Some days are like that
A well written, true to life picture of mission life in Palawan by Kiana Binford, return AFM missionary teacher to Kamantian (and former hutmate of Wendy's):
Kiana with some friends
I just want to say before you read this that it's because of prayers from you back home that we make it through days like this. I want to thank all of you that pray for us out here and to tell you please keep it up. It is one of the biggest blessing of our lives here.
Some days are like that:
Tuesday, August 24th
The days had been full and finally today we had a few minutes to organize and ready the hut we were moving into. Joha was cleaning some storage barrels and I was about to head to class for the afternoon high school session when I saw them walking up to the clinic.
A family of four, Mom, Dad, 9 year old son and a bundle in mom’s arms that appeared to be a small baby. Mom was tired, hot, and obviously not feeling very well but when I took a look at the baby it was she that I most worried about. I asked her age, two years and five months and not more than a small pathetic lump in her mother’s arms. Her brown eyes and a face that looked aged looked up at me as if to say, “I need help”. Her body was hot though she had little to no fat to speak of. I told Joha that she looked pretty bad and definitely (even from an untrained eye) starving. I said a little prayer and went to class leaving Joha to talk to the patients and knowing she was in for a handful.
A little while later Joha comes to tell us that Dwayne’s Helicopter (from a sister GMI project) will be coming soon to get the little girl and her father and brother. The mom would hopefully be able to follow on a later trip. Joha said, “She’s very sick and there’s no way I can even begin to get an IV in her.” We said another prayer and watched a little while later as Dwayne carried off the three family members. That afternoon I returned to the clinic to visit Joha and the mother, Nulita.
Nulita smiled, though obviously not feeling well, and said good afternoon. She was very meek and shy, but very sweet and gracious. She was not able to go out on a different flight so she would spend the night in the clinic. We gave her some food, which she ate little of and Joha gave her medicine for Malaria. Her fever was running about 39*C since she arrived. Nobody here likes to spend the night by themselves and I felt sympathy for her knowing that she was all alone and probably worried about her child. We told her we were right next door and to call if she needs anything.
That night was team meeting….we got to bed late.
Text message from Wendy (Dwayne’s wife, a nurse who used to work on this project): “It’s a good thing the baby is down here. She has severe malnutrition, severe pneumonia, severe dehydration, and probably Malaria. She’s on oxygen right now and needs serious prayer.”
Wednesday, August 25
The morning dawned with chickens as usual and I ran to class. “Today” I said, “I would move some stuff and plan curriculum.” But when I came back from teaching in the morning and rounded the corner I stopped. “Is it Sunday,” I thought. The clinic porch was full of people. It’s normal for Wednesdays to be a little busier but this was ridiculous. I shook my head feeling sorry for Joha all by herself and ran to the new house to see if there was anything I could do to start moving in. Joha followed me inside and we found Kuya building a shelf. “You guys need to pray with me,” she said.
She explained that she was feeling overwhelmed with the days events. “The baby girl died last night in the hospital and Mom has no idea. They are bringing the body later and Father requested that he be the one to tell her. Mom didn’t take her medicine as directed and is still hot, the clinic is teeming with people, many of which have been sick for a long time and are only now coming for help. Parents are being uncooperative and irresponsible with giving medicine to their kids and besides that they just carried in another inpatient. A very old lady, (Mother of five generations) from across the island. ” Joha asked that we would pray for her to find love for her patients and keep her cool and be gentle when she rebukes for taking so long to come. “They don’t understand, a baby just died because they waited too long to bring her…”
We prayed asking God for a portion of his love for the people and that somehow the death of this child would work out to His glory. We prayed that the people on the porch would be able to recognize God’s love in our works and that He would be magnified. After the prayer I told Joha that if she needed me to do anything I would do it. She asked if I would help with some of the patients. I did what I could, helping Joha as best I knew, and the patients were one by one taken care of and left. Meanwhile a few of the school boys quietly came and got shovels to dig a grave up the hill out of sight from the mother. No time for lunch, I ran to the school. It was last exam day for the high school students and I didn’t want to be late. I’d eat later.
3:30PM – I was just starting the students on their English exam when I hear Joha on the radio. “Kilo Bravo, Kilo Bravo….I need your help.” Nulita’s husband decided it would be best for someone else to tell his wife gently so that she wouldn’t be shocked with the news as soon as they arrived with the body. Wendy texted us and told us, we should tell her as soon as possible because the helicopter was preparing to come back in. Joha asked if I would help break the news since she had no other family or support around for her. I told her I would and headed to the clinic praying God would give me words to say.
