It’s strange how we want say things to people after they are gone that we couldn’t say to them when they were alive. I am writing this letter to you, knowing that you will never read it, but knowing that there are things that still need to be said.
I don’t have the courage to read the letter outloud so I
have asked Ian to do it for me. I
hardly had enough courage to write it, but it needed to be written, for me, for
Rachel and Leah and for the world.
I have never met anyone like you in my life. I have met
people with courage and determination, but you were different.
If you hadn’t gone and welcomed each new patient who arrived
at the TB hospital and sat with them to get to know them, Baby Rahab would be
dead today. What kind of sick and
dying person goes from bed to bed of other sick and dying people to encourage
them and read scripture to them?
You are the only one that I know of. I remember the night that Babazile died. You sat with her until her last breath
and then called me in the middle of the night to tell me she had passed. We cried together.
If it weren’t for your direct intervention, Sepensile would
be dead and so would her baby. But it was not okay with you that she was going
to die in child birth at the TB Hospital and you made sure that I understood
because you knew it woudn’t be okay with me either. Only because of you, Baby Abigail is with us at the El Roi
Baby Home and Sepensile is alive.
I remember you asking me to bring English bibles for all of
the women there and one in siSwati for the lady who couldn’t read English. Why did you want them? So that you
could have a bible study, with a room full of highly infectious women who had
no visitors and very little hope for their future. But you believed that Jesus was their hope, and you were
going to make sure they knew that.
I remember you telling me recently that 70% of all the women
you met at the TB Hospital had died.
You watched each of them, heard their screams during their night
terrors, saw them fall and break bones, smelled them when all human dignity was
lost and wept with them when they begged to go and die at home.
I also remember you asking me to bring you goodies.
“What kind of goodies?” I would ask. And you would just
giggle and say, “You know what kind of goodies I like. You are my mother.”
Of course if I showed up with the wrong flavor of Oros
juice, or if I forgot your Sprite or if the store didn’t have any pork ribs
when I was shopping, I was scolded for my inadequacy. And then we both laughed.
But here is the real truth. I did not like visiting
you. There, I’ve said it. Not so that you could hear it, but I
have spoken the truth. I was
committed to going and seeing you every week that I was in Swaziland, but I
hated it. I hated walking in and
seeing women who were skin and bone lifting up their hospital gown to get a
needle in their fatless hip. I
hated seeing the dozens of pills sitting beside the unidentifiable food that
was required eating so that the pills might be absorbed. I hated hearing the screams of pain of
Sepensile after she fell and broke her femur in two (and her shoulder blade)
knowing that Aspirin was the only pain killer available and no other hospital
would take her for surgery because of her MDR-TB.
I hated seeing your weight go down every week and I
especially hated the days that I got there and you were having seizures, were
not conscious and didn’t know I was there. That happened on your 26th
birthday when Ian and I went to see you. Actually it was the day after your
birthday, because I couldn't make it there on February 20th. Too bad I hadn’t though because you
were okay on that day, but the day after you were not. We left your favorite
meat pizza for you, but I think you Isolation roommate may have enjoyed it.
Worst of all, though, was having to leave you there. I hated going to visit because I hated
leaving. I grew to truly love you,
even though I didn’t want to. At
times I was angry at God that He had brought us together because it caused me so
much pain to go week after week, and afterall, why should I be feeling this
pain? You are not my biological
child. But our heavenly
Father was teaching me. You are a
child of God, and He is the one who told me that you were the daughter of the
King, and I must go and stand by your side.
But there was another part of visiting you that I must also
share. When I would take my last
breath of uninfected air, put on my N95 certified mask, strap on the protective
shield around my heart and step in to Isolation Room #1 see you, your smile
would light up the room, even when you were the most sick. When I asked how you were doing you
always said, “I am fine”. That
always made me laugh.
I loved the day in November that you were able to come to
Project Canaan and get a tour in the back of a broken down bakkie with Lori
Marschall at your side while I drove. I loved that you could go in to Chloe’s room and sign
her chalkboard with the message, “Hi Chloe, It’s your big sister. I love your
room and I love you SO much!” I loved
that you got to eat your first hamburger at our dining room table and it became
your favorite food (after pork ribs of course). Obviously I didn’t fully understand your infectiousness at
that time, but the Lord protected me.
The day we were able to make a plan to move you to Project
Canaan was one of the hardest days of my life. How could I consider bringing someone with XDR-TB to a place
where so many people work and live, not to mention my own family, your own
babies, women living with HIV and people who would be exposed to your highly
infectious disease. I was wracked
with guilt, but at the same time I knew in my heart it was the right thing to
do.
You will never know how many people you impacted in the 52
days that you lived on Project Canaan.
From the women who lived near you, loved you and cared for you to the
people who came from the US and Canada and wanted to meet you and tell you that
they had been praying for you for many months. You impacted our family at the
deepest level and you have left a hole that will never be filled. Even now I find myself checking my
messages to see if I have received an SMS from you, and when there isn’t one,
it is then that I remember you are gone… and there is no cellular service in
heaven.
I think you knew you were dying they day you called the
doctor and asked to go to the hospital.
Your last words to me were, “Janine, even though I am going to the
hospital, will you still be my mom?
And will Project Canaan always be my home?” My answer was simply, “Yes. I will always be your mother and this will always be your
home.”
Thank you Jere for a beautiful message. |
Gcebile, I look forward to seeing you again soon. But for now I mourn your passing. Matthew 5:4 says, ““Blessed
are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” I pray for his comfort for all of us
today and in the days ahead.
You are loved.
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The Swazi singing at the funeral was beautiful. We also played two songs that make me think of Nomsa:
"Stand" by Donnie McClurkin
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuMLBhrKHsA
"I look to you" by Whitney Houson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Pze_mdbOK8
_______________________________________________________________
The Swazi singing at the funeral was beautiful. We also played two songs that make me think of Nomsa:
"Stand" by Donnie McClurkin
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuMLBhrKHsA
"I look to you" by Whitney Houson
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Pze_mdbOK8