Kissing a cleft lip goodbye- Adnan's journey, Part II

By Nicole Lapin
CNN.com Live anchor

I’m nervous. Adnan’s parents clearly are, too. “Habibi, habibi,” his mother laughs trying to hide her nerves and keep her son entertained for what’s going to be a long night.

Adnan on the surgical table in Alexandria.

Usually the state-run hospital in Alexandria, Egypt, is closed on Friday night. But, tonight is an exception. Select staff members show up to admit kids like Adnan Saleh who will get cleft lip and/or palate surgery in the morning.

“No eating, no drinking starting now,” a nurse says in Arabic as she shuffles six moms and their kids into rooms with as many beds. The mothers sleep in a twin bed with their child, some in full veil and hijab. They’re in cramped, undesirable conditions, but they never complain.

“I would do anything for my son,” Adnan’s father, Mohammed, tells me as he is separated from his wife for the night. I know it’s going to be a sleepless night for everyone involved.

I was right- Saleh is back at the hospital at 7 a.m. the next morning with bloodshot eyes that match those of his wife and baby son. They are in the second group of surgeries the Operation Smile volunteers will perform that morning.

“You will be in the operating room? Right?” Saleh asks me. I nod, unsure how saying yes will put his mind at ease, just that it will.

I put on scrubs for the first time since I was 3 years old and my surgeon father took me into O.R. with him. I only look like a doctor, but there is a team of skilled specialists attending to Adnan. Because a cleft lip and/or palate can cause other health problems ranging from ear disease to dental problems, the team includes a pediatrician, a plastic surgeon, a dentist, an otolaryngologist, a speech-language pathologist and audiologist, and a geneticist.

The O.R. is busy but runs smoothly – seven operating tables side-by-side with a different child on each small gurney, surrounded by machines bigger than them. Saleh paces in the waiting room as the nurses clean up from the first round.

“Saleh, Adnan,” the lead nurse calls out. Before I know it, Adnan’s cubby legs are being tapped over and over again by anesthesiologists trying to find a vein. I can hear his mother yelling through the glass, “habibi, habibi,” which means “my love” in Arabic. A day later it has a different tenor.

Visit CNNhealth.com in the coming days to learn how Adnan's surgery turned out.

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