforting smile, letting her know that everything would be fine. No sense speaking the words she wouldn't understand. Her uncle was the next to enter the room and the child tensed so much that I knew in my heart that he was the one that had done this to her.

When the resident came in to speak with the family, I gave her to her mother and left the room. I immediately expressed my thoughts to my charge nurse and asked that we move her to the "fishbowl" to keep an eye, not only on her, but her uncle. The "fishbowl" is what we called the observation room across from the nurses station. It's comprised of all windows and used most of the time for seizure patients. My spot at the nurse's station was directly across from this room and I kept a close watch to what was going on in there. This was one time my nosy nature was a blessing. I noticed the behavior of her with each family member, and each time her uncle came into the room she'd manage to get out of there and come running to me. It seemed I'd become her safe haven.

It finally came out that the uncle had sexually abused her, gave her the whipping and pushed her down the stairs as a warning as to what would happen to her if she ever told anyone what he had done.

This little one, that touched me so, nominated me as Employee of the Month (I lost to the groundskeeper. Mowing the lawn is so much more important than what I was doing), sent me cards and drawings. She came to visit me a few months later to give me the greatest of all her gifts, in English she said "Thank you". Suddenly, the cards and pictures stopped. I received word though her mother (just try and find someone to translate Arabic when you need to) that her uncle was released and beat her to death.

So each year, when my head is bowed in prayer, I think of that little one, who so many years ago changed the blessings I count.

Thanks to You

What a ride the past year has been. It wouldn't have been possible if you, my faithful reader and follower, had not been along for the ride. I began my journey writing about what I knew best, me. I held your interest. You asked for more. Amazed may have describe my feelings. Astounded and flabbergasted are adjectives I can think of. Requests for more began to fill my email. People began to send friend requests so they would get the announcement of the latest story. I have not been posting as often as I would like; I started a story that is becoming more of a book. I do promise to continue posting my shorter stories. Thank you again for helping me get to my first blogiversary.