This blogpost continues my story about "Enrique", one year later...
Part 2. November, 2010: CAMO, Hospital Occidente, Santa Rosa de Copan, Honduras.
The little boy scooted happily across the exam table, laughing in the morning sun. His large brown eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity as he listened through the stethoscope and pulled at the curtains and tried to taste the reflex hammer. Less thrilled with examination of his shunt, he retreated to his mother’s arms for a few beats, but the retreat soon evolved into a game of peek-a-boo, followed by more investigation and exploration. His pretty young mother kept her gaze always on her son.
Dr. Alvarez and I were seeing outpatients in the clinic at Hospital Occidente. Most of the patients we had seen in follow - up that morning were doing reasonably well, but this little boy was fantastic. He had a history of a shunt for hydrocephalus, but his head circumference was now normal. His neurologic examination revealed only mild weakness in the legs and feet, corresponding to his congenital disorder. All other developmental milestones were perfectly on target, and his cognitive development was excellent.
“Wow, Roberto, nice job! This little guy looks great,” I exclaimed.
Dr. Alvarez grinned broadly, flipped to a page in the chart, and pointed to a small white rectangular sticker. The page was the operative record, and the sticker was the implant record from the shunt that was placed. On the sticker was printed: “Integra,” along with a reference and lot number, model number, description, and a box for the patient’s name and a date.
“He has one of the shunts you brought last year,” Dr. Alvarez said.
I smiled and glanced down at the sticker, then froze as I read and re-read the patient’s name and date. Impossible.
“What is wrong, Dr. Denise? Are you OK?” Roberto said as I turned the pages until welling tears blurred my vision to the point I could not read any more.
“This is the boy with the Perinaud’s….” I said, voice catching as I steadied myself.
Frowning in confusion, Roberto said “Pardon me? Did you say Perinaud’s? I do not think this boy has Perinaud’s.”
It was my turn to grin broadly, as I explained how I remembered this boy from the previous year and how I assumed he must have died.
Enrique’s [not his real name] mother, who had kept her gaze her vigorous son, looked up, caught my eye, and beamed. Her recognition confirmed the medical record. Enrique lunged for her necklace, which bore a small golden figure with wings. I remembered the dark wings outside this boy’s window last year and marveled at the transformation. As she shifted to evade his chubby fingers, the necklace caught the light: An angel. He had been surrounded by angels all along, I just hadn’t recognized them. They were "CAMOflaged".
Epilogue
“Where you live in the world shouldn’t determine whether you live in the world.”
- Bono
Through CAMO’s unique program of need-based aid, careful developmental planning, accountability, documentation, and follow up, donations make a tremendous positive difference. In Enrique’s case, CAMO programs and donations made the difference not just between living and dying, but between severe disability and good health. I have summarized only the first and most recent chapters of Enrique’s story. His first few months after the shunt were touch-and-go, but because he received ongoing care and follow-up through CAMO’s neurosurgery program, he not only survived, but thrived.
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