24Even in the light of the lantern in our tent, I could see the deep slit, almost a crevice, between the baby’s little mouth and her nose, making it nearly impossible to feed her.
Lama Yeshe had brought some yak’s milk. We tried to put it in her mouth with a spoon, but the yellow-white liquid just flowed out of her nose, making us wonder if it would drown her.
“This is how you soothe a baby,” Mom said, hopefully placing her finger in the infant’s mouth. But the baby just couldn’t suckle.
“It’s not just her lips,” Mom said. “She has no palette, her mouth is malformed.” And then, quietly, sadly, “I don’t know if she’s going to make it, honey.”
As I stroked the infant’s cheek her slate black eyes reached out to me, mirroring the helplessness I felt, on this darkest of Himalayan nights.
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