Author: Layne

A Layne Post

I remember the first day Anaya and I visited with her. Cleo was outside, upstairs on the veranda. (Her name is Cleo which sounds like “Clay-o” not “Clee-o”) It was a beautiful day, sunny but not hot. She was completely delightful. She made silly faces and noises at Anaya, which isn’t terribly common around here, and Anaya just ate it up.  We laughed out loud about childbirth, children, and life. She couldn’t believe I didn’t know how to cook fish, and she wrote a recipe down for me. I am so happy to have that; it is on my fridge.

Cleo was beautiful, really beautiful. She was tall and strong. She laughed that she had ‘bochechas’ (chubby cheeks) like Anaya, though it wasn’t true.

She had a 12 year old daughter that was born at 7 months and Cleo had been in the hospital, in labor, for 7 days. My hero. Her daughter needed extra assistance and lived in the hospital for about a month, though she caught up quick and gained weight well. Cleo’s love for her daughter was evident. How proud she was of her progress in school. Cleo loved math and science and found it hard to be away from her daughter, unable to help tutor her.

Anaya grew to love Cleo. I can still imagine those days of Anaya sitting in bed with her, playing with her little elephant toy, while Cleo made a slew of animal noises, all of which greatly impressed me. When Anaya would go to sleep in her sling, Cleo would sing to her. One day Cleo was discouraged; Anaya was quick to cheer her up. Cleo would say that Anaya was her first friend at the hospital. Any day I didn’t bring Anaya, she would tell me I had to bring her soon. Anaya would hang out with her, even when Mommy left. I am not sure there was another person she did so well with. Cleo will always be credited with teaching Anaya to ‘African’ dance. She would say, “Chuqueta, chuqueta,” as  she’d shake Anaya’s little bum, and everyone around couldn’t help but break out into smiles.

I looked forward to seeing her. I missed her when it had been a few days. I felt closer to her than any another previous patient.

I remember Anaya’s last day with her. It was another beautiful day. It was sunny and warmer, but a nice cool breeze was blowing. We sat on the red benches outside. Anaya grabbed Cleo’s face and talked very seriously with her. She hopped on her good leg, and Cleo insisted that Anaya always preferred her bad leg. Anaya showed off her new whining noise, which Cleo thought was too funny. She assured me it would pass quickly and Anaya would find new noises soon. We laughed out loud, as usual, and talked about her home town. Cleo taught me a few phrases in her home language, and we giggled at my attempts to remember. I was convinced she could teach me, and I could learn. I told her I’d bring a notebook the next time.

We talked about how I wanted her to move in with us. She told me she had been having a difficult time sleeping and needed morphine to calm the pains in her leg. Because of that, she would have a hard time living away from the hospital. She was convinced she would get better, and I assured her as soon as she improved some, I wanted her to move in. I didn’t care if our room out back was ready, she was welcome in my guest room.

She was starting treatment the next day, and if the tumor and swelling in her leg didn’t improve, they would start her on a new type of treatment and re-start her 6 month time frame. We were hoping for the best. It would be her second reset. That is a long time.

The next day was my day in Dermatology; however, I usually pass by Oncology just to say, “Hi,” while I don’t have Anaya. Cleo had been wanting to see a picture of Anaya as a newborn, so I brought a whole book; I thought it may be distracting while on treatment. While visiting with the last patient in Dermatology, my friend Alice showed up. She told me Cleo was bad. I knew Chemo would be hard, but it seemed worse than usual. I wrapped things up quickly with the girl I was talking with and rushed into Cleo’s room. Her Mom was there with her. I thank the Lord for that opportunity. It was hot; she was sweaty. I had 1 hour before I needed to leave, so there I knelt. I held her hand, fanned her with a piece of paper I found in my purse. We cried out to God together. She wiped her nose, and when she saw the blood “Meu Deus” escaped from her lips. I knew it wasn’t a good sign. I couldn’t hold the tears. She gave me a half grin and told me her leg would go down.

We never looked at Anaya’s pictures;  she was too uncomfortable, I never even offered. I would take it the next day and we’d see how it was going.

On the way home I wept. Ugly, gasping sobs, as I begged God, “Not now. Not this one. Heal this one. Let it be the first. Please.” That night in my bed with my air conditioner on, I could only think of her, and how I wanted her to be in that kind of comfort.

Early the next morning, while playing with Anaya, Jon came in. I should know by now. Maybe I did and didn’t want to believe. I said things like, “Why are you up?” “Go back to bed!” “I’m fine!” He came and put his arm around me and I knew. A text message had come with the news. Cleo died. Her mom and aunt were with her.

