When All Is Not Enough --Here

A quick update on my time in Yako is here.

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As I sit to write this post I am sipping a hot cup of tea, listening to the rain pour down on the tin roof, and reflecting on a morning spent with the babies. I introduced the toddlers to zerberts (or raspberries? whatever you call them!) and wound-up surrounded by 8 toddlers shouting "Mama moi! Mam, mam!" (mama me, me me!). Every time they'd shout they lift their tshirts up to reveal tiny bellies, and grin from ear to ear. When one toddler received a zerbert he would shriek, and the rest would gigle at the rumbling noises before once again shouting "Mama mam!". Later some of the older toddlers discovered they could tickle me (not just me them), and soon Gille and Mariam were seated on my legs tickling my toes and laughing hysterically. Tickles have now become tickle fights that inevitably end in giggles and hugs. And as I think about all of this there's no doubt in my mind that these are beautiful, loved and loving, precious, children. 

Being back around the babies was good for my heart today. Even if it was different today. 

And so begins a story I don't know how to tell. 

Last week I spent time teasing and tickling the toddlers, but mostly I spent time with Cyrille: a 12-month-old with severe medical problems. When I was here in May he was sick, and was sick again this past week. In fact, he has spent all of his 12 months of life in, and out, of the hospital. The doctors released him last weekend and told SW there was nothing they could do; after running every test possible they could not determine the cause of his illness and had no idea how to treat him.

And so, last week we spent time with Cyrille recognizing it was the end of his time. I cuddled him, held him, and loved him whenever I could, the nurses checked him often, and the tantines fed him even when he tried to refuse food. When Cyrille had a raging fever and difficulty breathing I sat up with him in the night holding him so he could sleep better. Often during the day while I held him a toddler would approach Cyrille and offer their love: Mariam and Monica would come sit by us, and stroke Cyrille's arm as he laboured for breath, while Gille and Steve would gently kiss and stroke his cheek. And as I think about this there's no doubt in my mind that Cyrille was a beautiful, loved, precious, child. 

And on Saturday Cyrille's short life came to end. I had a chance to hold him one last time, kiss his forehead, and say goodbye. And though I had a brief cry, I had prepared my heart as best as I could to lose him. I cared for him (like I believe most people would) because I believe a dying child should be held and loved, not because I was hoping for a miracle. In all honesty I wasn't even praying for a miracle, just simply praying "your will be done".  Somehow I am at peace knowing Cyrille finally has the healing that wasn't possible for him here. And I know I was blessed by the short time I got to spend with him (recognizing fully my part in his life was just a snapshot - the true work came from those who cared for him and loved him for all 12 months of his life not just the final days). 

And though I have found comfort and peace in all of this, it is not without struggle. How do you come to grips with the fact that all that can be offered isn't enough? All that the Burkina medical system has, all the resources that Sheltering Wings has, all the love and care that Cyrille had, simply wasn't enough. And how do you come to grips with the fact that this was the outcome here. How can I not help but believe this would not have been the outcome where I am from? Even, I think, if it had been the presence of palliative care, would that not have been better? 

This summer has been an eye-opening experience with medical care in West Africa. It churns my stomach to recognize this past week meant not simply encountering the failures of the medical system, but that this encounter resulted in accepting these failures, and simply waiting for the end. I struggled to see the "fighter" Brittany that was around in Kumasi disappear, and yet I knew it would do nothing to fight. Or perhaps this fight simply took on another form. 

How does one find words for the failure of the 'system', for the recognition that Development isn't enough, for coming face to face with the injustice of the have and have not? How do you find words for the fact that life here just doesn't compare to life at home? How do I put words to the stark reality that this world, this place even, encompasses so many extremes? 

In this moment there aren't words, only the recognition that all that can be offered by man will never be enough here.  And while that sounds like an admission of defeat it's not. It's an acceptance of the challenge of responsibility and the acknowledgement that what we need is greater. And that, that is enough.