the other day as i was leaving clinic, a woman stopped my car and asked if i could give her a ride up to the main clinic. i said sure and she went to grab her bag, and her daughter, who was 6 and very large and needed to be carried. she plopped her in to the car first and squeezed herself in. the girl grinned at me, one eye focusing and the other wandering off, i wondered what her story was.
her name was esther and she was normal until 2 years ago, normal with HIV and TB. then she broke her leg, and was put in the hospital. one day when her mom went to see esther, esther couldn't move her left side, her face drooped and she was not talking, not really responding. some tests were run. she was told esther had suffered a stroke of some sort. she was given some antibiotics (of course) and discharged- not walking, not talking.
esther's father had died of AIDS a few years earlier, her mom has HIV, and she has a brother who is not affected. esthers mom needed to work so they could eat so esther was sent to the village with her grandmother. but the healthcare in the village wasn't so good, so esther came home, was rejoining our clinic and restarting her medications. i watched her mom gently lift this overweight child and carry her up the steps, thanking me for the ride. i watched her mom smiling as she lifted her daughter and smile as she said good bye. there was such acceptance in the way she told her story, and a willingness in the way she cared for her child.
it was another story- one of so many- of tragedy. there was no wheelchair for her, no crutches, no physical therapy to help her learn to walk again (she has strength on one side), no speech therapy to help her learn to talk again, no clear explanation of what went wrong in the hospital to cause her palsy.
there is no husband to help provide food and shelter for the family, there is no husband to share the burden of lifting esther, bathing her, caring for her. there is no husband to cry to about how unfair it all is, to tell of her exhaustion at the end of the day, to wonder about the future with. there is no time for that. no time for pity, or crying or wondering. there is only making sure she is taking her ARVs so she's around to care for esther.
i watched her walk slowly up the steps to clinic, lugging that heavy child and i felt so small. i thought of all the times i've cried to my husband about how unfair life for and with zoe can feel, of all the days i speak of my exhaustion, of all my fears and anxiety about her future. i realized that i have no idea what it's like to have to carry my child around, to not hear her voice, to have no means or way to help her. i thought about how zoe can run, and speak and learn; i thought about all the hours of therapy she's had, speech, physical therapy, occupational therapy; and how much this girl needs that. i thought about how easy it is to feel sorry for ourselves, how we have moments of meeting the esthers of the world and the mothers of the esthers, and we briefly see our problems in contrast, we briefly hold on to thanks, are awed by their strength, but then we come home and forget.
i told the mom that she was brave and doing a great job and that i know it must be so hard. i told her i think medically esther can make some progress with moving and walking and probably talking- but that we'll have to really work at it. i told her i would look into to some options for intensive therapy for esther- but at least on monday afternoons she can bring her for physical therapy at clinic, she can learn what to do at home. they can begin.
maybe i can begin too. because i don't want to forget the esthers or their mothers, and i don't want to feel sorry for zoe or myself. i want to feel so very thankful for her- for my life- even the sticky parts- because this is the life we've been given. because in it and through it, we've been blessed. i want to take all the parts, the good the bad the ugly, and let them transform me into better. i want to take all the parts and use them to bless others. i want to hold that perspective.
her name was esther and she was normal until 2 years ago, normal with HIV and TB. then she broke her leg, and was put in the hospital. one day when her mom went to see esther, esther couldn't move her left side, her face drooped and she was not talking, not really responding. some tests were run. she was told esther had suffered a stroke of some sort. she was given some antibiotics (of course) and discharged- not walking, not talking.
esther's father had died of AIDS a few years earlier, her mom has HIV, and she has a brother who is not affected. esthers mom needed to work so they could eat so esther was sent to the village with her grandmother. but the healthcare in the village wasn't so good, so esther came home, was rejoining our clinic and restarting her medications. i watched her mom gently lift this overweight child and carry her up the steps, thanking me for the ride. i watched her mom smiling as she lifted her daughter and smile as she said good bye. there was such acceptance in the way she told her story, and a willingness in the way she cared for her child.
it was another story- one of so many- of tragedy. there was no wheelchair for her, no crutches, no physical therapy to help her learn to walk again (she has strength on one side), no speech therapy to help her learn to talk again, no clear explanation of what went wrong in the hospital to cause her palsy.
there is no husband to help provide food and shelter for the family, there is no husband to share the burden of lifting esther, bathing her, caring for her. there is no husband to cry to about how unfair it all is, to tell of her exhaustion at the end of the day, to wonder about the future with. there is no time for that. no time for pity, or crying or wondering. there is only making sure she is taking her ARVs so she's around to care for esther.
i watched her walk slowly up the steps to clinic, lugging that heavy child and i felt so small. i thought of all the times i've cried to my husband about how unfair life for and with zoe can feel, of all the days i speak of my exhaustion, of all my fears and anxiety about her future. i realized that i have no idea what it's like to have to carry my child around, to not hear her voice, to have no means or way to help her. i thought about how zoe can run, and speak and learn; i thought about all the hours of therapy she's had, speech, physical therapy, occupational therapy; and how much this girl needs that. i thought about how easy it is to feel sorry for ourselves, how we have moments of meeting the esthers of the world and the mothers of the esthers, and we briefly see our problems in contrast, we briefly hold on to thanks, are awed by their strength, but then we come home and forget.
i told the mom that she was brave and doing a great job and that i know it must be so hard. i told her i think medically esther can make some progress with moving and walking and probably talking- but that we'll have to really work at it. i told her i would look into to some options for intensive therapy for esther- but at least on monday afternoons she can bring her for physical therapy at clinic, she can learn what to do at home. they can begin.
maybe i can begin too. because i don't want to forget the esthers or their mothers, and i don't want to feel sorry for zoe or myself. i want to feel so very thankful for her- for my life- even the sticky parts- because this is the life we've been given. because in it and through it, we've been blessed. i want to take all the parts, the good the bad the ugly, and let them transform me into better. i want to take all the parts and use them to bless others. i want to hold that perspective.
1 comment:
Thank you for giving me some perspective today.
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