The Day Roza Wept

It was a cloudy, rainy day with a cool breeze. Nothing set the afternoon apart from any other; patients and work projects kept the day busy. Late in the afternoon I was sitting at my desk, intently focusing on whatever task stared back at me from the computer screen. I heard little feet on the stairs, and turned to see Ruth’s smiling nine-year-old face as she handed me an envelope from the laboratory. It was securely sealed, marked with multiple purple and red “CONFIDENTIAL” stamps. I had already forgotten the significance of the contents of the envelope, and in my carelessness I spent another 10 minutes finishing the computer job before I copied the papers inside the envelope and walked downstairs. Sitting on the edge of the flowerbeds, Ruth’s mother and another patient were waiting for me. I didn’t stop to notice the apprehensive glance Ruth’s mother Roza cast my way. I called the other lady in and reviewed the lab work she handed me as I wondered how I could quickly treat these patients and lock up for the day.
As I glanced down at Ruth’s results that I had tossed onto the desk, I remembered why the results were significant. On one line at the top of the results there was a simple letter that would dictate the rest of Ruth’s life. N or P? Negative or Positive? Was the demon disease of HIV already coursing through her veins? The day before, her mother had brought her in to see me and my fellow staff nurse. She’d been concerned that Ruth could have HIV, especially since she had been getting sick frequently in the past months. She’d even tried to have Ruth tested at a couple of places, but each time she was told the machines weren’t working and she would have to return another time. The fearful question had been building—what if Ruth did have HIV? Could Roza ever live with the knowledge that it was through her—her mistakes, her desperation, her offense—that Ruth would be infected with the disease? How could she watch her daughter die, knowing that ultimately she had caused her death? How would she deal with telling her daughter, her family, such awful news? The dread would be choking now—she needed to know the truth to the question she never wanted to have to ask.
Suddenly I realized that Roza was waiting on me to tell her what the answer was. I’ve had to tell parents before that their children are HIV positive, and it has to be one of the worst things I’ve ever done in my life. It’s as though you are the instrument, the jury foreman, handing out a death sentence—or at the very least life in prison. All this spun through my head, even as I became conscious that I needed to tell Roza the result. I turned to go to her and saw she was already at the door, not wanting to be impatient, but yet so desperately needing to know. Our eyes met—her’s strong, battle-worn, determined, fearful—and she said, through a strangled voice, “Saryay (my Sara), the result—what is it?”
The words rushed out of my mouth as I moved towards her, “It’s good. It’s very good!” It was N, not P, that stared back at me in bold black type on the lab result paper. Roza’s face crumpled as the reality took hold of her mind—Ruth was negative! The disease was not in her! She was free! She could live! As I reached Roza, she dropped to her knees on the cold concrete floor of my pharmacy room and lifted her hands high into the air. Her face stretched upwards as the weeping sobs took hold of her. Egziaber Yeemesgun, Egziaber Yeemesgun! she cried. Yes, yes, my friend, my sister! my soul replied. I held her arm, grasped her shoulders, and with tears in my eyes lifted my voice with hers to say Egziaber Yeemesgun. God be praised, God be praised!

Faces

Some photos from the past few days at the project . . .

This little girl is SO shy and afraid of us "foreigners"! She always hides behind her mom's skirt and starts crying if we come close. Her mom's been living a rough life; one day I was walking to the project office on the weekend. The women here who clean the streets are so ashamed of their occupation that they cover their faces with scarves so you can't see who they are. I was walking along at my normal brisk pace, enjoying the sunny day and the rush of the city. Suddenly one of the street cleaners stepped up to me and said, "Sara". I turned and realized it was Haymanot, this little girl's mom. I hope we get the opportunity to really reach out to them.

This is Mesfin--I love this photo because it shows how much he's improved in the past months. He and his mom and little brother joined the project in November. His whole face was covered with an infectious skin disorder that frequently affects those with HIV. We started feeding the family and providing meds and vitamins, and he's like a whole new child! He's in school now, and is very bright.

And this is Abeba and her little girl Sara. Abeba's precious to me--some days I just wish so badly I could do more for her. She's struggling to raise her two girls alone--but she's making it. Sara is precious and gentle and full of hugs and kisses. This day I got jolly rancher-goo in my kiss:) I loved the stickiness, though:)

I want it, I need it?

