While making my way through motos and watermelons in the already scorching 8AM heat, one of my friends from the market stopped me and said that the little boy with the sores on his head died last night. Sadly, with her description, I knew exactly who she was talking about.
My immediate response was shock since just yesterday I witnessed him laughing and playing with his older sister at the market as they do everyday. I didn't believe it, as this is one of the first stages of loss and grief proposed by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross; DENIAL. At the market, waiting for my coffee, I looked at the empty stall where the little boy's grandparents are usually set up everyday. His grandpa repairs watches and glasses and has a steady flow of customers throughout the day. Seeing the empty stall made the denial fade into some inkling of belief but I asked my coffee lady in order to hear it from another source. It was true, she said.
The Grandpa at work
Moving on with my unusually busy day ahead of me, I walked to the health center with my coffee bag in hand and thoughts of the little boy's too short life. He was maybe three years old. My next thoughts went to his older sister who is one of my favorite little girls; we often sit together at the coffee spot and draw water creatures from the condensation of my coffee onto the table. Imagining that little girl enduring any kind of suffering or pain made my heart ache.
The big sister
This reaction to death is something I've felt before. When my Grandpa Olson died, it took so long to sink in, and my tipping point was when I thought about how my brother would recover from the loss of our grandpa. My brother spent a great deal of time at my grandpa's house *cough* skipping class *cough* and I don't blame him. Our grandpa's house is full of fantastic blanket-fort-TGIF-McDonald's-eating-porch-memories. Thinking about how my brother would be affected by losing such an amazing person as Grandpa Walter Olson was scary to me. I wanted to make sure my brother would be okay. This kind of reaction makes sense to who I am, though. I would much rather everyone around me be happy first, and then maybe eventually I'd figure out what's going on with me. And really, it makes sense to focus on those closest to the recently deceased person. They are the ones that need the most support and love.
How I best remember Grandpa Olson - photo courtesy of Aunt Barb
Today, I bypassed the third stage of grieving, Anger, and jumped straight to Bargaining. As a Community Health Volunteer in my little community, it came as a stabbing blow to hear of this little boy's untimely death. In turn, I began to rattle up potential warning signs of his impending death that I overlooked. These warning signs were present but I was too distracted by my own selfish thoughts to recognize and bring attention to them. I won't go on to blame myself for what happened but I can't help to think that maybe if I had looked more closely, actually asserted myself, and told his family my worries, maybe things would have gone differently.
Yesterday, while dazing in and out of the scurrying market scene, I watched the little boy and his sister play together. Watching this brother and sister pair play together always brightened my days. The little boy was laying on the table top and his sister was wrapping him up in a Kromah (which is a traditional Khmer multi-purpose scarf.) My first thought went to "oh, he's a mummy" which wasn't such an unexpected comparison for me to make at the time since I had just finished the book "STIFF: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers" by Mary Roach. Now in hindsight, I feel uneasy that I made such a comparison.
brother and sister love
As the little boy and his sister played with the kromah on the tabletop, I watched the little boy's chest move up and down in what seemed to be weary breathing. But when I looked at his face, he was smiling and giggling at this sister, as per usual. Because he wasn't showing any immediate signs of distress, I didn't think about his heaving breath beyond that.
For at least a month leading to his death, the little boy had many infected sores covering his head. At one point, the sores were so bad that half of his face was completely swollen. The sores came and went. One day I asked the grandma if they went to the health center to get the sores checked out and she said they had medicine, a cream, that they used already. My friend at the market often scoffed at the little boy and his sister and said "aut ana-mai" or not clean, not sanitary. I sympathized with the little boy and his family because they were poor. Their mother recently took a job at a garment factory and was in another town to be closer to work. The grandma and grandpa were left to care for their grandchildren 24/7. I wanted them to put more attention on the little boy and his health but it wasn't my place to tell them what to do.
The little boy and his grandma
When the sores continued to show up on his face and head, I should have asked again about going to the health center, been persistent, but I didn't want to act like a know-it-all, or anything close to a doctor. I also didn't want to insult the family or overstep my boundaries, which is very possible being in the foreigner position that I am in.
Now I wish, with great regret, that I had overstepped my boundaries. I wish I hadn't doubted my instincts; he really was having trouble breathing and that was a definite danger sign that he was not well and needed immediate medical attention.
I ask myself "What can I do now?"
Recently, I've finally had the great opportunity to do village outreach with my health center; giving out Vitamin A vaccinations in more rural areas, and also with one of the village health volunteers to educate about family planning. While out in the villages, I saw so many children covered in dirt, with greasy hair, rotten teeth, and open sores on their legs. The children that looked the most malnourished were the ones most resistant to taking the Vitamin A vaccination which is a harmless, capsule of sweet liquid that we squeeze into children's mouths.
From what I've recently experienced and observed, my goal is to create educational materials that are simple and clear and focused directly on keeping children healthy. Preventative health education. Families that live in more rural areas, and are often farmers, have little time to give direct care to their children but I want to make this one of their priorities. I want to provide basic advice and steps that they can take that can save their children's lives. A lot of it may be common sense, no-brainers, but sometimes it needs to be said out loud by people in their villages that they trust and admire. I will provide the material but the village chiefs and village health volunteers will convey the messages. That is exactly what my job is here.
too beautiful not to share
At this point, I'm not completely sure what stage of the grieving process I am in because I'm grieving for more than just the little boy. I experience something so close to physical pain and certain remorse for children I see living and playing amid heaps of burning trash. Their faces reflect worry and their bodies are feeble and worn. Sometimes I think I'm too sensitive and empathetic to be in this position; that my emotions will cripple me from actually taking action. But then I think "THAT'S BULLSHIT!" I need to take my empathy and work with it because it's what got me here in the first place. I have to keep telling myself "Not all is lost, Laura." And I can't beat myself up for things that have already happened. I know I can't save them all, but I hope to at least plant the seed and bring more light and life to an arid landscape.
The Little boy
Much love,
Laurax
