Marthali Brand : First Person
`That’s incredible. I would never be able to do that.” That’s the first thing most people say when they hear that I am a volunteer at a care centre for children with Aids. The second thing is: “Isn’t it tough to know that those children are going to die?”
I have always wanted to be a volunteer, but, until recently, there just wasn’t time and I didn’t know where to start. When I started working more flexible hours, I decided that the time was right. My mother heard about a care centre for HIV-positive children from a fellow member of Pretoria’s Soroptomists. The centre was looking for volunteers, so I called up the Reverend Barry Hughes-Gibbs and he organised for me to come and see for myself whether this was what I wanted to do.
The Diana Princess of Wales Mohau Children’s Care Centre is based at Kalafong hospital on the outskirts of Pretoria. It is run by Hughes-Gibbs under the auspices of Kerux, an organisation connected to the Motivation Educational Trust NGO. The centre takes care of about 14 children, half of them babies and half toddlers, all of whom are HIV positive, and some of whom were abandoned or orphaned when their parents died from the same disease.
In the long term, Hughes-Gibbs plans to run a much bigger orphanage and help more parents who are unable to look after their sick children. The rooms, the beds, the cupboards and the cribs are all ready to be used, but the centre doesn’t have the money to run a bigger operation. For now it is doing what it can with the little money it gets from donations.
The staff at Mohau is made up of medical personnel from the hospital, adult Aids sufferers from Kalafong’s immunology clinic, students from the University of Pretoria and a large contingent of volunteers.
I have no specialised skills to offer the centre, but I adore children, and they seem to be comfortable with me, so I am what Hughes-Gibbs calls a hugger. And that is exactly what I do: I hold the babies, because even with the best medical care, sufficient food and clean clothes, these infants can’t survive without human contact, and the overworked doctors, sisters and physiotherapists don’t have the time to hug the children.
For three hours in the morning of my day off every week, I play with the toddlers, change their nappies, feed the babies and soothe them when they cry. For the greater part, it is a joy to work with the children.
The toddlers have a playroom filled with donated toys where they spend their mornings. Students have painted the walls of the children’s rooms and the dining room downstairs with bright scenes from fairy tales, teddy bears and tree-filled gardens. The babies have their own room, as do the toddlers, with a crib for each and cupboards full of donated clothes along the walls. Each child has to have his or her own nappies, toothbrush, washcloth and cleaning products to prevent germs being passed from one child to another.
The staff all wear plastic aprons, and when we clean the children, we also don rubber gloves. The chances of contracting HIV from the children are very low, but they are real, and staff are warned to put waterproof plasters on any cuts or abrasions, especially on our hands.
The first one to greet me every Friday when I walk into the playroom is Given, who delights in giving everybody he sees a high five and a barely suppressed giggle. Most of our time is taken up keeping track of Kabelo, who recently discovered the wide world of running. His sole mission in life is to escape from any room he finds himself in. Hughes-Gibbs has had to install a cage- like metal structure over Kabelo’s crib to contain him during the hours when he is supposed to sleep.
Victoria can also walk, with a vengeance, and she has recently started talking. She loves learning the names of all the toddlers and calling to them from across the room.
Ofentse is the most affectionate of all the toddlers. He can’t walk because of a disabled leg, but he is a speedy crawler and ambushes anybody who comes in the door for a quick hug. Lothabo is the quintessential chubby toddler in perennial good humour. He loves watching television and is exceptionally well behaved.
These five are all in relatively good health, with the usual winter snuffles, nappy rashes and upset tummies that all toddlers are prone to. Some of the babies, however, are not too well off.
Beauty is a tiny creature with beautiful, big eyes, but she’s been very sick. She doesn’t eat properly and is painfully thin and weak. Although she must be in constant pain, she only cries when she is left alone.
Leandra has a shock of black hair, two bright button-brown eyes and a quick smile. But she has bad days when she is very weak and she can’t eat much.
And this is why I find it so harrowing sometimes that I don’t want to go back. I have to steel myself every Friday when I walk into the baby room because I don’t know whether Beauty has made it through another week.
And although I know that I’m not in danger of catching HIV from the children if I take the right precautions, I can’t escape the feeling when I leave in the afternoon that I have somehow been contaminated. Mostly I can put this out of my mind when I’m holding a crying baby or playing with an exuberant toddler, but at times it’s really tough. I find myself making up excuses not to go to the centre.
And then, after having missed my Friday mornings for four weeks in a row, I call up Hughes-Gibbs and he tells me that Leandra is better and has left the centre with her adoptive parents and Beauty has recovered and looks unrecognisably healthy.