eyes adjusted to the scanty light, and she saw an extremely frail man covered by a thin blanket lying on a cot in one corner. An equally frail woman sat on a short stool near the head of the bed. Her jaundiced eyes watched intently as the two women entered the hut.
Mama Joe whispered a greeting as she approached the cot. She reached out and touched the woman, then the man, on their heads. She asked a few questions, which were answered by the woman in a bare whisper. Mama Joe glanced toward Leslie and motioned for her to come near the cot, and Leslie knelt by the meager bed to assess the dying man. His eyes were closed and sunken, and a wet, rasping noise told them he struggled to breathe.
Mama Joe knelt beside Leslie. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she said, “This is Mr. Kanjana. His high fever is most likely caused by pneumonia.” They briefly discussed a treatment plan, and Mama Joe drew up medications for inflammation and pain into two syringes. Although Mr. Kanjana did not flinch at the prick of the needles, Leslie cringed as her colleague injected the medications into his skeletal thigh.
The nurses tried to get the patient to sip some water, but he did not have the energy to swallow. Mama Joe held his fragile hand for a while, and Leslie watched as she said a prayer in Swahili. A few minutes later, Mr. Kanjana’s breathing seemed to ease, and Mama Joe rose and drew the wife away from the cot. Safely out of the husband’s earshot, Mama Joe spoke to Mrs. Kanjana for a moment. With a tiny nod, the woman returned to sit beside her husband.
“The medications will allow him to breathe a little easier, but, judging by the breathing pattern, he probably won’t live but a few more hours.” She spoke quietly to Leslie, who glanced at the pitifully thin woman seated by the cot. “I told her I would stay with her. Why don’t you go back to the clinic? Titus can take you home and then come back for me.”
Leslie desperately wanted to go back to the clinic. She desperately wanted to leave the stinking confines of the tiny house filled with death. Instead, she looked into Mama Joe’s calm brown eyes and whispered, “No. I’ll stay.” Tears threatened to fall, but she managed to blink them back. Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Tell me what to do.”
* * *
AS MAMA JOE predicted, it was over in less than two hours. The nurses helped Mrs. Kanjana clean the body and cover it with a new cloth. There was nothing left for them to do but fill out the requisite forms when they returned to the clinic.
The frail woman stopped them as they were leaving. Her yellowed eyes were filled with gratitude, and she whispered something in Swahili. Mama Joe simply nodded, and Leslie did the same. As she waited, she tried to avoid thinking about the loneliness the widow would now have to endure, and she struggled once more to blink back tears.
Dusk had fallen and, once outside, Leslie gulped in the warm, clean air. She was surprised to see that a number of men and women had surrounded the dwelling, waiting patiently for them to emerge. Those nearest to Mama Joe nodded with apparent respect but gazed at Leslie with curiosity. The young boy who had fetched them stood with two other children near the door. Their expressions were stark.
On the drive home, Mama Joe explained that the Kanjana family had already lost two children to the scourge of AIDS. “Mrs. Kanjana doesn’t have long. She’s taking antiretrovirals, but they’ve only slowed the disease a little.” She sighed audibly. Her lined face showed fatigue, and she closed her eyes.
As soon as they arrived at the clinic, Leslie excused herself and rushed to the bathroom where she was violently ill. Afterward, she scrubbed her hands and face and rinsed her mouth, all the while trying to regain her composure. When she finally returned to the kitchen, she found Mama Joe seated at the table drinking a cup of hot tea. A second cup had been prepared for her, and she sat down and sipped it gratefully.
Leslie interrupted the silence a few minutes later. “How do you do it?”
Mama Joe smiled sadly. “Just when I think I can’t take it a moment longer, when I can’t bear to see one more child die, or treat one more case of some dreadful, preventable illness, or when I think I can’t face walking into the clinic one more time—something happens. Sometimes it’s something big and impressive, like saving a life or delivering a baby. But it’s usually something little, like a smile from a child or a grateful look from a parent.”
Laying her roughened hand gently over Leslie’s, she said, “I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t. You just do what you can and leave the rest to God.” She reflected for a moment before adding, “After all of these years, I still find myself asking why? But we can’t expect answers. I’ve learned to try to help whenever I can and to fight death any way I can. We don’t always win, but we can always help ease pain and suffering.”
Mama Joe gave a tired smile. “Leslie, Dennis Williams told me your story—about your husband and daughter...” She wiped away a tear and continued, “I believe that you were sent here for a purpose, and I’m glad you’re here. You can understand what others experience... You’ve been prepared in a very hard way to do what needs to be done. And you can do it.”
“I want to be strong, and I really do want to help.” Leslie sniffed. Her smile was faint. “You’re a very good inspiration...”
At that, Mama Joe placed both hands on the table and pushed back her chair. “Agnes made supper for us and left it in the oven. I’m kind of hungry.”
Thirty minutes ago, Leslie doubted she’d be able to eat for a long while. But words of encouragement from a brave woman had helped. She wiped the tears away and blew her nose. The corners of her lips turned up slightly. “I don’t know if I can eat much, but I’d love another cup of tea.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SUNDAY BROUGHT A badly needed respite from Leslie’s first hectic week at the clinic. Her confidence and knowledge of the practice had improved significantly. Her Swahili, in contrast, was developing much more slowly. Mama Joe and Naomi were encouraging, however, and Elizabeth and Agnes were patient. Overall, she was pleased with her progress. The days were busy and enormously rewarding. Time off from seeing patients, though, was welcomed.
Unless she was called away, Mama Joe was adamant that Sunday mornings were to be spent at the local church where the service was led by a missionary family named Merdian. “Paul and Judy and their adorable children have been here for almost three years,” Mama Joe explained during breakfast. “They’re working on translating the Bible into one of the tribal languages—like Ben’s parents used to do.” She smiled proudly. “Paul is highly respected by the local people, and most everyone calls him ‘Preacher’—even those who don’t come to church. His wife, Judy, is wonderful, too—she’s a terrific cook.” She sipped her coffee and added, “Oh, that reminds me. They’ve invited us to lunch.”
The service was unlike anything Leslie had ever experienced. The church consisted of a large, tentlike structure with a concrete floor and permanent metal roof. The sides were composed of fiberglass panels that could be removed to allow for ventilation and replaced during the rainy season. Folding chairs were arranged in long rows, and Leslie estimated that the structure could easily hold two hundred.
The nurses arrived early, but the church was already half-full. Mama Joe spied the preacher on a wooden stage, where he was trying to get a stubborn microphone to cooperate. “There’s Paul!” She waved in his direction.
The preacher motioned them forward. As he jumped off the stage to greet them, Leslie determined that Paul Merdian was probably in his middle thirties, even though he was mostly bald. He was of medium height and sported a full brown
