Visiting Miriam

It was 10:30AM before Susan, an American nurse, was ready for the home visit. She put on her headtie, and we were off, led by two Nigerian women, Theresa and Ladi. We crossed the street from the hospital gate - which is in itself an ordeal - and hailed a taxi. (In other words, Ladi stuck her head into a parked car and asked the driver if he'd take us where we wanted to go. He agreed.) So we all four piled in and were on our way.

We didn't travel far, but too far to walk. When the asphalt road ended, the taxi driver turned around and refused to go any further. We all scrambled out and started the short trek. Susan greeted everyone we passed, especially the children: "Yara, sannu ku!" The kids were all delighted and happily answered the greeting. Goats wandered across our path, bleating mournfully.

Ladi took us to the house of a woman named Miriam (not her real name). Miriam's aunt met us at the door and welcomed us warmly. She ushered us into a bedroom and sat us on stools and the floor. Only after I sat did I notice Miriam, an emaciated woman lying across the lap of her mother. Everyone around me broke into Hausa, and I lost the conversation.

Hollow eyes. I now understand the term. Miriam - who could not have been more than thirty - was a human scarecrow, so weak she could not speak or lift a finger. Her arms and legs were just skin stretched over bone, her face drawn and pale, the eyes of a wraith. When Susan gave her a sip of water, Miriam could not swallow it. Instead, it came out her nose and dribbled out of her mouth. Susan explained to the mother that Miriam should be turned every few hours to prevent her getting bedsores.

Theresa quietly told me some of Miriam's background: Miriam was divorced with two children. Her brother and sister-in-law had recently died of AIDS, and their mother was now taking care of all the children. Miriam's aunt showed us a recent photo of Miriam and her mother, and I gasped. The woman pictured had long hair and a full figure - and a smile. There was almost no resemblance to the woman lying before me. Theresa told me that Miriam, who'd tested HIV+ only six months earlier, had come to the hospital a month before our visit with fever and vomiting. The doctor discharged her after two weeks on admission. (Because they could no longer afford it? I wondered.) Theresa was shocked at how quickly Miriam had deteriorated in the two weeks since her discharge.

All the women in the house covered their heads, and Ladi prayed for Miriam in Hausa. Afterward, we sang to Miriam, first in Hausa, then in English. I tried to pick it up as we sang: "I will go with Jesus, wherever he leads. The road will not be easy, but I will go with Jesus, wherever he leads." Miriam's lips moved as we began the song, but only slightly and briefly as her strength failed.

Susan gave a few last medical suggestions, and we got up. In the next room, Susan told Miriam's relatives she would die in the next few days, so they should encourage her and remind her that Jesus was with her. Miriam's mother and aunt walked us out and down the road a little ways. Finally, we bade goodbye and God bless you to the women, and went on our way.

"She may not even live through the night," Susan said, "and we cannot save her life with medicine. But at least we know we talked to her and encouraged her not to be afraid of death because she dies with Jesus." She was right; I knew it in my head. But my heart didn't understand. We walked along the dirt road, and I was silent.

When we returned home, I expressed myself to Susan, who told me something another missionary had said to encourage her:

"I would rather love deeply and become scarred when my loved ones die, than not love at all and go through life unmarked. I don't want to live a safe life. I want to step out and love people, even when it hurts."

After Susan left, I tried to write in my journal about our visit with Miriam, but I found I could not.

A few days later, I heard that Miriam died that same day, only eight hours after we were there. I wasn't surprised. In this place I have often seen death, and Miriam was not far from it when I saw her. Susan was right: There was nothing we could have done to save Miriam's life. But we were hardly helpless. We did what we could to ensure that Miriam would die in Jesus' arms. Sometimes that's all we can do.