Nulita was in her room, still fevering. “I keep giving her medicine and her fever just won’t go down,” Joha was perplexed. She smiled up at us and we greeted her. We talked a little bit about how she was feeling and she answered sweetly, smiling all the time, though with high fever for so long she had to be miserable. Then we talked to her about the Father God who created everything and who has strength to heal all sickness. She smiled some more and nodded agreeing. We told her that He alone could take away sickness and that he would work through the medicine to make her well. “Yes, true,” she agreed. We told her we’d like to pray with her and ask for God to be with her and make her well. She said she would like that, so searching for the right Pelawan words I asked God to be near her, to comfort her, to heal her and to help her to understand the greatness of His love for her. That she would be held in His arms and be blessed as His child. She smiled as we finished and I told her that she can leave everything to Him. And then I had to tell her, as gently as possible, for how does news like this ever feel like anything besides a ton of bricks, “Your daughter is no more.”
We held her as she sobbed until she asked us to leave and said she was going to sleep. We told her the helicopter would be here soon with her husband and son. Walking outside we noticed a group gathering outside. By now word had gotten around and people came to watch the burial. We heard the helicopter land down the mountain a ways and waited for them to arrive. I wanted to know what the husband would do to comfort his wife. Pelawan culture is not very affectionate, let alone in public and often times husbands and wives barely speak to eachother. But this Nulita’s husband had seemed considerate, by the way he helped her walk to the clinic and by the way he asked for no one to tell her but himself. She certainly needed comfort just then.
They rounded the curve, someone carrying the body wrapped in a cardboard box and a tadyung (traditional cloth they use for everything), and stopped looking at the clinic. The husband sent someone to ask if his wife wanted to see the body. We told him that he should come in and speak with her. He went into her room and spoke to her, “Sweetheart,” he said, “do you want to come look?” Again she began sobbing and he held out his finger and she held it, the extent of display of affection that culture that they felt comfortable with. He spoke to her some more, calling her sweetheart, and I strained to listen but didn’t understand everything. “It’s not your fault,” he said, “It was the sickness.” Finally, he convinced her to come to see the body. He walked out with her, holding her arm until they reached the place where someone held her tiny child who, until yesterday, she had never been separated from.
The father began to speak to the spirit of the child, introducing it to her mother and telling her that she used to drink from her breast and that she took care of her while she was alive. He then asked someone bring a cup with a little cooked rice, he held it out to Nulita who lifted her shirt and he explained to everyone watching that it was their custom to bury a child with it’s mother’s milk. Nulita squirted some breast milk into the cup and sat slumped down as father brought the cup and the baby, and anyone who wanted to follow, to the burial site already prepared.
At the site, the father again spoke to the spirit of his dead child. He asked the spirit not to torment them or to haunt them in the days to come. He exhorted the spirit to go on to heaven quickly and not linger and frighten them. He reminded the spirit that they were good parents to it when she was alive and presented the breast milk and the rice as though as a peace offering or bargaining chip. “We provided for all of your needs in life,” he said. “And look, we are preparing for your needs in death too.” After the prayer, the father asked Napthali, who was also at the grave site, to pray as well. Napthali prayed his prayer to Father God in heaven asking his blessing on the family that their grief be not long. He was sure to mention that death was like a sleep and that no conscious spirit of the child was floating around trying to scare her parents. He mentioned the hope of those who followed God, that they would see Jesus again in the final resurrection. Two very different prayers for two very different beliefs.
As Joha and I waited with Nulita for them to return clouds gathered overhead and it began to sprinkle lightly. It seemed appropriate given the circumstances. We listened to the dirt fall loud on the cardboard the little girl was wrapped in and Joha rubbed Nulita’s back. I stood nearby wondering how much comfort strangers could be.
Later – Everyone returned to the clinic and Mom and Dad thanked everyone present by shaking their hands for their support. I sat on the steps of the clinic and tried to look disinterested and Husband and Wife and Son spoke to eachother about their experiences during the last 24 hours. They seemed at least happy to be reunited. Mom was still hot, so Joha gave her Fansidar (which normally accompanies Malaria medicine but cannot be given to nursing women)
Then Dad asked me if it might be possible for his wife to speak with the other inpatient (the old woman) because she thought they were related to each other. I thought it curious since that had been in the same place all day and still had not spoken to each other. I told him it was perfectly fine and as he got up to go into the clinic, he suddenly stopped and said “Oh, no I can’t.” As he sat down I, confused, tried to tell him that it was fine, for him to just go on in and speak to her. He answered me, “no, I can’t I just heard a voice.” He explained that God had spoken to a bird which at that very moment had spoken to him telling him that because of the sicknesses of the two ladies and because of their sins, they could not speak to eachother. “Some other day,” he said. I wondered if he realized that the lady come a quite a long way to the clinic and would probably never make it there again. The Dad saw my confusion and graciously continued explaining in words I’d never heard. I further wondered if I would ever really understand the language or the culture.
