Beth from Heartline tells the story well…
A Daughter Dies A Mother Grieves
Marjorie and her large family have been in our lives since the
earthquake. She came to our field hospital very ill and spent months
with us. Her baby and teenage daughter were also with us. We love
Marjorie. John calls her "Figi" which means "face" in Creole because
all of her 7 children look like her. Today she has one less.
I was very excited and waiting for Marjorie to show up at Child
Development today because I had great news for her. She was going to
meet Terri, the woman who raised the money to build her a house. I
know Marjorie, she is very physical, and there would be lots of
hugging, kisses, joy and silliness. Marjorie and her family have been
living in a tent city. She comes every week and we check her med
supply, her blood pressure and see how her baby is doing. We load her
up with formula and diapers for the week. Her needs are endless. She
is very poor, her husband has not worked since the earthquake and we
know that she will be part of our community for a long time. She is
part of our earthquake family.
I looked up as she entered the house, I was giddy with good news that
I couldn't wait to tell. Marjorie looked terrible and the baby wasn't
with her. The baby is always with her. In barely a whisper from a
voice spent on grief she said, "Mme John, my daughter died on
Saturday." The baby? No, her oldest daughter. Her helper, the big
sister.
Where do you begin to console someone with such loss? A lifetime of
hardship. She explained that it had to be voodoo because her daughter
only a had a pain in her stomach and then went to the government
hospital and died. No answers, no explanations, just gone.
Poverty robs people of many things and among them is information. No
reasons why her child died. No understanding of what happened. Just
gone.
Terri and Allison who are here with a group spent time with Marjorie
praying with her. I felt numb with the reality of how on the edge
these people live, Life is so fragile. Gone so quickly.
I close my eyes and see that teenage girl at our field hospital, her
face mirroring her moms, helping to care for her mom while she was
ill. I close my eyes and see a sweltering, damp tent crowded and
dirty that tonight holds one less. And a family with no answers on
why they lost her.
As her community we need to be there for moments such as these. We
need to hurt with her and love her while her pain is raw. Life in
Haiti is raw. Perhaps her new house will make it a tiny bit less so.
Nothing replaces a child that should be living in it.
Beth McHoul