My Life as an African Gypsy

The image is burned into my mind. After 3 years in the hospital here, little shocks me and leaves me disturbed. Yesterday was the exception.

I sat across a lady who begged me to let her go home. She told me over and over again that she is tired. I explained that I didn't know how to help. I am not the doctor; therefore, I cannot get permission for her to leave. She would have to stay at least one more night in order to talk with her doctor the next morning, whom I am sure won't let her leave; she is in too bad of a condition. I felt a little helpless. We tried to call her family, but she didn't have the right number.

Puss oozed from her eyes and drained out her mouth. Her skin was like thin tissue paper and where it was attached to the body it was bubbling with blisters. Where it wasn't attached was bright pink raw tissue. Her teeth chattered against the sopping gauze she held beneath her chin. Her words were hard to understand and it pained me to tell her once again, "I don't understand," forcing her to talk more.

When it was time to leave, she told me she wanted juice. I asked her what kind she liked and she told me, "Coca Cola." I told her I'd get it and then went quickly to a shop at the hospital and brought it back. I could hardly imagine it possible for her to drink from a can, but she willed the strength, sat up, grabbed it, and started drinking right away. I will never forget her gulping the cold coke as blood poured like a fountain from the new raw spots on her cheeks, soaking the sheet beneath her.

On the way home I felt a little sick. I wanted to weep, but the sobs were caught in my throat. She is someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's mom. She is human. I just can't imagine it being me or someone close to me.

I got home, fearfully disinfected my phone, and told my hubby about it. I went to bed thinking and praying for her.

Oh that the Lord would have mercy on this woman in some tangible way.