cry, feel it building up, but just can't. But then another tragedy comes along
to open the deep well of pent up tears...
I'm lying in bed when I hear a mournful howl. I know what it is, but I don't
want to admit it. Maybe it will just go away. The raucous African party music
next door has finally died down. The last of the Muslim prayers have finished
at the masjid. All should be calm. But deep down, I know a well loved pet is
slowing giving its life away in the cause of a worldwide rebellion against our
creator. I try and ignore it. Maybe Caramel isn't really suffering. I hear it
again. I grab my flashlight and gently open the door, hoping to not wake up
Miriam.
The porch has been finally cleaned and arranged. We just had all the construction workers over with their families earlier to celebrate the amazing work they've been doing on the Surgery Center here, including our residence. We feasted on chicken, rice and hibiscus tea late into the afternoon before giving them gifts and sending them on their way. Caramel was so sick she didn't even turn to sniff the leftovers we tried to tantalize her with.
Now, I'm crossing that porch under the dim blue bug light cracking with mosquitoes being killed. I walk across the "lawn" which is a melange of sand, crushed brick, and dark earth with scattered trees struggling towards the heavens against the ravages of horse hunger. The smell of decaying malt and rice mixed with horse dung brings a pungent, farmyard smell to the rapidly cooling evening. There is no moon, but the bakery down the street provides the scene with background fluorescent lighting.
My flashlight picks up the splayed out form of a medium sized dog who looks remarkably like a German shepherd except for her flopping ears. She is sprawled out, barely moving except for shallow rapid breathes over an emaciated stomach. She has refused to eat for 2 weeks and we aren't sure why. Nothing has worked: worm meds, antibiotics, new food, French veterinary advice, counsel from "Where there is no Vet", etc.
Her head is lying flat against the ground and her head and mouth is covered with moist dirt as her tongue flops on the ground. Her eyes are half open and her pupils are fixed and dilated. Her mucus membranes are pale and her eyes are cloudy. I gently stroke her head, eliciting the same mournful whine. She is almost gone, but seems to be suffering something. Tears well up, but the dam is held back as I still desperately pray for a miracle for a few minutes and I pet her head and back. Ants have already started crawling on her head and eyes.
Finally, I go back to the house, pull out an ampoule of Valium and a syringe and make my way back to Caramel's prostrate form. I inject her along the nape of her neck and slowly her breathing slows down and stops without further groans. Her body stiffens briefly, and then relaxes. There is no more breathing and her body is limp. The well springs of pent up loss and grief pour out as I sob for countless minutes. I go back inside.
"Sarah, where do you want me to bury Caramel?"
"Is she dead already?"
"Yes."
"How about over by the compost pile near the lime tree? The soil should be soft
there."
I go to the container, open the lock, creak open the doors and pull out a pick and a shovel. The composting soil is rich in odor and easy to unearth. I dig down two feet and return to Caramel's lifeless form. I grab her by her legs, two in each hand and carry her flopping carcass and place it in the grave. I quickly scrape the soil in over her and pack it down.
Gone without a trace except in our broken hearts.
RIP Caramel Summer 2009 - 26 February 2012
2 comments:
We are trying to get in touch with your hospital to donate a pulse oximeter on behalf of the cleft lip/palate charity Smile Train.
Grateful if you would contact us on kristine@lifebox.org so we can arrange to send this to you.
Best regards,
Kristine Stave
Head of Operations
Lifebox Foundation
www.lifebox.org
Not a mean bone in her body. As loyal as Jonathan, a good friend to this Nasara. I felt a twinge of guilt when I caught myself grieving for an animal in Bere--when there was such human suffering all around. This one horse, brought to the hospital by it's devoted Arab master, I remember vividly, had a gash in it's face. The pain and fear and helplessness in the noble eyes cut deep. But I new the nurses were right when they refused to help; the human patients, after all should have priority. They were formed in the Creator's image, with a soul, and the promise of eternity. Do we have enough sorrow left in us to go around--to extend to the animals? I just finished reading your reflections on Adam's passing again, and was reminded why I had avoided this memory, locked it up in the back of my mind, intellectualized it and forgot the pain I had experienced by proxy again and again in Tchad and most vividly, december 21-January 1. You were right, we westerners deal with loss awkwardly, stumbling and often failing to find the right words to say--not realizing that the most we can do is open our hearts to share your grief. Then I read Antione's son's passing--and shed tears. Then read of caramel's death, and felt crushed. Even the animals must suffer so? God sees the sparrow fall, but the next and the next? It is my penultimate desire to do what you do, to be who you are. That is why I am in medicine. That is why I will keep trying. But pick at a scar enough and it will never heal, leaving a raw wound to fester and infect. How much suffering can a sensitive soul observe until it is calloused? In western medicine, we can get around this problem, or try to, by institutionalizing suffering and death. I am sitting next to my grandmother now. A woman who 6 months ago a vibrant, independent woman, bed bound, pic line giving fluids, peg line food, and low air loss mattress keeping her comfortable. Yes, I am sad. This is the woman I grew up with. But it is a buffered grief. Like the swaddling gowns she is wrapped in, it has been disinfected with the assurances that we are doing everything humanly possible to help--experimental antibody treatments to arcane healing herbs. 24/7 LVN's bustling about tending to her every real or imaginary need. I know. I need to grow up. To grow in faith and wisdom, become a man. But is it in all of us somewhere? Is it in me? Hidden below layer, yes generations, of societal insulation: the strength to lay a child to rest in a rough-hewn box, just God and me. Or even to pump a syringe of Valium into a devoted pet. No one else to make the call, take the fall, or bear it all--just me. Again and again.
I pray to God that the answer is yes.
James, I don't know if you'll see this, but I do know that the affect your and Sarah's lives have had on others cannot be imagined. To understand God's ways is certainly beyond me and even, as very few things are, beyond you, but I do know this. God let Adam, like a pebble, slip from his fingers and fall to hit the waters of humanity raising millions of invisible ripples. From your place in the center, you cannot imagine the waves, widening, spreading outward, gently rocking hearts out of slumber. But I can tell you. He has rocked me. Yes, that little baby, with the big head and amiable disposition has rocked me more than any other event in my life. Now it is my turn to rock others. Inshallah.
وقد أعطى الله لكم السلام
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