Fighting for survival - Teen with sickle cell needs urgent help

Inside the dimly lit All Souls Anglican Church in Oxford, St Elizabeth, a teenage boy lies curled on an old mattress, his frail body burning with fever.

The space, now a temporary shelter for hurricane victims, echoes with the soft hum of restless children -- but for Joel Wynter, every breath is a battle.

The 14-year-old, who suffers from sickle cell, has been in excruciating pain since last Tuesday, the day Hurricane Melissa hit. His mother, Mitzie Robinson, says his condition has worsened as he now fights a severe cold on top of his chronic illness.

"Him deh pon the mattress inna pain. All a we have sickle cell, but him worse," Robinson said, her voice laced with fear.

Sickle cell disease is a painful, inherited blood disorder that causes red blood cells to take on a rigid, crescent shape, blocking blood flow and depriving the body of oxygen. Those living with the condition often experience severe bouts of pain, fatigue, and frequent infections, which can become life-threatening without proper medical care.

Robinson says her family is without medical supplies, and they have been unable to leave the community for treatment.

"Mi nuh know what fi do again. Mi nuh have no food, no water, no medicine, not even a painkiller," she said. "Normally, mi woulda give dem Advil or Panadol, but mi nuh have nutten. Mi feel so helpless," she added.

Robinson, a mother of four, lost everything when Hurricane Melissa ripped through Oxford, located near Brompton, last week. She and her children first sought refuge at Brompton Basic School, just a few steps from where their home once stood. But moments after arriving, the roof of the school peeled away in the wind.

"A the mercy of God save we," she said. "Zinc start fly, and mi haffi grab the baby dem and run. The children did a bawl out, 'Mommy, mi nuh wah dead!' Mi just haffi pray and tell dem fi keep hope."

The family then dashed through the storm and found shelter in the nearby church, where they've been ever since. But conditions are dire. The air is thick with humidity, the heat unbearable, and there is little food to go around.

"A somebody lend mi a mattress and sponge, and a pon dat we a sleep," Robinson said.

As night falls over the battered community of Oxford, fear creeps into the church-turned-shelter where dozens of women and children now sleep. For Robinson, rest never comes easy -- not just because of hunger and heat, but because of the gnawing fear that danger could slip through the doors at any moment.

"Because we a woman, people even try come in pon we, so mi just a pray night and day," she said.

As she spoke, a small hand tugged gently at this reporter's shirt. It was Robinson's grandson, a boy no older than eight, his eyes wide with worry.

"Miss, you have no cold medicine fi mi sister?" he asked softly. "See her inna mi madda lap lay down ... at night time she cough a whole heap. You have anything fi give mi madda fi gi har?," he asked, concern written all over his face.