It was stunning. Fast. Devestating.

That was a hard day for me. Actually, it is still raw.

I’ve been to the hospital once since.

I miss my friend…

A Layne Post

There is a strange cycle that seems to happen at the hospital; we will go for some time when it seems like people are improving and pushing through, and then suddenly we hit a season of loss. Over the past couple of weeks we have lost four friends.

I was driving home from the hospital the other day, through tears I imagined leaving behind Jon and Anaya and the difficulties they would face of being a single parent and a daughter without a Mom. That is what is happening when we lose a friend. It is not only about them; it is the three children at home, who have not seen their Mommy in 6 months.
And now never will.
It is the siblings who said goodbye to their brother for a short hospital visit, and a year later hear the news he is not coming home.
It’s the tired wife at home hundreds of miles away, who was desperately counting down her husband’s treatment cycles, who hears from a stranger on the phone that death came; it was sudden, unexpected.

Rosa, Fernando, Belvindo, Georgina…

I’ll be honest, sometimes it is overwhelming. Sometimes gathering the strength to walk back into that room of strangers, occupying the beds other friends have died in, is nearly impossible.

But then the lover of our souls comes. He romances us, dances with us, and puts in us His heart of pursuit for the ones He loves. Somehow Spring comes.

Dance With Me by Chris Dupre

Dance with me
O lover of my soul
To the song of all songs
Romance me
O lover of my soul
To the song of all songs

Behold You have come
Over the hills
Upon the mountains
To me You have run
My beloved
You’ve captured my heart

With You I will go
You are my love
You are my fair one
Winter is past
And the springtime has come

Dance with me

A Layne Post

Marta. Something about her has captured me.

Sweet Marta is twenty-two years old. The first time I met her she looked absolutely terrified to be there in the Dermatology ward. After chatting a bit, I realized she just needed to be distracted. By the end of our conversation I had even gotten a few smiles and laughs.

Her family lives quite far from Maputo, only an Aunt is in town, but she didn’t have her phone number. She did, however, know where she worked. Now, I don’t know the city well, and probably would never be able to find “somewhere someone works”, but the Lord had something else in mind. When Marta told me the school her Aunt worked at, I realized it was literally 2 streets away from my house! I jotted down her name, and while I couldn’t promise she’d visit, I could promise an effort in finding her. My mother-in-love, Vicki, was here at the time, and we went and found her the next day. We informed her of Marta’s situation and that was that.

Now, weeks and weeks later, she has only visited once. I quit asking, as it always came with a face of disappointment. Maybe it wasn’t so much about the Aunt coming, maybe it was more about Marta knowing I cared enough to track this lady down for her, even though we’d only met once. I may not be able to promise visits from her Aunt,  but I can promise my own.

Still my visits usually found Marta with watery eyes, full of fear and loneliness. I would encourage her as best I could and give as many kisses to her forehead as seemed appropriate during my visit. Even a short term team I hosted commented on her discouragement.

One week Marta was looking particularly bad; I was actually worried for her life. I noticed her long nails, and the Lord reminded me of the clippers I saw on the side table of my other friend across the hall. I borrowed them quickly and clipped her nails for her. It was a simple act, but she seemed appreciative. I asked her if she liked painting her nails, and the answer was, of course, “Yes!” That was something I could do easily and cheaply! I promised a day of painting nails sometime soon.

That day on the way out she asked for a sweater; she was topless under a blanket, and it is winter here. My partner Alice has some donated clothes and sweetly volunteered to take one by to her. A week later when I visited, she seemed to have taken a turn for the better. She proudly donned her new sweater and assured me she stays warm. Her face was clean, and her skin moist, a big improvement from the week before.

Another day I brought chocolate chip cookies for a friend’s family, who had given me some veggies from their garden, and I thought it was a perfect opportunity to bless Marta as well. I threw 5 cookies into a little container and dropped them by her room. On my way out, she was already eating them, and with a big grin assured me how much she liked them.

The day came for painting nails. I picked out a very bright cheerful pink. While Marta was my goal, I ended up painting 5 other pairs of hands as well. How special to see the way the women lit up from such a simple treat. Here among the holes in the floor and the rats, we had a salon day. I smile, even now, just thinking about it. But Marta… Marta had the sweetest face as she admired her pink nails with butterfly decals (Thanks Lynne Hartke!).

Now when I get to Marta’s room I am greeted by a big smile.

Sometimes it is the simple things, things I feel only come with relationship…

When a visitor turns into a friend.