Still Later – I cooked a quick pot of lentils for supper, none of us having eaten since breakfast, when they rang the bell for prayer meeting. Food would have to wait until after.
Prayer meeting is a blessing. But sometimes, when you’re hungry, and tired, it can seem long. 8:15PM, prayer meeting finished, we are walking back to our house after saying our goodbyes to those that came. The moon is bright and I’m looking forward to eating and sleeping. “Tomorrow,” I thought, “we’ll move.” Joha told us that she was just going to check on Nulita’s temperature.
A few minutes later Joha calls Carrine and I telling us to come quick that she needs us to help. I asked what was up.
“Well, you know, I was sitting in prayer meeting earlier thinking, all we’d need is for Mom to go crazy after all this.” Joha’s voice sounded a bit urgent . “And, well, she has.”
News like that in the mountains is not taken lightly. There are only two reasons for someone to go crazy: Physical and Spiritual. And the latter one is almost more likely and more usual than the first. Probably because of past experiences and because I knew Joha was serious, my heart caught in my chest. We sent word for Kuya Napthali to come and we headed right away to the clinic where we found Dad outside her room, shaking his head, “She’s never been like this, her mind has always been good.” And then turning to Joha, “What did you give her earlier?” Joha explained that the Fansidar could possibly be a factor but that it was likely the shock of the day coupled with the high fevers were contributors too.
We found Nulita on the floor in her room breathing very quickly and speaking random nonsensical sentences. “It’s broken.” “I’m dead, believe me, I’m dead.” “I’m crazy.” “Look at my hands. Isn’t that nice?” “Uh Oh, no more.” She was moving around though not violently. Turning her head from side to side and occasionally focusing right on someone’s face and try to explain how her throat was broken, etc. She would not answer any questions asked or really seem to focus on anything. We decided that it was probably not a Spiritual possession but mostly a physical reaction from everything going on. She was hot again….or maybe still, so Joha gave her another shot of Paracetamol while looking for something she could find to give her to calm down. We all sat with her, and amidst her random words we prayed with her and sang with her. We tried to speak with her, but she would not focus on anything.
Joha finally decided to give Diazapam to calm her down knowing that it was a risk. The medicine could make her calm, it could make her worse. And many times, if the situation is spiritual, medicine makes it worse. Nulita’s husband came in while Joha gave her a shot and told us that he needed to go to sleep. He had a horrible headache after spending all night in the morgue with his daughter’s body. (He also had Malaria) He told us he’d get up in a little while but that he just needed to sleep a bit. I felt for the man, he had been through so much. He didn’t have the strength to deal with a crazy wife too. His family needed him to be strong. We told him that it was OK but that he should try talking to her first. Kuya explained how her mind was having a hard time focusing and that she just needed to train her mind to focus on something. The man agreed, though explained he didn’t think it had worked because he had tried speaking to her earlier. We urged him to try again so he knelt down next to his wife and said, “Sweetheart, stop saying those things. You’re not making any sense. Stop. Tell me, do you know who I am?” At the sound of his voice Nurlita turned her head to face him. Her crazy words were now directed to him. Her husband waited for her to answer him and she just kept repeating gibberish. He shrugged and said, “see, it’s not working, she doesn’t know me.” We pushed him to continue. “Keep trying,” we said. “Ask her a question.” A couple minutes passed. We watched as she tossed her head from side to side and insisted that she was dead or that her throat was broken.
“Sweetheart, stop talking about your throat….stop saying that. I asked you if you knew who I was. Do you know who I am.” As soon as he said that we heard her answer, “Yes, I know.” We looked up, encouraged, but not sure if it was still part of her stupor or if she actually knew, he said, “Who am I then. If you know me, who am I.” Her head tossed. He looked down sure she wouldn’t answer. “You’re my husband,” she cried reaching out her hand for his. “That’s right,” the four of us said in unison and the husband took her hand and held it. He kept asking her questions, and she, little by little responded to more of them. Slowly, she quieted down. Her respirations and heart rate came down a little, and soon she was able to ask us questions and tell us she was thirsty. We let the husband go to sleep while we waited in her room for a long time, singing, and talking to her now in her right mind.
12:00 Midnight – We left the clinic, husband with his now lucid wife, and thanked God for his miracles. The moon was beautiful and bright, tomorrow would be the school party and program, we would have visitors come from across the river, the Old Grandmother would be carried in a basket part of the way home but for now, feeling quite starved, we decide it’s time to eat.
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