At the Hospital
She sat down next to me on the hospital bench,
colorful beads at the end of each of the twenty something braids on her head.
Her five-year-old face was aglow and excited to see a white person. I’ve gotten
used to that look in the past nine months.
I tried to learn her name, but couldn’t catch all the syllables of the full name she gave me. Later, I asked her what her friends call her, since most people in Haiti have nicknames. The closet thing I can remember is Memi.
Memi and I spent the next hour and a half together. She took me to see her mom who was sick with “anemi” . I thought maybe it was anemia. Her mom had been in the hospital for eight days, and had a few more left, she said. Memi took me to several other patient rooms. She took me to see the sick babies. One was a month old, but smaller than the size of a newborn. She took me to see the handicapped people in the next building over. I met a man in a wheelchair who had lived at the hospital for three years. She took me to the kinep tree where we ate the squooshy, almost-sweet fruit together. She was excited when I let her sit in the front seat of the big blue truck that we had driven to the hospital. We sat and ate kineps together for a few more minutes while she observed the hospital from a higher viewpoint. She took me to where they burned their trash, where other kids play, and also introduced me to nurses. I met an American named Becky who seemed to know Memi very well. Becky cautioned her not to hurt herself on a sharp piece of metal nearby.
Then Memi even took me outside of the hospital gates. We walked down the street past vendors. She took me to her friend’s house where they wanted to speak English with me and tried to feed me the chicken they were cooking. They asked when I would return again. I said I didn’t know. She took me down the street to the library or bookstore that was closed, stopping to pee in a hole on the way. I couldn’t help thinking about how I probably shouldn’t have left the hospital gates with only a five-year-old as my guardian, so we returned, even though Memi wanted to take me to more houses and show me more things. On the way back, I bought her and her friend a lollipop from one of the street vendors. She had me taste her lollipop to see how sweet it was, and I let her drink from my water bottle when she was thirsty.
When we returned, I introduced her to Andre Louis, our little missionary baby whom we had originally come to pick up from the hospital. He had just been born three days before. His mom, Mirey had been at the hospital for a couple weeks, ready to go into labor. Then we went again to visit Memi’s mom. A few minutes later it was time for me to go. Memi’s mom told me to ask her when I would come to visit again. I told her I don’t know but that I won’t forget her.
After leaving the hospital, we climbed into our big blue truck to return to our mission base. Mirey gave me little Andre Louis to hold on the drive home. I told her how Memi had shown me around everywhere at the hospital and introduced me to everyone. Mirey then told me that Memi has AIDS. She had gotten it from her mom. And I said, “But she told me her mom had ‘anemi.’” Mirey said that she probably didn’t want me to know what was really wrong with her.
I was glad I had sweet little Andre Louis to hold on the long car ride back. I watched him sleep, held him tight when we went over bumps, and thought about sweet Memi. No wonder Becky told her not to hurt herself on sharp metal. No wonder she knew every person at the hospital and along the street. I dreamed about when I could go back and love on Memi even more, pray with her, play games with her. I knew I wanted even more to try to be Jesus to this sweet little girl with shining eyes, because I knew in the hour and a half we had spent together, she had already shown me important lessons. Joy. Opportunity. Joy in suffering. Laughter. Hope. Friendship. Never waste a moment.
Never waste a moment.
I tried to learn her name, but couldn’t catch all the syllables of the full name she gave me. Later, I asked her what her friends call her, since most people in Haiti have nicknames. The closet thing I can remember is Memi.
Memi and I spent the next hour and a half together. She took me to see her mom who was sick with “anemi” . I thought maybe it was anemia. Her mom had been in the hospital for eight days, and had a few more left, she said. Memi took me to several other patient rooms. She took me to see the sick babies. One was a month old, but smaller than the size of a newborn. She took me to see the handicapped people in the next building over. I met a man in a wheelchair who had lived at the hospital for three years. She took me to the kinep tree where we ate the squooshy, almost-sweet fruit together. She was excited when I let her sit in the front seat of the big blue truck that we had driven to the hospital. We sat and ate kineps together for a few more minutes while she observed the hospital from a higher viewpoint. She took me to where they burned their trash, where other kids play, and also introduced me to nurses. I met an American named Becky who seemed to know Memi very well. Becky cautioned her not to hurt herself on a sharp piece of metal nearby.
Then Memi even took me outside of the hospital gates. We walked down the street past vendors. She took me to her friend’s house where they wanted to speak English with me and tried to feed me the chicken they were cooking. They asked when I would return again. I said I didn’t know. She took me down the street to the library or bookstore that was closed, stopping to pee in a hole on the way. I couldn’t help thinking about how I probably shouldn’t have left the hospital gates with only a five-year-old as my guardian, so we returned, even though Memi wanted to take me to more houses and show me more things. On the way back, I bought her and her friend a lollipop from one of the street vendors. She had me taste her lollipop to see how sweet it was, and I let her drink from my water bottle when she was thirsty.
When we returned, I introduced her to Andre Louis, our little missionary baby whom we had originally come to pick up from the hospital. He had just been born three days before. His mom, Mirey had been at the hospital for a couple weeks, ready to go into labor. Then we went again to visit Memi’s mom. A few minutes later it was time for me to go. Memi’s mom told me to ask her when I would come to visit again. I told her I don’t know but that I won’t forget her.
After leaving the hospital, we climbed into our big blue truck to return to our mission base. Mirey gave me little Andre Louis to hold on the drive home. I told her how Memi had shown me around everywhere at the hospital and introduced me to everyone. Mirey then told me that Memi has AIDS. She had gotten it from her mom. And I said, “But she told me her mom had ‘anemi.’” Mirey said that she probably didn’t want me to know what was really wrong with her.
I was glad I had sweet little Andre Louis to hold on the long car ride back. I watched him sleep, held him tight when we went over bumps, and thought about sweet Memi. No wonder Becky told her not to hurt herself on sharp metal. No wonder she knew every person at the hospital and along the street. I dreamed about when I could go back and love on Memi even more, pray with her, play games with her. I knew I wanted even more to try to be Jesus to this sweet little girl with shining eyes, because I knew in the hour and a half we had spent together, she had already shown me important lessons. Joy. Opportunity. Joy in suffering. Laughter. Hope. Friendship. Never waste a moment.
Never waste a moment.
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