This afternoon a girl who started working with Care For Life on Monday, and who no-one knew was pregnant, started suffering while walking around in Mungassa (the village we were visiting today) and had a miscarriage. I had gone to the morning meeting in Mungassa, but afterwards I had gone back to the office to continue translating the curriculum, and the first word I got of all of this was around 3:30, when Gil Vicente called me telling me what had happened, saying the girl had been rushed to the hospital, but that the fetus was still in Mungassa wrapped up in someone’s backpack, and needed to be taken to the hospital for follow-up tests for the mother. About a half an hour later, after a lot of confusing back and forth about who was out with one of Care For Life’s cars and who could possibly go pick up the other workers in Mungassa and who could take the fetus to the hospital, I found myself speeding to Mungassa in one of Care For Life’s pickups, still stunned by what seemed simultaneously so tragic and so surreal. The woman turned out to be okay, and everyone got to where they needed to be, but as I drove home, especially, I couldn’t get the child off of my mind. As much as the rational part of my brain kept telling me that this was nothing new, and that children all around me in this country die daily from malnutrition and disease, it was as always the sudden proximity to tragedy that now made it all so real. I’ve been thinking a lot about my own future children lately, and as I thought about how it might possibly feel had that lost child been mine, it seemed too painful to even consider. Several people I know here came to mind—Luiza, who can’t be much over 30 and has lost three children. João, the kind old man who was the first Mozambican to feed me lunch, who had lost five. As I thought about these good people, it seemed like the only appropriate response was to let myself be humbled by the capriciousness of death, and realize how much each moment of life is like a fortune in my hands.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away
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2 comments:
Oh Rolf. I wouldn't want to have been in your shoes yesterday: miscarriages--and crib death--are among what I fear most in life (to the extent that I sometimes have terrible dreams, shaking me up pretty badly at night) and I can't imagine what it was like for you out there, to witness that tragedy. I had an occasion earlier today to think about death, but in not nearly in so up-close way: it was that PBS documentary on Mormons grandma taped. In the section on temples, they treated the subject of death and families, and showed the story of a family struggling with the fact that their daughter was dying of a rare heart disease, and then later, of a husband and father who lost his wife in the delivery room. It touched me deeply--I think you'll know what I mean in NY (or, they mentioned it's downloadble on pbs.org, and if so, just let me know).
Still, watching a documentary and witnessing it first-hand are two different things. The tenuousness of time with loved ones is very real, and I hear you completely about how I want to cherish every moment.
After I found out I was pregnant with Julia and I told the ladies at church -- this was in the old Ramo Leste in Brasília -- they all surrounded me with stories about their pregnancies, good and bad. Lots of bad. The one I still remember was the lady who had once miscarried into a toilet, and how she said she had felt seeing her dead baby there. It really brought home to me that every successfully-born child in the world is an extra-huge miracle.
I have always had a thing about crib death, too. One of our bishops' counselors lost a baby to crib death when I was in grad school. I knew that baby. Her name was Meredith Fox. It was such a shock. Dad used to tease me when y'all were babies and I would often check to see if you were breathing when you slept. But that's why I did it.
They always used to blame the moms. I remember Grandpa Straubhaar telling a story (multiple times) about some relative or neighbor who had "rolled onto her baby" while sleeping, and it had died. That's how people used to explain it.
Some days it seems to me that tragedies nudge us to feel the warmth of our blessings more brightly. Sort of on the order of knowing we're going to die makes life more intense. But then some days tragedies just seem plain old tragic.
You're seeing a lot more of the variety in the quality of human life on the planet than most young Americans in your demographic generally see. You're also letting what you see shape your decisions for your own life. It's one of the things we can do to make it all kind of make sense.
Proud of you!
Love,
Mom
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