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Here at the hospital, we keep a giant black, fabric-covered log book where we register every birth that ever takes place at the hospital. We call it the book of life. Its probably about 18x24 inches, although I might be exaggerating a little bit in my head, but it’s definitely the biggest book I’ve ever seen in my entire life. For some quirky reason, one of my favorite parts of each delivery is registering the information in the book. I also love looking back at old data, comparing how many births happened in the first year of the hospital and seeing how every year that number increases. Last year we set a record of 87 deliveries in one month, and I was there for it. Everyone kept talking about how crazy that month was. Well, crazy has reached a whole new level. And this month, we blew that record out of the water with 106 deliveries.  Even when I write that number, it doesn’t seem too impressive. But come spend a day with me at the hospital, and you will see something imp

When I heard a tap on the front door, I wasn’t expecting anyone. As soon as I saw who it was, I let out a joyful exclamation, and the woman outside with a baby tied to her back broke into a beautiful smile.  She delivered her baby prematurely at the hospital a couple of months ago, and just last week I visited her in her home to encourage her. After a wonderful visit, I made conversation as I was on my way out. “Thanks for the visit! You know you are welcome to come to my house anytime.” I explained how to find it, she nodded, and I never thought she would actually come.  How silly of me.  I should have remembered that visiting someone in their home (unannounced and for no good reason) is one of the most important cultural values in a friendship in west Africa. That’s how people communicate love and value. That’s why my visit to her home meant so much to her, and why her visit to my home meant so much to me. It means we’re officially friends.  While sitting on my couch

“She’s having contractions, but not very regular or effective ones,” the nurse explained to me as I received report on a patient in our fourth labor bed. “And her cervix is four centimeters dilated, which hasn’t changed overnight.” As I flipped through the patient’s chart, the handwriting and information started to look familiar. Then it occurred to me, “Oh my goodness! I cared for this patient the day before yesterday. Is she still here ?” “Yep, still pregnant,” the midwife replied. I had admitted this patient two days ago for induction of labor. It’s not that she had been in labor for two days at this point; it was that we had been trying to get her to go into labor for two days. It wasn’t even her first baby; the problem was that she was postdates of 42 weeks, already ruptured (her water had broken), and the baby’s head was still very high and unengaged in the pelvis after three days of irregular contractions. “At this rate, she’s asking for a C-section,” I casually com

Every good road trip needs a playlist. That’s why Caroline suggested that each one of the six of us pick one secular and one Christian song. Once we got in the car, the song suggestions were coming so fast that Taylor’s Apple Music couldn’t download quick enough. It was only about an hour to our destination, but you know what, that’s a road trip by Africa standards. What was most impressive was that all six of us - five nurses and a doctor - all managed to get the same day off! That alone was reason enough for a road trip.  Let’s call it a girls day out actually. The six of us started at 5 am by climbing the water tower at the hospital, backpacks loaded with jars of hot coffee, to watch the sunrise from the highest point on the horizon. Afterwards, we ordered egg sandwiches (a local favorite) and then motoed (just realized that is not a real English word, but we use it all the time; meaning the act of riding one’s moto) to the hippo pond where we munched on egg sandwiches whil

On April 4, 2019, a baby was born prematurely at 27 weeks gestation, weighing in at a whopping 1.07 kilograms. She started out with a CPAP breathing machine, an umbilical cord vein for IV fluids and medications, and all kinds of electrodes for monitoring her heart rate, respiratory rate, and oxygenation status. All the lines and tubes took up more space than her actual little body. The medical providers prayed that she would live, for they knew that any day could take a turn for the better or worse. The parents of the baby had practically decided that she would not live, and so they started to detach and keep a distance to protect their own hearts.  But as the weeks carried on and she proved to all of us what a trooper she was, we were gradually able to remove the lines and tubes and wean her from most of her treatments. With a few extra ounces of weight, she also started to look more like a tiny human than an undercooked neonate. The parents realized what a fighter she was and th