Bedside Letters
This spoken word was written last year, a month after the death of a young friend I made in Ethiopia. I had the privilege of caring for this child during his last week and a half on this side of heaven. I pray that as you read these "letters", you may be inspired to find your own way of navigating through grief during the heavy seasons of life, especially the death of loved ones.
Yakob, late have I loved you. But it has been beautiful to know you for this week and a half that feels like a long, long time. Our conversations are short and brief and every so often you are not in the mood to entertain me with your answers, that cost you a lot to speak. Yet, every moment has been full of a certainty that somehow you belong to me.
Dear Yakob, I'm fighting with you. I'm fighting for you. You refuse me the smile and turn over instead. You don't want the feeding tube, I get it. It's painful and it makes you think you're dying. But trust me. I want you alive more than you can believe, please listen to me.
Whether you like me or not after this, you're getting it. It's been days. Your throat is closing up. The fungus is making it impossible for you to swallow. Stage four HIV has never looked more horrible, more unfitting on a person. You're only 14.
These scars shouldn't be on your body. Your brain should be intact and un-suffered from the TB Meningitis. No cancer cells should be in your blood. Leukemia does not look good on you either---it doesn't suit anyone for that matter.
Yakob, what can we do? These nurses and doctors here have me livid. I demand that they treat you well and look after you. But all they see is an orphan who is dying soon-- except for Doctor Sarone. She is a gem and she really gets it: medicine is for healing people not for making money off of dying people.
You're losing your vision. You can't play on my phone anymore. You can't see the pictures and the colors hurt you. So you pass me the phone and turn over. At least the music consoles you. And the easiness of Spotify enables you to feel as though you still have some power. You can change the song and lay on your bed to a different tune-- one that you choose. Since you did not choose this one.
Yakob, I didn't know last night would be my last night with you. I'm so glad my last words were: I love you. When I went in to identify your body, my heart was capped with a layer of numbness. I had already cried my rivers this morning.
We are preparing for the funeral now. I am already at your burial ground. Many heard and they are on the way. They are sorry they missed you. They wanted to pray with you, sing you one last song, give you one last look before you went off.
Dear Yakob, I miss you. For many weeks I thought of you and certain songs still make me think of you. And every 18th of May I will pray with you and thank God that he took you from your bed of pain and that you're resting now; not in my arms but in a better place--the best place.
Yakob, this will be my last letter for a while. Not because I don't want to write. But because the days have passed and you have passed. So this paper and pen, won't get my words to you fast enough.
My thoughts, though, they can fly to you. So I will refrain from writing and instead pass the time smiling, thinking of you and enjoying the flowers and nice things as if you could see it too. You are not far. You're in my heart.
Yakob, I love you. The next time I write it will be on your heart with the calligraphy of love and the ink of a sweet, sweet song.
Good night, dear one. Rest up.
Grace and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.
