A Sad Day

I saw death for the first time. I mean, I've seen dead people before at open-casket funerals, but no one has ever died right in front of me. 

After a quick trip to the market, I was walking with one of the nurses and chatting, when he said he had to grab the keys to the hospital before he went on duty - it will only take a minute. So I followed to to the hospital and waited as the keys were exchanged. A young mother, probably younger than me - maybe 18 years old - was sitting on the chair across from me. Her baby was wheezing for breath, his muscles unflinching when the nurse gave him a shot.

"Something's wrong," the nurse said under her breath in English.

"He's dehydrated. Look, Kathi, this is a sign of dehydration," said the nurse I walked in with, pinching the child's skin to show how it didn't bounce back when he let go. He started to prepare an IV of rehydration salts for the baby.

I looked at the mother, clenching her baby to her chest. The baby was still wheezing, almost gasping for air. He was probably 3 months old. Not much older than my cousin Mack when I left for Africa. The thought made me cringe. I looked into the baby's eyes. I shouldn't have done that. They were vacant, unsearching like a curious infant's eyes will do.

The bag was prepared and the woman and child were taken to a bed where the IV was ready. The woman screamed in terror when she realized the gravity of the situation. The nurse asked her to sit in the chair and called me behind the screen.

"Kathi, I want to show you how I put the IV in...I can't see his veins, so you have to -" I watched as the nurse pulled the baby's skin tight. The baby wasn't gasping anymore. In fact, his chest wasn't moving either. A small amount of vomit left the baby's mouth, the nurse felt for a pulse, for air, for anything but then said under his breath, "We lost him." I shouldn't be here.

The mother in the other room was screaming, wailing before she even heard the news. She knew. Her mother - the child's grandmother - came in and the nurse told her the baby had passed. Quiet sobs came out of the older woman, as she picked up the baby, a chitenge draped over his head. She carried him to her daughter who screamed louder and said "My baby, ohhhh, my baby" over and over in Chitonga. She fell to the ground and hit her hands to the floor.

I stood there, my hand covering my mouth, tears welling in my eyes, knowing what I just witnessed was too personal, something I should not have seen. The baby didn't have a fighting chance. It was too late.

When walking back to my house with the nurse, I told him that was the first time I had seen someone die. And it was heartbreaking. Even worse - it was a child.

He said, "Death is a part of life. It happens. It will happen."

Obviously, I know that. But death is so final, so absolute. It's the one thing you can't hope to reverse, to change your luck at, or maybe just bounce back from a bad day. It happens and it will happen, but that doesn't make it any easier.

I hear a lot of wailing at the hospital. My house is only a few meters away. Many people die there. I hear the anguish and it doesn't get any easier.