Who would ever imagine that someone could go to a third world country and not speak the language? Maybe I am just crazy, but I think there is a Universal language. I have used this language many times since I have been here. The more I take time to immerse myself in this culture the more I am able to see that we are all human beings no matter where we are, what language we speak, what color we may be, or any factor that would make us different. Even though we may not speak the language we can still give a voice for the unheard.

Today I am sitting on the porch of the clinic, after a long morning of collecting data. I am covered with dirt, sweat, sun burnt, thirsty, and tired. Several children are in this make shift waiting room quietly waiting their turn to see the doctor. I have some stickers that I start passing out to them. Their faces light up as if I had given them a new bicycle, a twenty-dollar bill, or something of value. I give them stickers. They give me smiles, joy, laughter; priceless gifts that that could never compare to stickers!

One particular child seems to not want to leave my side, even when the others have come and gone. His name is Wilkies. He is three years old. Wilkies has bright brown eyes that have my full attention. I can tell that he is getting bored in the waiting area. I give him stickers and take his picture. He rests his little hand on my leg as if he was staking his claim. I turn one of the surveys over on my clipboard and uncap a pen. I motion to him to draw for me. I can see that he is drawing from his heart, doing the very best that he can to make each beautiful, squiggly line. When we go out to dinner at home and my son starts to get bored I flip the place mat over and pull a pen from my purse. He enjoys when I trace around his little hand. I try this with Wilkies. I place his little hand on the paper and trace around it. He is amused, wants to draw on his own, so I give him the pen back.

Wilkies is called to see the doctor. He does not want to leave me, but finally gives in. I look down at the picture, a handprint. I wonder what this boy’s life is like, why he is at the clinic. I feel the dismay of a mother with a sick child. I hope he is ok. Anita, a doctor from the clinic, must have sensed my dismay.

Anita says that Wilkies had a heart transplant. He was flown to New York for the operation, which was a donation by the hospital. I was shocked. He seemed very healthy under the circumstances, but about then he came out of the doctor’s office with no shirt on. I saw the little scar down his chest. I can’t imagine the feelings this mother must have gone through. My friend at home just recently had a heart transplant so I understand the enormous risks, etc. I wonder what this mother was told, whether she understood the dangers of the major operation. Did she know how to take care of him? I think of the many factors and health risks around here. My mothering worries kicked into over drive.

I need not worry, as he appeared to be fine. Anita assured me that he was doing great. I will never forget that face. I will never forget the unspoken words, the creative communication, or the handprint on my heart. I am learning the Universal language.

–Karen Smith, Zanesville Campus