Death at Our Door

Yesterday I held a dead baby boy in my arms. Today I’m in a state of shock—but shock seems to be the wrong word. I cannot describe this feeling, for I’ve never held a dead human being in my arms before.

I’ve begun my day. I cleaned the upstairs rooms of our center, got the kids dressed and ready for a visitor this afternoon, shaved my face, and tried not to think about yesterday. But my face has been wet with tears since I awoke. Emotionally, I feel just two notches above dead.

The truth is, no matter how “normal” I strive to behave, inside of me is a sea of pain and rage provoked by my lack of understanding. How can something like this happen? Who is to blame? I don’t know what to do to process this. I’m not much of a believer, so the best two words to describe how I feel are: agonized and lost.

David was the five-year-old son of Jean-Paul, Green Eyes in Africa’s caregiver and night guard. Before I write about David, I owe Jean-Paul a few words of admiration.
Green Eyes in Africa was in charge of Pepito, a deformed but mentally sound boy in a wheelchair.

Each night Jean-Paul would lovingly help Pepito with his toilet needs, wash him, and talk with him for hours. He loved Pepito. Jean-Paul is the father of 16 children. He’s a former polygamist turned devout Mormon. For those who are unfamiliar with modern Mormonism, the majority of Mormons are simply good people living a lifestyle similar to devout Catholics. Polygamy is no longer a part of mainstream Mormonism—that ended about 100 years ago.

Jean-Paul is a religious, soft-spoken, gentle, and kind man.

Jean-Paul is a refugee from Chad who was forced to evacuate to Cameroon. In his homeland, he saw things that I cannot begin to talk about. Let me just say that mass murder, torture, killing, rape, and guns were involved. This man has seen the worst that humanity has to offer—yet for Green Eyes in Africa, he’s been a source of fatherly joy.

I’d say Jean-Paul is around 45 years old. But he looks older. After what he’s been through, it’s a miracle that he still carries such optimism and joy in his heart. That’s what makes this story even more awful. Jean-Paul did not deserve to lose his baby boy, David, his last child and his greatest source of pride and happiness.
Two days ago Jean-Paul did not show up to perform his responsibilities. In a frenzied voice on the phone, he said, “My boy is sick, I can’t come.” I understood, and assumed that his boy would be fine. People get malaria all the time in this country, including myself. I thought nothing of it.

His boy, David, is a five-year-old child with large beautiful eyes and a mischievous, yet endearing personality. Two weeks ago he joined all of us in a game of duck-duck-goose.

That night, our Cameroonian Director, Olivier Wendjel, told me that Jean-Paul’s boy was dead. “Malaria,” he said. The shock began. The disbelief began. What?

The next day, in the afternoon, Jean-Paul came to the house with many of his family members in order to use our minibus to transport his boy’s coffin. I assumed he would come with his boy already in the wooden box—but David’s corpse was wrapped in no more than a blanket.

Jean-Paul was sobbing so intensely that he slid down a wall and fell to the ground. I joined him, hugging him, trying to say what I could. But in reality, I had no idea what to say. I kept saying things to the effect of, “He’s with you in spirit. He’ll be your guardian angel.”

But I didn’t know if I believed what I was saying. Honestly, I don’t think I did.
Family members of Jean-Paul brought David’s tiny corpse and placed it in our arms. We uncovered his face. His facial expression was angelic. David’s face looked like the face of a sleeping angel, only, it was cold. And our kisses on his forehead did not wake him.

I tried to hold myself together, but I soon heaved in pain with Jean-Paul as we had this “last conversation” with his baby boy: his precious, innocent, wonderful baby boy.

Jean-Paul kept wailing phrases such as, “We won’t play together tomorrow. We won’t play together ever again. He won’t run tomorrow. He will never run again. My boy will never run again. He always shared what he had with his siblings. He will never share again.”

David’s mother had died years before. Jean-Paul was now losing her again, in a different way.

I continuously stroked David’s cheeks and head, looking at his tiny face. I had never held a dead person before—somehow I could not confront the fact that he would not wake up. I kept waiting for his beautiful eyes, with long black eyelashes, to open. But they did not.

Jean-Paul and I did not want to let go of David when it was time to put him into the bus to go and put him in his wooden coffin.

They re-wrapped David in the sheet, and placed him in his father’s arms. Kari Jaksa, an American volunteer living with Green Eyes in Africa, and I attempted to give a few last words of comfort to Jean-Paul. But he was not listening. It was impossible for him to hear anything through his heaving sobs.

Today, we sent food and money to Jean-Paul and his family. Olivier Wendjel made the delivery. I asked him how Jean-Paul was doing. The response was “no better.”
Losing a precious baby boy like David is something that will never be “okay.” I, myself, will never be the same after having experienced this. David’s round, tiny, beautiful, dead face is entrenched into my heart and soul. I have no answers. I am haunted.

I just know that I need to be damn sure that I appreciate every moment of life—for we never know what’s around the corner.

David, wherever you are, we love you. Jean-Paul, we love you…que Dieu soit avec vous deux.