Loss and Weariness

“No chilling winds nor poisonous breath can reach that healthful shore; sickness sorrow, pain and death are felt and feared no more. I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land.” –On Jordan’s Stormy Banks

This week has been characterized by loss. It began on Monday morning; I was in Bubandi staying with my friend Joyce and got a phone call. Our beloved dog, Jesse, had died in the night. She died heroically—killing a 6 foot cobra in our yard. Jesse was a truly African dog who protected us with her howling and her snake killing skills. Chloe, her mother and companion, has been subdued and sad this week too. I went out to tell Joyce about the sad news of Jesse and she told me of a neighbor’s toddler who died at the health center on Sunday night too. My sadness over Jesse was quickly put in perspective.

I attended the burial of the toddler and later found out that the child died of pneumonia—something kids just don’t die of in America. She could have been saved too but the night shift nurse didn’t show at the health center so no one knew that her condition worsened during the night. Sadness at the brokenness of the system here and realizing it does indeed result in lost lives.

Wednesday I went to visit my friend Annette. She had been “in the village” visiting her family because of an aunt’s lost battle with cancer. Cancer is not really curable here. Not only did she attend the burial of her aunt but another aunt died the next day. And two days later a baby in the same family died of malaria. So, so sad.

Last night the Johnson’s baby bunny was acting lethargic and strange; “rabbit in shock” was googled and attempts to save the bunny were made but I learned this morning that it died. Not an hour later I got a phone call. A friend of mine who is just a few years younger than me lost her father last night. He was a businessman and driver, delivering goods all across Uganda. The rumors are that he fell asleep at the wheel of his truck and drove off the road. Whatever happened, he is gone, and my heart ached for my friend imagining the shock and grief she experienced this morning.

School begins here on Monday and the requests at the door have become more numerous and more frantic as the week has worn on. Many people have true needs and no one to help them. Others have family that can help them but they try “the whites” first. Many have relationships with missionaries that have been here in the past and they want me to be a liaison, sending their requests to them. It is exhausting to hear each person’s story, sift through fact and fiction, and most of the time, have to say “no” and see disappointment.

Add to that my own problem of now being a 23 year old “cancer survivor/patient”. My health insurance through WHM has changed in the last few months--none of my doctors are in network anymore and the deductible has quadrupled. Trying to navigate insurance in the U.S. was challenging enough last year; but with a new policy and trying to do it in the bush of Uganda, it is near impossible. Many emails sent, struggles to figure out if the hard-to-procure prep drugs I’ll need in August for a post-treatment scan will be available or not, whether they’ll be covered by insurance or not, just how much money this will all cost. All of it is annoying. The true blow: being reminded that “cancer” is now attached to all medical records at age 23; an age when many of my friends haven’t seen a doctor for anything more than the flu in the last two years.

Watched “God Grew Tired of Us” this afternoon; still not sure if it was a good idea or not. Either way, it is a fabulous documentary about Sudan’s Lost Boys that you should watch. But today, it left me feeling sad and a little distraught. I think it is the first time that I’ve seen it since living in Africa. It was strange to feel like I connected more with the scenes that took place in Sudan than the ones in the U.S. Between all the loss this week has brought, the many struggles that I’m surrounded by here, my own challenges, and being reminded of the pain around the globe, I find myself weary.

I am weary and I find myself asking the so common question “How can a loving God allow such pain and heartache in this world?” I don’t have an answer to that question. But I am certain of one thing right now—this world is not my home. I am weary but I eagerly anticipate going home, where the struggles are finished and the tears are wiped away.