Waking Up

18 - Prayers

As I walk to the south entrance of the base where Joseph's family will say their last goodbyes, I notice other families going about their day. A father and his two sons plant buddings into a patch of dirt lined by a small wire fence. Two young women wash their clothes in a barrel and hang them on a wire to dry. Another woman breastfeeds her baby while an older child watches over and covers them both with a blanket. A mellow buzz emanates from the camp as those who don't know Joseph or his family continue their everyday. This is the new norm.

When I arrive at the gate, I see a family in a group embrace standing in front of a man in a black suit wearing a white clerical collar. An older woman is arm-in-arm with a young teenage girl, nodding as the priest reads to them from a book. Another woman stands next to them holding a little boy's hand, alongside other mourners. The priest dips his hand into a cup of water and flicks it towards the back of the truck, droplets hitting the top of an unfinished wooden coffin, creating a tapping sound that reverberates through the air.

The driver turns the ignition. Joseph's body is getting transported to the burial grounds miles away from camp.I say a quick prayer under my breath and shut my eyes tight as the roar of the truck's engine announces Joseph's final departure.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," I say once the truck turns off the road and is out of sight.

Joseph's mother looks up at me with her brown, swollen eyes and nods. The long wrinkle lines along her cheeks and mouth accentuate the pain on her face. She wipes the tears from her eyes and reaches out for my offering, a simple arrangement of lavenders, and holds it close to her chest. "Purple was Joseph's favorite color," she says in a hoarse voice, sniffing the bulbous petals. "Thank you."

His mother and his sister walk past me and are both greeted by other mourners. We walk away from the gated entrance towards a wide road and watch the truck slowly exit the camp. A procession of people dressed in black accompanies Joseph's family back to their tent. People along the path pause when they see the mourners, and they close their eyes and bow their heads in respect.

"How did you know Joseph?" The woman holding her little boy's hand asks as she walks next to me at the back of the crowd.

"I was assisting the doctor during surgery. I didn't really know Joseph."

"Oh. It's very considerate of you to pay your condolences to his mother. He was a great kid," she says.

"Are you family?"

"No. My son and I arrived at the camp a couple of days ago. Their tent is right next to ours. But, in the little time that I've been here, I can tell that Joseph was a great kid. He loved his mom and sister. He was--"

Her attention moves to her son tugging on her arm. She stops walking, and I stop with her.

"Mom, I don't feel good," the little boy moans next to his mother. His puppy-dog face is red, and he closes his eyes when his mother caresses his cheek. He pulls at his black sweatshirt collar and tells his mom he's hot.

"You don't look so good." She feels his head. "You're burning up again."

He pauses, his eyes scanning the concrete floor, and then moans before turning to the side to throw up.

"Not again, Eli." She bends down and holds his shoulders to keep him from tipping over. "You barely ate anything this morning."

I walk over and pat his back. "Just let it all out."

As he cries and throws up some more, his mother and I both hold his shoulders and help him lean forward, so he doesn't hit his shoes. After a few more deep heaves, the little boy's knees give out, and his body becomes limp. His mother and I grab him before he falls completely to the ground.

"Lay him on his back," I say to his mother. I lower his head gently onto the ground and lean in close to his mouth. "He's still breathing."

"Eli," his mother says as she taps his chest. "Wake up honey. Please, Eli. Wake up."

"What was the last thing he ate?"

"Bread and some apple juice from the kitchen this morning. He's been sick since we got here. Eli, honey, wake up."

He moans, but he doesn't open his eyes. He presses his hands against his stomach.

"Come on, Eli, we're going to the hospital." I lift the little boy in my arms and walk to a small uncovered military vehicle parked at the side of the road. I wave to the soldier standing twenty feet away.

"This kid needs to go to the North Side Hospital. He's burning up."

The soldier approaches me. "But the South Side is 5 minutes down that --"

"They don't have pediatrics at the South Side Hospital. The North Side has all the pediatric doctors."

The soldier removes boxes out of the only passenger seat in the two-seater vehicle. "Hop in. Just one of you, the kid has to ride in your lap."

I motion to Eli's mother to sit in the passenger seat and then place Eli in her lap. I strap them both in with the same seat belt.

"Go straight to Dr. Stone. He's been tending to a few sick kids with the same symptoms."

She nods nervously up at me, her eyes full of fear.

I stroke Eli's soft hair as the soldier starts up the engine. "Don't worry. Eli will be fine. Probably just a bad stomach bug."

Food poisoning, the stomach flu, it can be a variety of mild ailments, or it can be an intestinal infection or something far worse, something the hospital is not capable of handling. As the soldier drives away, I shudder at the thought of seeing Eli on the operating table, or in a wooden box.

I recall the crash-course session on patient disassociation that's given to all the volunteers with no medical experience. We can't get too close to patients, or it will hinder our technical performance and mental health--that was the general message. And they were right.

Regardless of how prepared I was as a surgical technologist, I was not prepared for patients dying. During my fourth procedure assisting Dr. Kim, handing him instruments upon his request, the diverticulitis patient died in the middle of surgery. After cleanup procedures, I walked to the administration's office and quit. It was too much.

Dr. Kim counseled me through it, asked to me consider the three prior surgeries where the patients lived, and to consider that without technical volunteers, the effectiveness of the hospitals would suffer and patients would die. He insisted that he needed capable people with strong constitutions, and convinced me to continue.

I pray Eli has the stomach flu.