We recently had a young refugee patient with us at Living Hope named Freddy. He came to South Africa from Zimbabwe, in search of what every refugee is ultimately in search of... a stable life, a job, security, and a brighter future. A devout Christian, this young man prayed often, read his Bible all the time, and had a genuine kind word for everyone around him. Intelligent and hard working, he brought our staff and other clients great amounts of cheer in the very short time he came to stay at the Health Care Centre.
Last year at a routine visit to an general practitioner, it was discovered that Freddy had congenital hypertension: a genetic disorder causing his blood pressure to run dangerously high since he was a young man. Already in the end stages of kidney failure caused by high blood pressure, he had become very familiar with the government hospitals around South Africa. Like any 3rd world country, dialysis and renal transplants are hard to come by, and having been rejected by several renal transplant programs and dialysis units already, he was sent to Living Hope for end-of-life care. Able bodied, ambulatory, and otherwise in good health, this 30 year old man was sent to us to die.
How could we live with ourselves if we didn't try, yet again, to get Freddy some help? After many phone calls, medical reports, pulling strings, and weeks of waiting it came down to the final hour. His fate was to be decided at a Thursday noon meeting of the chiefs of staff of the government hospital. What difficult choices are laid before those men and women each week. With so few resources, and such overwhelming need, they must sit at a table, and decide who they try to save, and who they must leave to let illness to take it's course.
In the few days leading up to the decision, Freddy had become increasingly impatient with staff, hard to manage and a bit emotionally unstable in general. He was beside himself with anxiety. Pacing the floor, unable to sleep, crying, complaining of increased symptoms, and with a racing heart he waited. As the minutes ticked by that Thursday morning waiting for the phone call that would mean life or death for this young man, the anxiety became too much for him.
He packed his bags and walked out of our hospital. He decided to take control of his destiny, knowing that he had just a few weeks to live, he went off to live them, rather than wait for some other power to decide his fate. I sit here now, and I wonder what it must feel like to have your fate weighed by the hands of a few? Completely unlike a judgement handed down for crimes committed, yet a punishment just as harsh: death.
As I, and many others ran after him, we literally begged, pleaded, prayed, and cried for him to stay, but the thought of being rejected yet again was just too much for him to take. He simply couldn't bear any more indecision and angst. Of his own free will and in his right mind he refused the possibility of treatment and relied upon the only thing he knew to trust: himself.
Sometimes hope is just that painful. To raise your eyes heavenward and believe that there might be a chance for redemption takes more courage than you might think. To open yourself up to the possibility of rejection is a dangerous thing. A gamble at best, hope might be the greatest act of vulnerability we will ever attempt. It puts out before us the chance for ultimate salvation or ultimate dejection.
Sometimes hope is just that painful. To raise your eyes heavenward and believe that there might be a chance for redemption takes more courage than you might think. To open yourself up to the possibility of rejection is a dangerous thing. A gamble at best, hope might be the greatest act of vulnerability we will ever attempt. It puts out before us the chance for ultimate salvation or ultimate dejection.
I think hope might be the most scare of Africa's resources. There is not enough to go around. Not enough hope, in the same way that there is not enough education. Not enough jobs. Not enough housing. Not enough compassion. Not enough answers.
Never before in my life, have I experienced this. In my heart and in my mind, I still live like the world operates on the truths of America, where we live in the land of the free, the home of the brave and the place of generous abundance for all. Never is there not enough food to go around. Never does someone die, simply because we don't have enough resources to sustain life. Never must one choose between life for one, and death for another.
Even though Freddy wasn't around for it, the phone finally did ring, and it was the worst we had been afraid of: Freddy was yet again rejected from the kidney program. Sentenced to death by what the profane would call "natural selection."
Can I tell you what this type of encounter does to my everyday life? To live and work and build a life in this completely-"other"-and-truly-3rd-world, where there is not enough for everyone?
Constantly brewing just beneath the surface of my daily life, I carry around the heaviness of this broken 3rd world existence. Twisted in on itself, my heart settles into the depths, and swirls around in a constant state of thoughtfulness, prayerfulness and a re-evaluation of the theology of suffering.
How can this happen in the same world in which I can bask in the light of a warm sun, eat yummy sushi, watch 3-D movies at a new theater, and choose my preferred coffee at Starbucks? How can this be? How can I live with myself? How can I choose to get out of bed in the morning in the face of such immensity? How does this fit with my worldview? Which path do I choose? What answer can I wrestle to the ground and pin down as the right solution?
I wish I had the answer for you, but I am still new at this journey of walking closely beside suffering. I am still asking the questions as they arise. I live day to day, hour to hour, asking God to meet me in the middle of the heartache. I beg Him to use me as a part of the answer He is shaping, and I listen as He is teaching my heart the truth about the Gospel I trust in.
We believe in a Gospel that can handle suffering. We believe in a Gospel that creates beauty from ashes, birth from death, triumph from suffering, and redemption from sacrifice. What other better "good news" can you think of? Sometimes, clinging to good news in the face of a painful reality, feels like a rock that I have to carry, yet somehow, it is also this same rock of good news that I build my life upon.
I hope someday that you also have the privilege of wrestling with these heavy things. I hope you find that those heavy things become real to you, and that you find you can build your life upon those truths.
Beautifully said, my sweet friend. As hard as it is to live alongside that suffering, I know that's where Jesus is. It makes me think of the Beatitudes:
Matthew 5
3 “Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
4 Blessed are those who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
5 Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
6 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they will be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called sons of God.
10 Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Love you, proud of you, praying for you (and Freddy!)
Dear Amy,
Yes, Gus and I have wrestled with these heavy things. When our daughter Jessica was born in 1980, the mitral valve in her heart was congenitally damaged. No baby with that defect, even in the U.S., had survived past 11 months. And neither did our baby.
Fast forward to 2012 and the birth of our son-in-law's niece, Paloma. At birth in March, her heart had two bad valves and not enough chambers. A certain death sentence 30 years ago, but not today. Paloma had surgery that completely rebuilt her little heart and now she is thriving: smiling, sitting up, gaining weight, laughing with her parents.
As our daughter Jena says, "In Africa, things are slowly by slowly." For me and Gus, it often seems "too slowly by too slowly." We desperately wanted our Jessica to have more than 11 months of life, but the surgical procedures were not there yet. Another little girl, Caitlyn, in a nearby hospital bed, had a different terrible heart defect, but the procedures to fix it were known in 1980. Today she is a lovely young mother and we stay in touch with her parents who were able to see their daughter grow up. We share the joy and gratitude of both Caitlyn’s and Paloma’s parents whose children have been restored by surgery. We also know the pain of loss for parents who do not get to see their children thrive.
So much is uneven and broken about the progress of humanity. God has told us this is how it is. And He has asked us to be the comforters as He is our Comforter. Gus and I were the co-chairs of a support group called Parents with Heart after the death of our daughter. This is how we tried to be of some help to others going through similar trials. YOU are now our hands and feet in South Africa and we are so uplifted by your walking beside Freddy in his last few weeks/months.
Be of good courage, for He is with you.
All our love,
Diane and Gus