Today we went to see Theresa’s mother. When we arrived, I
walked into the shack. Fustina (Theresa’s mother) was lying on the bed. An
ancient looking woman sat besides her. When she saw me, Fustina quickly sat up
and came to me. She looked at me and said through tears, “Theresa died
yesterday.” I put my hand on her shoulder, squeezed it, and said, “I know. I’m
sorry.” She nodded and sat down on the mattress. I asked if I could bring my
friends in (Rebecca brought her friend, Jayman, who Is volunteering for a NGO
that gives free eye exams and operations, and Mike also came along, a Ghanaian
who runs a non profit and came to help translate.) she said it was ok, and they
all came in.
We were six people squished into a small, hot room. We all
pressed up against each other as we sat on the mattress and the bench. The
thick, humid air was smelled like our sweat and hot breath. We talked to Fustina
for a while about how Theresa died, and how she was buried. We wanted to make
sure that she was buried properly and the mother was okay with it. She pointed
to a box in the corner and told us they put Theresa in there to carry her to
the burial sight. We all looked at the box and the heaviness in the room felt
too real. We talked more about how we could help Fustina and then Jayman
examined the grandmother’s eyes. She had cataracts, and so Jayman put her in
contact with the program. We told them we would come back later to do a full
exam on the grandmother. Then, before we left, Jayman asked if she could pray
for Fustina. Fustina said yes, and so we all huddled closer together (if that
was even possible) and held hands. Jayman prayed with a shaky voice and I
squeezed Fustina’s hand. I don’t believe in prayer, and I am not a religious
person at all, but that was one of the most beautiful and moving moments in my
life. Our hands formed a pile. It was hot and we were close and it felt so raw
and human. I left biting my lip and
holding back tears in the cab. We came back later in the afternoon with rice,
oil, bread, new shoes, a phone charger for Fustina’s dead phone, peanut butter,
and 15 liters of filtered water. Jayman examined the grandmother and gave her
the information for the surgery. I gave Fustina a final hug and we left.
Even though she was only in my life for three weeks, I had
gotten attached to Theresa. I was familiar with the feeling of holding her. I
knew which positions made her more comfortable. I knew that she stopped crying
when I walked with her in my arms. I could tell when she was tired, and I would
tickle her feet to help her fall asleep.
When I got in the cab today and the situation felt real, one
thought lingered in my mind and didn’t leave for the rest of the day. “I miss her.”
And I really do. I think I will always miss Theresa when I
think of her. I will think about those hours I held her in my lap, struggling
to make her comfortable enough to sleep. I will think about the time she
finally fell asleep with her cheek against my chest and I let myself cry out of
relief for her. I know I will never forget these details about Theresa. I will
always think of her and remember her, and I will always visit her mother and be
there for her. I can’t even begin to imagine the grief she is in.
Pray, hope, send good vibes or brainwaves or whatever you
like to Fustina. She needs some good energy in this time of her life.
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