Young. Really young. Only just 18. Skinny. Really skinny. Less than 100 pounds. Curled into a ball facing the wall. Eyes glazed over. Drooling. Unable to control his bladder or bowels. Unable to answer basic questions. Confused. Combative. In pain. Unable to sit, stand or walk. He was sent to us for pallitiave care. Palliative, meaning terminal. No hope. Just keep him comfortable. This one isn't going to make it. Do what you can for him, but he isn't going to recover. They said that his HIV and TB were too far gone.
It's a good thing we don't listen to what they say.
Less than a month later and just a few days before Christmas, he walked out with his Kayne West style sunglasses on, laughing out loud and throwing out jokes, as he headed home to his mother and sister. He left shouting out loud, raising his hands and praising God that he was a miracle. Scolding the other patients for not believing that they too could get better. Encouraging them to take their tablets and to hold onto hope. This clever, little sarcastic jokester who can do uncanny impersonations of everyone in the place, smiles with a gap-toothed grin and likes to spend money on Cokes like he's a high roller. The day he left, he handed me a huge plastic wrapped pork liver as a thank you. ("Um, your welcome? I think???")
Simphiwe, you were our Christmas miracle. Keep the faith little brother. Stay the course. Don't give up. God has big plans for you. You make my job worthwhile. You are the definition of our living hope.
Truly amazing, Ames. I love you.