Though Tears Fall

I stood looking down at him: his swollen abdomen dwarfing delicate arms and legs. His eyes were deep yellow and glazed his breathing shallow. I sigh and walked out of the room.

Miritis runs up and put her arms around me. Her brother, Ilil, stands more shyly in the background. I lean down and give her a hug and feel my heart contract. Their father, our patient in the next room, is dying of colon cancer. They have no mother. 

Afternoon after afternoon I sit on the clinic porch holding the little girl on my lap and singing songs or playing kickball with the boy on the grass in front of the clinic. I can’t ignore them as they wait for their father’s death. They started calling me ‘Indu’ (mother) and running to me for hugs every morning.

Colon cancer is deadly even in the States, but in a remote mountain village there is even less we can do. Our patient was carried out to the hospital in the lowlands, but when they could do nothing more for him they dismissed him back to the mountains.

Kiana, Naptali, and I hiked in with the patient from the hospital. He had only hiked for about 20 minutes before he could go no further. Naptali ended up carrying him on his back with Tajung (a circular piece of cloth). Kiana and I carried the bags with the patient’s son, Ilil.

I look to my right and to my left. The kids are sitting beside me as I type, exclaiming over the novelty of seeing words appear on the screen. In the next room, their father lays motionless – he’s lost 4 kilos in the last week. My eyes fill – and spill over.

Though tears fall, I take vitals and weigh the patient again: he’s lost another kilo and his breaths are barely 6 a minute. We try to tempt his appetite with anything that sounds good to him: pineapples, hot milk, peanut butter, coconuts. He can barely eat and vomits frequently.  Shama and I have a schedule to check on him last thing before we go to bed and first thing in the morning. Mostly, we are just waiting.

The children beautiful: happy giggles help hide worry in their eyes. I haven’t all the right words to explain what is happening, but they know. I pour all the love I can into them, desperately trying to ease the situation. I know it isn’t enough, but it’s all I can do. No, it’s not all. I can pray.

I pray for them, that they might have strength and that they might find loving people to raise them after their father dies. I pray for their father, that his last days might not be filled with agony and worry for his children. I pray for Shama and me. I pray that the Great Physician might work through us in some small way and use our hands for his glory.