Saturday, December 10, 2011

Another Dose of Reality...

What you are about to read is a tough story.  Some of it may be too much for some of you, but it is what happened.  It covers some of the realities that the people of Kenya face on a regular basis.  It covers something that I (Sean) needed to be a part of; something that I needed to experience.  Not because of morbid curiosity, but it could be something I will need to face in the future here.  I have not included names in this story because I do not feel it is appropriate at this time.

This week, one of our staff members lost her son to an illness.  What that illness was, I am not sure.  It was something that he had been battling for a while. But, this seemed to take his life without warning.  The son was twenty-three years old.  The mother was so distraught over her son’s death that she didn’t know what her next steps should be.  A few of us from In Step went to her house to help her get her son to the mortuary.  Not something that we really do in the West.  The transport of our loved ones is usually left to a coroner, or a funeral home.

When we got to the home, there were a few community members there to offer their support and condolences.  As we entered the house, sitting in a chair in the corner, was our Auntie.  At her feet was her son. He was placed on a tattered foam mattress, and covered over with a bed sheet.  I am not sure how long she had been sitting there.

The story we were told about how this came about was that her son had vomited blood earlier in the day.  He told her not to worry, that he believed that God performed the operation he needed to be well again.  Later that evening, a friend paid him a visit and the two of them talked about everyday things.  The friend got up to leave, and shortly after leaving the door, heard the young man vomiting again.  He entered the house to see that he was throwing up blood again.  Our Auntie was in the room trying to comfort her son, who kept telling her that he was weak, and that she shouldn’t worry, but just hold him.  I believe that he fell asleep and died in her arms.

After we greeted the woman, she pulled back the sheet to show us her son.  He was positioned in a manner that made it look like he was sleeping.  His hands placed up beside his head.  We asked her what she needed us to do.  She had no idea.  We asked her if her family was here to help her.  She said that two of her other sons were away, and were trying to arrange transport to come.  Her brother was going to be arriving on Sunday (this was on Friday).  Her brother-in-law was at the home, but he hadn’t been a part of her life since her husband died in 1999.

This woman had been living with her now dead son and a granddaughter who may have been about thirteen years old.  No one else in her family had even visited her in years.  We found out that she didn’t expect much help from her family, as they “went wild” (as she put it) when she asked for assistance when her husband died.  She was adrift and had no one who could guide her through this loss.

A couple of people went into the house to collect the body.  They wrapped him in a wool blanket and carried him into the back of the vehicle.  For reasons I can’t explain, because I don’t know the reason, about five people went with us for the ride to the mortuary.  I can only guess that it was to support the mother in her time of grief.  This is something that I have heard about, and seen from a distance.

Once we got to our destination, and were finally allowed in, a metal gurney was wheeled up to the back of the truck, and a couple of attendants removed the body.  The son was then taken into the main room of the mortuary.  We looked on from the outside, as they removed the blanket with as little grace and dignity as possible. The blanket was thrown to the entrance of the building.  When asked if she wanted it back, the mother shook her head no and flung her hand at it as if to say “Just get rid of it.”


I found out later, that standing on the threshold of the door, was the limit of where I wanted to be in the mortuary.  Once you entered into the main room, behind a curtain was a stack of bodies that were either waiting to be collected, or were not going to be collected.  Because they were not afforded the special treatment of the coolers, they were in various “states” and numbered over one hundred.  It has been a busy time at the Kitale District Hospital’s mortuary.


Once everything was settled, and we were back in the vehicle to take everyone home, the woman fell asleep.  Emotionally and I am sure physically exhausted from everything her day and previous night entailed.  We dropped everyone off, and wished the woman well and went home ourselves.

I cannot imagine the pain that this woman is experiencing.  I cannot fathom the loneliness of having to handle something of this magnitude alone.  The only good thing that is coming from this is that the community around this woman is gathering to be at her side.  Her church is helping her with some expenses, as are her neighbours and co-workers.  What is her family’s contribution?  They will cover the cost of the suit that her son will be buried in.

This is Kenya.  This is life.  This is death. This is another dose of reality.