I love Addis. No electricity, no phone line, no water. Argh.
That was my immediate reaction just now when the lamp in my room and the soft whirr of the fan abruptly switched off.
I really do love Addis, and I’ve (albeit grudgingly at times) learned to live without the phone line and internet at my house for the past few weeks. The water’s been unreliable lately, and I can take a darn good bucket bath now. The electricity is my finicky relationship around here—it’s on again, off again, but mostly on so I’m ok with it. But when they all three go and I’m praying the gas in my stove will hold out, I can get cranky. It’s not because I can’t adapt, because I can and I’ve had to. I didn’t go on all those camping trips as a kid for nothing, I guess:-)
But I get out of sorts because I don’t want to live without those things. I’m used to them and frankly I like having them around. But I don’t get to choose whether they’re on or off, and that irritates me. I’d be better suited to this if I could say, “Ok, I’ll deal with no water. But only from midnight to 6am, ok?!”
When I view my reaction like that, it’s a little on the ugly side. Who am I to now expect these good things as a requirement for my survival? I’m self-centered, and I live in a place where this should get stripped out of me. But it’s not . . . yet. I am human, and I try to forget how very human I am sometimes. I live in a world where water is precious and not so easy to come by, where electricity is a luxury and one naked bulb in a house is plenty, where a phone is something that defines the haves and the have-nots. Who do I think I am to get angry over losing something that so many never have??
I’m all right, after all. I can open my window and let in some sunlight, I can carry water to my house, I have a cell phone and there’s internet at the office. I have so much, even without these things I tell myself are necessities. God said He would provide for me, and He has never failed me yet. Oh, how small my faith, my daily belief in the truth of that promise!
I should be glad, after, all that I get a chance to realize how little I need and how much I’ve been given.
The fan blade is beginning to turn and the lights are flickering. Life is, indeed, rich.

They Make Me Smile

The project office has been pretty quiet this morning, and I've been catching up with emails and reading research articles and looking at my lists of things to do. Just now Selamawit came upstairs to see me. She's 6 and has a new hair-do today--her short curls are pulled up in tiny ponytails all over her head. She came to tell me that her mom was downstairs and needed to give me Selamawit's HIV medication to store. I followed Selamawit downstairs, slowing down as she carefully climbed down each step. We organized her medication and as I lowered the candy box for her, she gave me her best twinkly-eyed shy smile. If you click on that link to the right to "Matthew's Africa Thoughts" I think you can find a video of Selamawit from April, 06. If I were mildly technically literate, I'm sure I could put a link right here in the text for you, but I'm not--so sorry!
Yesterday Deborah had a cough so her mom brought her up to see us. She sat in my lap and we played for a bit--these photos were taken then. Deborah knows she's a favorite amongst the staff--she's like the project baby, and everyone laughs and smiles when she comes. We've seen first baby steps and heard squeals of anger and delight as she discovers the world around her. I wish that Deborah had a daddy and a much more stable life, but I'm glad we've been given the privilege of watching her grow up.
That's my world today.

Well . . . .

Sorry, folks. My phone line is dead, and thus I don't have much internet access. So I'm still here, plugging away--I'm just not able to tell you about it! But I have water, so I'm not really complaining (yet)! In a place like this, your priorities shift just a little. Have YOU ever thought of which utility you'd rather have if you had to choose?? I do that all the time, but unfortunately in the end no one lets me choose:)
Life is good, busy, hard . . . . as usual! Today I got up before 6 (yes, Sara P CAN do that . . . she just doesn't LIKE to!), went running, and headed to the office about 7:30. Had a staff meeting this morning, worked on collecting some medical data for various reports and proposals, attempted to balance financial records for medical expenses for beneficiaries, and then I ate some lunch with the staff. This afternoon I've worked on the data review and collection and treated or referred multiple patients and written notes in beneficiary charts. In between I've given out candy, greeted about 35 people with handshakes and kisses, and I've tickled and kissed "my" baby in the project. That's my day thus far--hope that wasn't too boring of a report!
Hopefully that dead phone line will be resurrected soon and I can keep up a bit better. Keep sending those emails--I read them even if I don't reply back:)
The end. Happy March.