The Oakville Beaver
Saturday April 16, 2005
By Craig MacBride
There are a million stories here in Pena Blanca, most of them quiet tragedies.
As we prepare again for a heart-wrenching adios, a couple of stories form this week stand out.
The first happened Thursday in the medical clinic.
A 40-year-old woman and four of her 10 children came into the office to be treated for parasites. The form that was filled out in the office’s makeshift reception area listed the common symptoms.
It wasn’t until Dr. Ruth Mathieson was checking the family over that she noticed the youngest boy’s legs.
They were twisted to the side from the knee down and dislocated from his hips. It was tibial torsion, plus club foot and an extra toe.
His name was Sergio Ramirez, a two-year-old wearing a yellow cloth diaper and a filthy green t-shirt.
The previous day, when I was interviewing Dr. Mathieson about her experiences here, she was hesitant to use the word frustrating.
Young Sergio changed that.
“You asked if I ever get frustrated. Sometimes I do,” she said, speaking over the young boy’s crying. “He’ll probably never walk. It could’ve been fixed if they did something at birth.”
They could also try surgery, but that kind of surgery isn’t covered by the national medical system in Guatemala, and many of these people don’t have money enough for food.
“(It’s frustrating) because it’s the start of his life, for want of correctional boots from day one, for want of surgery. You can knock our Canadian health system, but OHIP would’ve covered this. How’s he going to have a life? Who’s going to marry him? He’s never going to be able to walk. Without being able to walk in this country, I don’t think there’s any chance he can get a trade.”
She added, “He’s going to be left behind.”
As the child left, Dr. Mathieson sighed and looked defeated, a strange state in which to see the assertive 62-year-old.
The second story from this week that stands out involved Manuel Ramirez (not related to Sergio), a five-year-old boy who has a hard time seeing.
He was first noticed by Louis Gris, a 61-year-old medical laboratory technologist at Oakville Trafalgar Memorial Hospital.
“There appeared to be some obvious problems with his eyes. He was squinting and his eyes were moving around,” Gris said.
The next day, Manuel returned to the community centre with his brother.
Gris, recognizing him, walked him to the medical clinic, where the boy was examined by Dr. Mathieson, who figured his squinting was worst in the sun.
“We didn’t have any sunglasses,” Gris said. “She took her clip-ons and fitted them with scotch tape and there seemed to be an improvement.”
Gris and Dr. Mathieson then went on a mission back in La Union to find child-sized sunglasses, which they did eventually find and take to Pena Blanca.
“We found out where he was living and I went to his house and spoke to his mother, and then out came Manuel, wearing the shirt we gave him yesterday, and he was dirty. I cleaned his face and his hands. He was in pretty bad shape,” Gris said. “I put some pants on him and fitted him with glasses.”
Gris, who has worked with autistic children in the past, thinks Manuel might have autism. Gris has spent hours sitting with Manuel this week, allowing the boy to play with his camera and teaching him to drum using pens. The boy is fascinated, and has taken to Gris.
The two of them play together, and though they don’t speak the same language and Manuel barely even speaks at all, there is a connection, and we’ve all had them here, just as we did in Volcancito.
Everyone latches on to at least one other person, someone they can instantly relate to, even without really communicating with them, and it’s difficult to leave those people behind. There is always the desire to take them out of this place, give them a better chance.
Hopefully, one day, the situation here will improve. It’s why we’re here, so that maybe Manuel will be able to get a real fix for his eyes, and so the baby will find a way to get his legs fixed and his life back. We’re here to help, and to tell our world about theirs in the hope that these quiet tragedies, these stories of misery, will no longer be as quiet, and perhaps one day, as a result, they won’t be as numerous.