Dealing With Death
"Cardiopathie" was the diagnosis at the hospital, and what I more precisely suspected was dilated congested heart failure, a condition that can develop after pregnancy. "Some patients recover completely, and some patients die" is what my textbook said.
I first heard about Florence when her infant was enrolled in our infants in distress program. The baby needed milk because her mother, Florence, fell "gravely ill" just after given birth to her now 3-month old baby girl, Emiline. I know we are already taking care of the baby," Rebeca said, " but if there is anything we can do to help the mother, it would be good. Her situation has broken my heart."
So we went out for a visit and found her, laying on a mat on a dirt floor, her raspy respirations as audible as a freight train. She coughed heavily as she sat up, and it took her a good ten minutes to recover from moving into a chair. Her face was swollen as well as her legs, which were cool to the touch from fluid accumulation. When I listened to her heart and lungs, I knew her sickness was already advanced and certainly exacerbated. This is when I began to suspect dilated congestive heart failure.
We explained the gravity of the situation to the family and promised to do our best to help, and then ministered to the family with promises and encouragement from God's Word along with a powerful prayer for healing.
Together with the family, we arranged for Florence to be brought to our city, the next highest level of care, on Monday morning. She was admitted with "cardiopathie" and given IV medications. Not able to do any further testing or treatment, they referred her to the next highest level of care in another city. Being familiar with a cardiologist and clinic in Ouagadougou, I arranged for her to go there instead. I rode my bike to the hospital to talk more personally with the doctors, explain the situation, and evaluate the patient. When I arrived at the hospital, Florence's daughter was outside weeping, and a sudden fear swept over me.
I went into the ward and saw her, motionless. A life escaped from its suffering shell. I swept some flies off her face and covered her with a pagne.
I was called into the doctor's office to talk with the attending physician. He began to explain, "I know you want to send this patient to Ouaga, but her case is urgent and Gaoua is the closest higher level care facility, so according to my recommendation, we should get her there as soon as possible..."
He could tell by the look on my face that something was not right. "Excuse me, doctor, but she is dead." He didn't even know. He inhaled with quick surprise, jumped up, and darted into the ward with his stethoscope. He came back with a muttered "sorry" and sat back down.
The next few hours were a blur. Stanislas and I got the pick-up truck, loaded her body in the back, finished things up at the hospital, and transported her and her daughter plus her husband's nephew back to their village to begin a traditional funeral. Last week I was an ambulance; this week I was a hearse.
This is actually the second death I've faced up close these past two weeks. Max, who I wrote about last week, died last week while receiving medical intervention in Ouaga. My first two medical cases this year have both ended in death.
Sometimes I want so bad for God to heal miraculously like he did in the New Testament, so that families and peoples would see and believe. But sometimes he doesn't, and although I don't understand why and it hurts to see people hurt who have already hurt so much, I fall on my knees and I trust.
When we dropped of the body with the family, they were profusely grateful because they recognized that we tried and that we did all they we could have done. But did we? Coming from a medical environment in the United States where I know what could have been done - how resuscitation would have been attempted, how the patient would have never gotten that bad before receiving care in the first place, how exams and procedures would have been promptly and without delay - it's hard to not question if I could have done something differently. It hard to accept that we aren't in control.
Death is terrible. The negligence of the medical staff, the insanity of a family waiting that long to seek help, the messiness, the crudeness of her body in the back of a pickup truck, the wailing.
But then I think about her, seeing Jesus face to face. She is in his presence, free of suffering. Now death becomes the greatest thing possible.
But then I see her children weeping, the very thing that made me, too, weep. And I hate death all over again.
But then think about how God can redeem suffering to draw us closer to him than ever before, and I rejoice and welcome the suffering again.
We know that death is the enemy's hold of a sin-stained world, yet we also know that death is the gateway to life. How like God! To take Satan's worst attack - the thing that makes him feel like he has won - and turn it into his final defeat and our ultimate victory. That's what God did through Jesus' death on the cross. "Where, oh hell, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting?"
Death is hard to talk about and write about. It's even harder to experience and deal with it. In all the questions we ask: why does God allow hard things to happen? Why didn't God miraculously heal in answer to our prayers? Could I have done something more? Something different? The most important question is this: What is God trying to teach me or show me in all this?
He's teaching me that he is in control and I am not; that this is his work, not mine; that he calls the shots and makes the decisions, not me; that he is God and I am not. Maybe he is using the frustration of injustice to move me to action. Perhaps he is using the finality of death to increase my longing for heaven and my passion for evangelism. I talk about living life with people, but is God also asking me to walk through death with them too in a way that shows God's love? It's a hard road to walk, but I'm willing to walk it alongside these people because I know Jesus has walked it, conquered it, and will walk alongside us, too.
As we drove out to the village to give Florence a proper burial, I kept asking God, What do I say to the family? What do I say to the family? The word spoken to me in the car -the love of God. Tell them how much I love them. Tell them to never doubt for a minute how much I love them.
I think that I love these people...oh how more infinitely and perfectly does the Father love them! He is the only one who can truly comfort us in our grief. How could we doubt or question the only one who can get us through?
