The Value of Life

This week has been a bit of a wild ride. On Monday 12 students arrived from the USA to help in the clinic and Tuesday another 3 came to work in the lab with the technicians. Tuesday Manno took me to pick up a patient. I drove along the very bumpy and windy roads, parked, and we hopped on a couple motorcycles and arrived at her house. There she was, nothing to her. Sitting with a completely lifeless look on her face. I noticed how big her feet and hands were and how tall she was, yet every bone was visible and protruding. I’ve never seen anything like it. We loaded the motorcycles after they prepared and her 2 sisters came along with us. I drove back in the rain through the mountains and arrived at the hospital in the town next to ours. We sat in the waiting room for about an hour waiting to see a doctor. Meanwhile, a young girl died from electric shock. She was in the waiting room for who knows how long (at least an hour) and her heart stopped. The doctor didn’t try any form of resuscitation and we sat there listening to the family scream and cry in disbelief. This morning she was just fine, that evening she was gone. We watched as friends and family walked by us to go into the room to say goodbye. At this point we are exhausted from the travel and the emotions from the day. We haven’t eaten and are all hungry and we are just waiting. The doctor finally agrees to see her at his convenience and nothing. Manno says we are going to take her home with us because he doesn’t want to leave her there. So we bring her home. We feed her. We take her to a room at the University with her sisters. Test her insulin which is 594. The next day she sits all day in the living room at the house and I’m in charge of making sure she gets food and her insulin as Manno is at another clinic for the day. Rosalande begins to look a little better. Her glucose level is coming down and I even got a couple smiles out of her. There is something about showing someone that they are worth something. Manno shows this girl that her life matters. That he will make the treck out into the jungle to get her and bring her back to his home and care for her. Now, just maybe, she will fight for her life too. I was asked today if I thought she was going to make it, but I really don’t even want to think about that. I want to hope and pray for her, but at the same time I want to be ready for this reality. The reality of death. I’ve been here 3 weeks and have experienced 3 deaths (clinic staff members brother, baby at the clinic, girl at the hospital).

Last night the generator arrived at the clinic. This has been a work in progress and has been a bit of a worry for me as it’s taken months to ship it here and have it arrive. They unloaded it from the truck by hand (all 1340lbs). Slowly they lower it onto a couple of boards on top of 3 tires. The truck slowly inches forward as the generator is pulled out towards the ground. It took over an hour (or maybe two) and there was lots of yelling and disagreeing on whether or not the thing would crash to its death. I stood trying not to panic and when that thing was safe I was so relieved (Pictures to come). This is hope for this community and this country. This generator means that there will be electricity for the hospital. It means that people like Rosalande will be able to be admitted and treated properly, with dignity and respect. This huge thing gives hope. Someone cares about the future of these people.

Lastly, this afternoon I went to visit Boni as per usual. I brought the before and after picture of her printed for her to keep. Her mom is out showing her friends or family the picture and we can hear them talking from inside the house. This is about 45 minutes after I initially gave it to them. All of a sudden Boni starts sobbing, right in the middle of her leg lifts! I stand up and hold her and ask her if she’s hurt. I ask her to sit but nothing. She’s just crying. Her mom comes in and I ask to please explain what’s going on. I guess Boni was just so overwhelmed by the entire situation. That 1 year ago she was nearly dead. She should have died and yet here she is 1 year later making progress in her exercises. I tried to encourage her comfort her but there was so little that I could say. Her community is supporting her in her rehab and everyone is on board. I make the 5 minute walk down the road to her house twice each day and am greeted by everyone, most knowing who I am and what I’m doing. When I’m not able to come to the house, the family helps her with the exercises. And when I come again, there she is so excited to show me her progress. When I first started with Boni she couldn’t do a bicep curl without using her other hand to pull her arm up towards her shoulder. Today, she held a rock in her hand (which she couldn’t do either) and did 20! I have no idea what I’m doing when I go there, but the point is that I care. I care about her and her well being. I care about her life and her mobility. I care about her family and am able to love her just by showing up each day. They have so very very little. Their house is 1 room, 1 bed, hardly any clothes or food and yet they offer me gifts. I’ve brought home sugar cane and corn and have been so blessed and challenged by this family. I am often frustrated that I can’t understand what they are telling me, but we are making progress.

So today, was up and down again, all day. It’s beginning to feel like home here. When I drive down the road I can yell out hello to more then one person. When driving I pass people I know on their motorcycles and can shine my lights at them. I can sit with the women in the kitchen and eat corn or sit outside with them and eat sugar cane and talk about life. I feel welcome here and accepted, and that’s encouraging for me. I don’t like the special treatment I was given before as their blanc guest, but now I think they are seeing that I’m a lot like them. Different, but similar.

Lastly, this morning while waking up I leave my room and walk across to the other house (main house where everyone else is staying) I look out the hole in the wall where the window will be when this house is finished being constructed and I see the neighbours getting ready for the day. The mother washing herself at the water tap, later on the 4 and 2 year old girls washing the dishes. The older brother (11 years old) looking after his sisters. They watch me and stalk me every time I come out of my room or return, but they are my neighbours. Living here has given me new meaning to what loving your neighbours means. So vulnerable and open. So raw and real.

This ride is bumpy. There’s darkness and there’s light. So much of both. This is our world. This is reality. And it’s my reality right now. Death. Life. Sickness. Suffering. Tears. Sorrow. Laughter. Compassion. Embrace. Hope. Love. Worth.