Baby Unit adventures.

"Baby Unit: Mothers and Father's only." I guess I'll have to do, after all I am listed as "next of kin" on his medical records. Right next to his made-up name and religion. Yes, I said religion. "Christian or Muslim?" the man behind the counter is asking me. I'm standing here holding the tiny 2 week-old baby in my arms. "Can't he decide for himself?" I ask. He looks confused. "Christian or Muslim?" he repeats. The papers say "Christian". This is right before he informs me that he is going to get my phone number off Blessing's information and give me a call. "No you're not," I say. He notices my last name. Foli. It's a common Ghanaian name. "Is your husband Ghanaian?" he asks. I say no. "My husband is Italian." This isn't the first time I've lied about being married.

An hour or so later, Bertha (the orphanage nurse) and I are ushered into a room filled with hospital beds occupied by babies and their mothers. These words: "Attention: The time of collection of all dead bodies must be recorded in the death book" is scribbled on ripped off notebook paper and taped to the wall. Mother's cradle sick children in their arms as they suckle on unabashedly exposed breasts. Sweat is trickling down my forehead. We are now being ushered into yet another room so that the doctor (who is wearing jeans and a t-shirt) can get a blood sample. Maybe this is where my maternal instinct kicks in, I'm not really sure...but I'm light-headed. And this is coming from a girl who can watch open-heart surgery on the discovery channel, while eating dinner. My stomach feels like it is floating in my abdomen and all I can do is hold his tiny little hand in mine as he screams bloody murder. I've never even heard him cry before. The doctor's face remains expressionless, even while Blessing makes cat-like shrieks.

We're in another room now. Blessing is laying in a baby bed, that could easily be mistaken for a shopping cart at wal-mart. "Nikki", says Bertha. She calls me Nikki, even though I have repeatedly told her to call me Kimber, which is what all the kids call me. "You take Blessing home with you to 'Merica," she says, while laughing. It's one of those eye-twinkling, obnoxious village woman laughs. I'm laughing, but secretly I wish I could take him home with me. I would have to give him a different name though. Kids in America would definitely make fun of a kid named Blessing. I think they've given him the middle name, Kofi. That is the default name given to any male child born on Friday. There is a different name for every day of the week. My Ghanaian name is Ifia, "Friday-born." Anyway, Bertha is talking again. "Blessing Foli," then that obnoxious laugh again. I've got to get some fresh air. He needs formula, and this seems like a great task for me. So I wonder outside into the market and find some formula a lot faster than I would have liked. There's the man from the hospital. "I'll call you," he shouts from across the street. I just wave, muttering ugly words under my breath.

It's 6:30. I've now been here all day. Time to go. Blessing will stay the night here tonight. I hope the mosquito's don't get him. I'm going to find out if the hospital will take mosquito nets. If so, then I will bring some by. There are still tons and tons of them piled up in the ISEP office. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who has donated some of them. Bertha says that she will escort me back to Circle. "It's dangerous at night. A cab driver will kill you," she says as she runs her hand across her neck, simulating a knife.

I'm yawning, and still sweating. There is dirt caked on my skin and I'm dreading the cold shower that awaits me. I wouldn't dread it at all if it were still daylight. But the sun has gone down and it's chilly. Keep in mind that my definition of "chilly" has changed drastically over the last three months. I've been counting my cold chills. I'm at 9, and all of those were on the beach. Amazing goose-bumps. Anyway, time for that shower.