So I told them, and they received it, and the paternal grandfather of the family spoke on behalf of the faith of them all when he said, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. We bless his name."
I first heard about Florence when her infant was enrolled in our infants in distress program. The baby needed milk because her mother, Florence, fell "gravely ill" just after given birth to her now 3-month old baby girl, Emiline. I know we are already taking care of the baby," Rebeca said, " but if there is anything we can do to help the mother, it would be good. Her situation has broken my heart."
So we went out for a visit and found her, laying on a mat on a dirt floor, her raspy respirations as audible as a freight train. She coughed heavily as she sat up, and it took her a good ten minutes to recover from moving into a chair. Her face was swollen as well as her legs, which were cool to the touch from fluid accumulation. When I listened to her heart and lungs, I knew her sickness was already advanced and certainly exacerbated. This is when I began to suspect dilated congestive heart failure.
We explained the gravity of the situation to the family and promised to do our best to help, and then ministered to the family with promises and encouragement from God's Word along with a powerful prayer for healing.
Together with the family, we arranged for Florence to be brought to our city, the next highest level of care, on Monday morning. She was admitted with "cardiopathie" and given IV medications. Not able to do any further testing or treatment, they referred her to the next highest level of care in another city. Being familiar with a cardiologist and clinic in Ouagadougou, I arranged for her to go there instead. I rode my bike to the hospital to talk more personally with the doctors, explain the situation, and evaluate the patient. When I arrived at the hospital, Florence's daughter was outside weeping, and a sudden fear swept over me.
I went into the ward and saw her, motionless. A life escaped from its suffering shell. I swept some flies off her face and covered her with a pagne.
I was called into the doctor's office to talk with the attending physician. He began to explain, "I know you want to send this patient to Ouaga, but her case is urgent and Gaoua is the closest higher level care facility, so according to my recommendation, we should get her there as soon as possible..."
He could tell by the look on my face that something was not right. "Excuse me, doctor, but she is dead." He didn't even know. He inhaled with quick surprise, jumped up, and darted into the ward with his stethoscope. He came back with a muttered "sorry" and sat back down.
The next few hours were a blur. Stanislas and I got the pick-up truck, loaded her body in the back, finished things up at the hospital, and transported her and her daughter plus her husband's nephew back to their village to begin a traditional funeral. Last week I was an ambulance; this week I was a hearse.
This is actually the second death I've faced up close these past two weeks. Max, who I wrote about last week, died last week while receiving medical intervention in Ouaga. My first two medical cases this year have both ended in death.
Sometimes I want so bad for God to heal miraculously like he did in the New Testament, so that families and peoples would see and believe. But sometimes he doesn't, and although I don't understand why and it hurts to see people hurt who have already hurt so much, I fall on my knees and I trust.
When we dropped of the body with the family, they were profusely grateful because they recognized that we tried and that we did all they we could have done. But did we? Coming from a medical environment in the United States where I know what could have been done - how resuscitation would have been attempted, how the patient would have never gotten that bad before receiving care in the first place, how exams and procedures would have been promptly and without delay - it's hard to not question if I could have done something differently. It hard to accept that we aren't in control.
Death is terrible. The negligence of the medical staff, the insanity of a family waiting that long to seek help, the messiness, the crudeness of her body in the back of a pickup truck, the wailing.
But then I think about her, seeing Jesus face to face. She is in his presence, free of suffering. Now death becomes the greatest thing possible.
But then I see her children weeping, the very thing that made me, too, weep. And I hate death all over again.
But then think about how God can redeem suffering to draw us closer to him than ever before, and I rejoice and welcome the suffering again.
We know that death is the enemy's hold of a sin-stained world, yet we also know that death is the gateway to life. How like God! To take Satan's worst attack - the thing that makes him feel like he has won - and turn it into his final defeat and our ultimate victory. That's what God did through Jesus' death on the cross. "Where, oh hell, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting?"
Death is hard to talk about and write about. It's even harder to experience and deal with it. In all the questions we ask: why does God allow hard things to happen? Why didn't God miraculously heal in answer to our prayers? Could I have done something more? Something different? The most important question is this: What is God trying to teach me or show me in all this?
He's teaching me that he is in control and I am not; that this is his work, not mine; that he calls the shots and makes the decisions, not me; that he is God and I am not. Maybe he is using the frustration of injustice to move me to action. Perhaps he is using the finality of death to increase my longing for heaven and my passion for evangelism. I talk about living life with people, but is God also asking me to walk through death with them too in a way that shows God's love? It's a hard road to walk, but I'm willing to walk it alongside these people because I know Jesus has walked it, conquered it, and will walk alongside us, too.
As we drove out to the village to give Florence a proper burial, I kept asking God, What do I say to the family? What do I say to the family? The word spoken to me in the car -the love of God. Tell them how much I love them. Tell them to never doubt for a minute how much I love them.
I think that I love these people...oh how more infinitely and perfectly does the Father love them! He is the only one who can truly comfort us in our grief. How could we doubt or question the only one who can get us through?
So I told them, and they received it, and the paternal grandfather of the family spoke on behalf of the faith of them all when he said, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. We bless his name."
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