I wanna hold your hand

There was one little boy that I will never forget. I see his little face in my mind even now. He was alone on the back of a large truck. There were three groups of people, but this little boy was clearly alone. He lay there crooked in an uncomfortable looking position crying. He caught my eye from the pharmacy. At that point we had so many new people coming in that we were forced to keep them waiting to be evaluated before unloading them from the trucks.

I went over to that precious little boy and I sat beside him on the truck. I rubbed his little arm and spoke to him. I didn't speak Creole and his probably didn't understand my English or Spanish, but he did understand my touch and he grasped my hand as if it were a matter of life and death. As I held his hand and rubbed his arm I noticed he was burning up with fever. I left him to get some tylenol and he screamed bloody murder when I left him. As soon as I came back he grabbed my hand again.

I called over one of the doctors to evaluate him. They took him off the truck and started to unwrap the bandage around his right arm. He was screaming as the blood and infection stained bandage came off. The screams and the smell coming from his wound made me sick to my stomach. I kept holding his little hand and trying to have him look at me and not watch the doctors.

I looked into his eyes, as I heard the doctors talk about the wound. The verdict broke my heart. His arm was full of gangreen and needed to be amputated immediately to save his life. They carried him off in that very moment for surgery. I never saw him again. I was told later that he had lost all six of his family members in the quake. He was alone in the world and now missing an arm as well.

I searched for him among the crowds. I heard he had made it through the surgery, but I couldn't find him. . . I heard that someone had come to pick him up later--maybe an uncle. . . I heard that he had been taken to another hospital or orphanage. . . the truth is I don't know. I have told this story a few times and it has been too hard to admit to myself and to others that I never really knew what happened to this little boy whose face I can't erase from my mind that I have lied and told one of the endings like I knew it was real. I don't. If I lied to you, I ask your forgiveness.

I long to know the ending to his story. The truth is I don't know if he is alive or dead, with someone who loves him or alone. And that truth tears me up inside. It is sometimes easier to try to make yourself believe the lie than it is to tell the bitter truth. I want to believe that he is ok, I pray that he is.