Thursday afternoon when I answered my phone in the middle of the labor ward my hello was met by hysterical sobbing. After a few seconds the sobbing receded and an unfamiliar voice said, "Boston is no more." Immediately I left Bottom and headed to the Pediatrics ward at Central. As I turned the corner nearing the ward I found Boston's mother, accompanied by a few friends, silently seated on a bench, eyes red and swollen from 30 minutes of devastation.
That afternoon I waited with them there, then drove behind the ambulance that carried mother and child home for their final goodbyes. The next morning Frank called just as they were beginning the burial ceremony. I arrived in time to join and small procession of women carrying wild flowers into the house. While the men sat quietly along the fence outside, the women overfilled the small room with their bodies and songs, Boston's small coffin the centerpiece on a grass mat.
I cried. But this time my tears were not for Boston. His time here was an eternity of suffering; anyone could see an old man staring out from his eyes. I cried for his mother. At 31 she has already buried two husbands and now she is burying her last born child. I cried thinking of the lightness on her hips; the sudden absence of this child who was always on her hip or back, or in her arms with his head pressed against her chest. I cried for the emptiness of her arms and for the other women at Bottom who arrive with expectations and large bellies, and return home with a small bundle to place in the ground. I cried for the women in the room many of whom surely had lost their own children and who were expected to go back to life, to drawing water, cooking, and cleaning.
Sometimes in the hospital when I am resuscitating a severely asphyxiated baby - one who is hovering between worlds - I talk to them and try to convince them to stay. It is a moment, I believe requiring absolute honesty. I cannot tell them life will be a pleasant journey. Being born to a poor woman in one of the world’s poorest countries (and perhaps to an HIV positive mother), the only enticement I can offer is the promise of their mother’s love. And, I plead that they will stay so her heart may grow with the experience of that love.
After an hour or so in the house, with the women singing hymns, we moved outside. The coffin was placed in the center of the road and encircled by the separate but now closer groups of men and women. A minister and a few other male members of the community stood to speak before the walk began to the burial site. As we walked I realized we were easily two hundred people and this sight led me to think about the differences between Malawi and the US in the ways we mark life and death, and in the ways we cherish life. Here life’s fragility presents itself bluntly nakedly and yet the end of each life remains a significant event. In the States many of us still believe we are invincible, we do everything to sustain life and yet how many deceased adults would draw such a crowd to their funeral on a Friday afternoon?
At the graveyard the minister spoke again, a few family members lay flowers on the coffin lid and then three men lowered it into the Earth. After topping the coffin with rows of sticks and a grass mat, the men took turns with shovels to fill the hole. Sitting in the tall grass to my right Boston’s mother was silent. The baby on his mother’s lap to my left pulled at my hair. In the dirt at the head of the small mound someone placed crude black metal cross, scrawled letters in white paint read “Boston Kauda 11/2005-1/2007.” The grave next to Boston’s had no little cross only three sticks and a stone, which was at that moment being traversed by a large elegant snail.
From there we returned to the house. People branching off along the way until only a small gathering of family remained. I too said goodbye to Boston’s mother, shook hands with Frank, and returned home.
That afternoon I waited with them there, then drove behind the ambulance that carried mother and child home for their final goodbyes. The next morning Frank called just as they were beginning the burial ceremony. I arrived in time to join and small procession of women carrying wild flowers into the house. While the men sat quietly along the fence outside, the women overfilled the small room with their bodies and songs, Boston's small coffin the centerpiece on a grass mat.
I cried. But this time my tears were not for Boston. His time here was an eternity of suffering; anyone could see an old man staring out from his eyes. I cried for his mother. At 31 she has already buried two husbands and now she is burying her last born child. I cried thinking of the lightness on her hips; the sudden absence of this child who was always on her hip or back, or in her arms with his head pressed against her chest. I cried for the emptiness of her arms and for the other women at Bottom who arrive with expectations and large bellies, and return home with a small bundle to place in the ground. I cried for the women in the room many of whom surely had lost their own children and who were expected to go back to life, to drawing water, cooking, and cleaning.
Sometimes in the hospital when I am resuscitating a severely asphyxiated baby - one who is hovering between worlds - I talk to them and try to convince them to stay. It is a moment, I believe requiring absolute honesty. I cannot tell them life will be a pleasant journey. Being born to a poor woman in one of the world’s poorest countries (and perhaps to an HIV positive mother), the only enticement I can offer is the promise of their mother’s love. And, I plead that they will stay so her heart may grow with the experience of that love.
After an hour or so in the house, with the women singing hymns, we moved outside. The coffin was placed in the center of the road and encircled by the separate but now closer groups of men and women. A minister and a few other male members of the community stood to speak before the walk began to the burial site. As we walked I realized we were easily two hundred people and this sight led me to think about the differences between Malawi and the US in the ways we mark life and death, and in the ways we cherish life. Here life’s fragility presents itself bluntly nakedly and yet the end of each life remains a significant event. In the States many of us still believe we are invincible, we do everything to sustain life and yet how many deceased adults would draw such a crowd to their funeral on a Friday afternoon?
At the graveyard the minister spoke again, a few family members lay flowers on the coffin lid and then three men lowered it into the Earth. After topping the coffin with rows of sticks and a grass mat, the men took turns with shovels to fill the hole. Sitting in the tall grass to my right Boston’s mother was silent. The baby on his mother’s lap to my left pulled at my hair. In the dirt at the head of the small mound someone placed crude black metal cross, scrawled letters in white paint read “Boston Kauda 11/2005-1/2007.” The grave next to Boston’s had no little cross only three sticks and a stone, which was at that moment being traversed by a large elegant snail.
From there we returned to the house. People branching off along the way until only a small gathering of family remained. I too said goodbye to Boston’s mother, shook hands with Frank, and returned home.