I would like to tell you about Mawuli and Gratian, two people who will forever be etched into my heart and memory. I unfortunately do not have any pictures of these two wonderful people, so you will have to use your inner eye to see them as I tell their story.
Gratian is a tall, slim, kind faced and warm hearted man. He is a well educated man, speaking english well and teaching at the University in Lome. His wife, Mawuli, is 32, has short styled hair, a beautiful face and worked as an accountant. They have a 2 year old little boy.
Their story and relationship with the Africa Mercy goes back to February, when Mawuli began to feel a discomfort in her throat, which very quickly began to cause discomfort for her breathing. They had heard that the Africa Mercy was screening patients in their area, so came to one of the screening events. Mawuli had no large growth, no obvious deformity on her body; just this unusual entity in her throat. She was quickly brought to the ship for some scans on this troublesome area.
As things happen, whether planned or un-planned, whether luck or guidance - that night, this growth in her throat blocked Mawuli's trachea. She had an emergency tracheotomy that saved her life that night. Her husband stood by the entire time.
Mawuli and her husband ended up staying on the ship for a full month, as scans, bi-opsy's and X-rays were done in an attempt to figure out if what was in her throat was cancer or something else. For a month, everything came back 'inconclusive'. The many different surgeons and supervisors had a very difficult decision to make, which they did. Mawuli had to go home - there was nothing more that any of the surgeons could do for her.
Harriet and I began to visit them once a week, to ensure that they were doing ok with cleaning and caring for her trache, as well as just spending time with them, being friends with them, talking and praying with them. One of the first things that Gratian ever said to us in his home, after we apologised for not being able to do more was,
"No..no...no....you have, you have done something!
You have saved our lives, you have saved our family."
Many weeks went by, Mawuli not becoming any weaker, just carrying on as normal. They visited many local and not so local hospitals in the search for someone who could shine light on this unusual situation - but all ended the same, confusion and uncertainty as to what was growing in her throat.
A few tuesdays ago however, while we were driving out to another patients house, we had a phone call from the ship saying that Gratian had been in touch, that they were in the hospital and that Mawuli was not doing so well. We were on the complete opposite side of town, so decided to go and have a short visit with our patient and then head back to the ship for an up-date. This however was too long. There was a message waiting for us on our return to the ship. Mawuli had died.
It's always hard to describe ones emotions in those kinds of situations. Shock, numbness, dis-belief. All of these things were true for me, all of these and more. We went to see Gratian the next day at his home. His mother in law was the first person to greet us as we walked into their courtyard. She just hugged us, in silence, with tears in her eyes - she didn't have to say anything.
Gratian then walked in through the back gate. He stopped when he saw us, his head dropped; we went to him. He led us into his home, his small stone home; with one bedroom and one living room. He led us in, harriet and myself, along with 2 of our translators and another lady from the ship who had spent a lot of time with Mawuli while she had been onboard.
He closed the door, turned with tears in his eyes, scuttled over to a chair in the corner and began to wail. His pain reverberated off of the walls and broke our hearts once more. We sat there, with no words, just the grim and painful reality of a broken world and one more broken family. After some time, he began to recount the story of how his wife died - this is not a nice story.
A number of days before, she had taken a turn for the worse, she had trouble breathing and was in great discomfort. Gratian took her quickly to the nearest hospital/clinic in hope that one of the doctors there could help. They waited on a bed in the hallway for the first day, each time being told that 'another doctor will come to see your wife.' They waited on the same bed the second day, being told the same thing. At the end of the second day, Gratian cornered a doctor in disgust to find out why his wife had not been seen.
"Why won't you do something?" The response he got..."Because your wife is already dead."
Mawuli was refused help, pain medication, even a simple hello. She was left on the bed. On the morning of the 3rd day, Mawuli's mother brought her son to the hospital. At this point of the story, Gratian is a sobbing wreck on in his chair, overcome with grief as he relives his wife's last moments. His next few words will never leave me.
" As she lay there, she put her hands all over the child. She was speaking, but I couldn't hear her words. She then turned to me and said, 'You have to take good care of the baby, that is your job now.' They are the last words she spoke to me."
As I sit writing this I can still feel the pain, the anguish, the brokenness that I felt when I first heard him speak these words. We sat in his room for hours. We sat in silence, we tried to share words of encouragement and hope, we prayed, we sat in silence some more.
I have experienced many things this year. Many of those moments where life seems real, stripped back, good - in its purest sense, not that kind of, 'oow that's nice' good, but the 'this is how things should be good'. Oceans, whales, sunsets, climbing mountains, seeing waterfalls, getting engaged. Those moments where you stop and say, this is it. I'm sure you all know what I mean - those times where life gets stripped down and it all becomes real somehow.
I will always hold 'those' memories close to my heart. But I think I am also learning to embrace life on the other end of the spectrum. The spectrum that Gratian was on. The side that we don't like so much, because it hurts, because it's a place which is painful to go. Maybe culture has made it taboo, maybe our experiences have led us away from a place of trust, maybe we have just never been taught that life is all around, even in pain, even in death, there is still life; real, raw, exposed, naked - but life.
This is a journey that I am still learning to walk. There are things that I still don't understand, still questions that I have. But I still trust that even in death, even in those moments of pain, despair, brokenness - our loneliest times, there is still life, there is still hope.
Gratians story is your story and my story. His loss is yours and mine. Maybe you can empathise with Gratian right now, maybe you just need to wait. But may you and may I continue to be willing to find life in death, hope in loss and trust that ultimately this life is a stepping stone to something more and that God is good.
