My Lament Today

Tuesday, April 13, 2009

My heart feels ragged and I'm not sure how I can pick up the pieces, bandage them together and go on. Lord, this is too much. It's one of the first times I'm seriously wondering how Haitians can go on with the misery they experience in this life because I've just gotten a taste of it and I don't feel like continuing on today.

Tasha pounded on our door at 5am. Acdonel, one of our TB patients, is vomiting profuse amounts of blood. I hear in my half awake ears people throwing around the word "mouri" and I shoot out of bed along with Sara. We hurry down to the hospital. I'm praying the whole time for God to give us strength for whatever we are about to see. We enter the hospital and approach the door of their room. Tasha, his sister, sees what's inside and falls the ground, rolling, wailing; he's covered with the sheet; he's died already. I can't explain the shock that jolted through my heart right then. I don't understand. He was fine the evening before. More than fine. We even joked around a bit about how I insanely love mangoes. It was just a normal day. He's stayed with us for more than a month now and he was getting better everyday.

This one is hitting me harder than most. Acdonel is the one we look forward to see the most at rounds (don't tell anyone else). He was gaining strength enough to walk again. He would lay on his mat right by the open door, greeting and joking with everyone who passed by. The other day we found him with Orisnel, our little malnourished boy with Down's syndrome, and they were giggling up a storm as he teased and poked him. Oh...his voice. Everyday you would hear "mesi Missla" after his daily shot. His precious sister who shared food with everyone in the hospital. He was only 32, he has 3 kids, and he died from TB - how stupid is that?

I sat in the hospital for an hour and a half this morning, stunned. I felt for the first time myself, the raw emotion in the wailing that happens after someone dies here. It came in waves. Silence as everyone sits trying to comprehend what just happened. Then Tasha starts with another bout of wails that let out the depth of her misery, pain, and cries to God. It fills the whole hospital. "Bondieu! Bondieu! Jezi! Jezi - oh! Anmwe (help me)! Anmwe! Li te mouri nan men mwen (he died in my hands)!" Over and over with real live fresh tears. They had called the family to come get the body. When they arrived I lost it again, hard. When you see a grown man fall to the ground and cry, it breaks you. This man was loved.

I don't know how much I can take Lord, or you will have to shovel my flattened heart off this Haitian soil. I watched John Love, aka. the baby with worms, die in front of me yesterday after he had vomited and diarrheaed everything out of his body. There were signs that the worms had most likely attacked his brain, so it was more or less a relief to see him pass. And the pregnant lady finally delivered her stillborn baby today, the one we figured had already died inside since we couldn't find the heartbeat and there had been no movement for several days.

But why Acdonel? Why did you take him now? I don't understand. He mustered up enough strength to go to church last Sunday despite the fact that he did not have church shoes - something no Haitian has ever done that I have seen. I think he really loved you... like really; sort of a rarity here. He was loved immensely in this hospital, he was making everyone laugh; he was getting better. But the TB took him so fast, so unexpected and left us all gasping for air as we stood there stunned. This hurts.

It's too much for a heart to handle today. The only comfort I have now Lord, is the fact that you know this misery well; you know this heartbreak well. You feel the effects of how messed up this world is and your heart is breaking more than mine is. That alone gives me strength today.