May 1997
The families queued up in the early morning hours, lining up at the front door of the little church in the Caribbean coastal town of Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua. The line soon stretched around the side of the church and down the hot, dusty lane, out to the main road. They were there to see the American doctors.
Most of the complaints were typical to any primary care clinic . . .
“Tengo gripe, Señor.” (“I have the flu, Sir”)
“Me duele aquí.” (“It hurts here.” [pointing to the affected body part])
“¿Podría tomar algunas vitaminas?” (“Could I have some vitamins?”)
And then a young mother presented with her two-year-old daughter in her arms. The little girl was striking in contrast. Her pretty pink dress stood out starkly against the drab of the browns and tans of a hot, dusty Nicaragua.
“Mi hija está enferma,” said the young mother. (“My daughter is sick.”)
As with most of the children, she wasn’t very ill, just a simple cold. Reassurance, medication for worms, some children’s vitamins, and the little girl and her mother left.
Several patients later, another young mother walked in, daughter in arms, and that little girl was also dressed in a pretty pink dress. Later that morning, another mother with her daughter dressed in a pink dress came to the top of the queue. And throughout the day, mothers with daughters in arms presented to my makeshift clinic, each little girl donning a pink dress. Six or seven girls in all.
It wasn’t until late-afternoon, I discovered the reason for this Nicaraguan toddler fashion trend. It wasn’t a pink dress fashion trend at all, but rather little girls coming to the doctor, each dressed in the best their mothers could provide—each little girl donning the same pink dress. The mother and little girl would leave the clinic, walk down the line, and pass off the dress to the next little girl in the queue.
The quiet, simple dignity of these young mothers was humbling.
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