The Burden of a Sick Child

On another routine visit to the hospital, I beheld a scene that tortured me. A man, no more than 40, backed a child who couldn’t have been older than four. Her limbs hung loosely, her head nestled weakly against his shoulder. The mother trailed behind, carrying a worn, middle-sized bag; one of those that looked like it hadn’t seen a full night’s rest in months. Both parents looked hollowed out, not from hunger, but from something heavier: fatigue of the soul.

They stood in front of the nurses’ station, waiting quietly for instructions. The father moved from leg to leg, easing the stress on one as the other appear on the mend. The child, looking lifeless, didn’t move.

Curious and troubled, I struck up a conversation with one of the attendants. She lowered her voice and said, “They’ve been here before, for six months last year. Spent millions out of pocket. Heard they sold land, borrowed. The child was getting better. But the condition relapsed. They’re back.”

No names were needed. The story was too common.

When a child falls seriously ill, it doesn’t just threaten the body, it ripples out, shaking the foundation of an entire household. Everything changes. The rhythm of days, the structure of priorities, the finances, the hope. Joy becomes rationed. Laughter gets quieter. Parents age faster. Households strain.

And then there’s the cost.

In Nigeria, where less than 5% of the population has access to health insurance, most families pay out-of-pocket for treatment. According to UNICEF, one in ten Nigerian children dies before their fifth birthday, often from treatable illnesses like pneumonia, diarrhea, or malaria. But for children with complex or chronic conditions like cancer, kidney failure, cerebral palsy, the road is longer, lonelier, and, needless to say, far more expensive.

The National Health Insurance Authority (NHIA) has yet to fully protect the most vulnerable. For conditions like leukemia or sickle cell crisis, a single hospital admission can cost upwards of ₦500,000 to ₦1 million. That’s 1-2 years of earnings for millions of Nigerians who live on less than ₦2,500 a day.

One woman I met at the oncology wing in 2023 whispered, “We used to run a shop. Now we run from one lab to another. There’s nothing left. Even the generator was sold.” Another woman said she has forgotten about her career for now.

Parents of sick children live in constant anxiety. Every cough, every slight fever, feels like a possible emergency. They watch birthdays come and go inside hospital rooms. Siblings grow up quietly resenting the attention imbalance. Marriages strain. Social circles shrink. People stop visiting. School becomes a dream postponed.

A father I once knew, whose son was undergoing dialysis, told me: “I no longer pray for long life. I only pray that my boy lives long enough to laugh again. To jump again. That’s all.”

There’s a peculiar kind of heartbreak in watching your child brave a world of tubes and painful stares, all while being too young to understand why. When they cry, you’re helpless. When they don’t cry, you’re more afraid. Too many people have questioned the divine on account of a pain they consider too cruel to bear. As their spiritual leader visit, they whisper in agony, “Pastor, if God is all good and all powerful, why does He have to allow this 2-year-old to suffer like this?”

We celebrate recoveries. We clap for miracle survivors. But we don’t talk enough about the silent warriors. The ones who keep vigil for months without certainty. The mothers who learn how to flush IVs at home. The fathers who sleep in waiting room chairs and still show up to work in the morning. The siblings who learn to tiptoe around oxygen tanks.

And then there are the losses. Quiet burials. Quiet debts. Quiet disappearances from school, from siblings, from neighborhoods, from dreams.

Sometimes, I feel many social media conversations emerge from a lack of experience of life’s intimate struggles. Even if children owe their parents nothing, perhaps compassion should not be taken out of the bag.

She was eventually wheeled in. She looked up for a moment, made eye contact with her father. He smiled, but his eyes glistened. That look—the one that begs God for just one more chance—stayed with me all day.

To the families holding on, to the children fighting battles their bodies are too small for, may you find healing, help, and above all, honor. Because truly, you carry a burden many cannot begin to fathom.