She wants to die here, at home. Close the door and turn the key twice, she says. Board up the windows if you like, but I’m staying put. I want to die in my own bed. Burn down the house if you must, but please leave me in peace! I refuse to spend my final days among the sick and dying. This is the house I shared with my husband. This is the house where my children grew up. All my memories, both good and bad, are here. The separation. The divorce. The quarrels. The yelling in front of our three sons, who were in tears. But it’s also where we used to make love, so passionately, right here in this bed. New life was conceived between these very sheets. And when our boys were born, I nursed them in this bed, letting their greedy little mouths suckle my breasts. While I was raising my children, I never refused them anything. My life as a woman may have been solitary at times, it is true, but there was always an abundance of affection. When we all went out together, I couldn’t help smiling, I was so proud of having brought them into the world.
Children shouldn’t have to die before their parents. It’s against the law of nature. They ought to stay near their parents and look after them in their old age, listen to them, bring them food and do their laundry for them. They ought to offer them the tenderness they miss so much when life gets hard and each step requires a superhuman effort and each breath hurts and their heart is in free fall.
A mother shouldn’t have to witness the death of her children. Her eyes shouldn’t have to gaze upon their mortal remains; she shouldn’t have to watch those she carried in her belly die while she is powerless to bring them back to life all over again. I was prepared to give up my body for them like the first time, when they floated inside me, drawing their sustenance from my womb. I tried my hardest to nurse them back to health.
A mother shouldn’t have to watch her children growing weaker, more and more lethargic, losing blood, when she has no way to stop the hemorrhage. We were a close-knit family, despite our problems. The oldest was rather shy and introverted, but he always cared for others. The second one, on the other hand, was jolly and full of mischief. And the last one, still small, got showered with his older brothers’ love and affection. When he fell ill, they dropped everything and hurried home to help me look after him. Yes, we were a close-knit family. I never felt lonely. I was a very happy mother.
Ebola hits out blindly. It stabs you in the back without mercy. What mysterious force guides its hand? A brutal, ruthless force.
Long ago, God decided to let human beings live and die without His intervention. In His infinite magnitude, the tribulations of our existence don’t touch him. Those who implore His pity are mistaken. He owns the oceans, the earth, the sky, and everything touched by light. He looks upon humanity with irritation. Rather a failed experiment, isn’t it? It will take Him another eternity to come up with a better design. In the meanwhile, He races across Time, from beginning to end, in search of inspiration. Sometimes He goes to sleep at the back of the sun and forgets who we are. His sleep is infinite. God is bored, and His boredom is frightening. He’s blind; His empty pupils pierce our conscience. He’s mute; His outcry penetrates our bodies. He’s unique; His solitude pervades the entire universe.
From fluorescent anemones to the Himalayan mountains, nothing can equal the splendor of His creation. With infinite generosity and tenderness, He thought of everything. But He got nothing in exchange. Or very little, and so He felt betrayed. Now He’s indifferent to everything and so weary that He’s tired of eternity. To be eternal is exactly what He doesn’t want anymore. How to love without end? How to be happy without having experienced sorrow?
Let me die here, in my own house! I want my house to be my shroud, I want the walls to cave in and guard the secret of our death rattles. I’ve called out to God in vain. So now I am turning to you, Mother Mary. You alone know what separation means, absence, the impossibility of changing the world. You alone can comprehend my suffering. When you were giving birth, parts of the placenta and the remainder of the afterbirth were expelled from your belly. Blood spurted out. My blood is red, like yours. I am a woman like you; like yours, my sex needed to expand to allow the child to come out.
I am confiding in you, Mother Mary. Take me in your arms and cradle my pain. I shall follow you all the way to the end of your suffering.
You suffered the pain of witnessing your son’s cruel death. When you found that the body had disappeared, you refused to believe it and stood on the threshold of the empty tomb. I know your story by heart. I keep the Bible by my side. All my life, like a beacon in the night. Your pain goes like this:
Early on Sunday, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance. So she came running to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved, and said: “They have removed the Lord out of the tomb and we don’t know where they have put him!”
So Peter and the other disciple started for the tomb. Both were running, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent over and looked in at the strips of linen lying there, but did not go in. Then Simon Peter came along behind him and went straight into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen, as well as the cloth that had been wrapped around Jesus’s head. The cloth was not with the linen, but rolled up and left elsewhere. Finally the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went inside. He saw and believed. They still did not understand from Scripture that Jesus had to rise from the dead. Then the disciples went back to where they were staying.
Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’s body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot. They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”
“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.
He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”
Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”
Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned toward him and cried out in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” which means teacher. Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them that I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.”
Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news that she had seen the Lord and that he had said these things to her.*
* * *
—
I believe in you, Mother Mary. You who are so close to us, help me accept that my sons have taken the lighted path, and are finally relieved of their earthly sufferings.
I can taste blood in my mouth. My mind is drifting, my body dissolving. The pain binds me to my children like an umbilical cord.
* * *
—
But over there, in the distance, an ambulance siren sends out a wail that shreds the fabric of the day. Pedestrians in the streets of the city disperse rapidly as the vehicle approaches, and then they watch in terror to see where it’s headed. They know that death moves quickly, looking for bodies.
All of a sudden, the emergency team arrives at the house. A sharp kick, and the bedroom door opens noisily. The stinging odor of chlorine fills the air. Men in spacesuits are already bending down over the mother.
* John 20:1–18.
VIII
When surviving is more painful than living and your sorrow is that you still walk the earth.
My father said to me, “Go on, get out now. Go to the capital, go to your aunt. The village is cursed. Don’t ever come back here.” I stuffed some clothes into a bag and took the money he was holding out to me. I knew it was all he had left. When the bus arrived at the main station, my aunt was there, waiting for me. After we got to her house, I cried a l
ot. I withdrew into a corner and exchanged a few words with my cousins from time to time, but I refused to go out. A few days later, my body started to itch. I had the feeling that something had gotten into my blood. My heart wasn’t the same as before, it seemed too tired to keep on beating. After the slightest exertion, I was out of breath. Next, I got a terrible stomachache. My aunt didn’t know what was the matter with me.
Finally, one day the Ministry of Health released a statement that was broadcast on radio and TV and published in all the newspapers. It informed the population about the outbreak of a disease that typically carries a high mortality rate: “The samples that were sent to France for analysis at the Pasteur Institute have tested positive for the Ebola virus (species Zaire ebolavirus),” it said. “These cases have been reported in three regions in the southeast of the country, as well as in certain parts of the capital. In addition, several neighboring countries have also reported a number of cases of the disease on their territory. As a result, we will take whatever measures are necessary to halt the outbreak of this virus. We are appealing to the population to follow the hygiene instructions. From now on, the consumption of bushmeat is prohibited. Violations of this rule will be punished with hard prison time. Hands must be washed with diluted bleach. As soon as any symptoms appear, you have to go immediately to the nearest hospital. Stay vigilant. Stay calm. A state of emergency has been declared throughout the nation.”
Panic seized the population. In every neighborhood, the blare of ambulance sirens could be heard. People suspected of having the disease were arrested. Others who were actually infected would collapse in the street, and no one went near them. The health minister organized recovery teams to collect the bodies, but the response time simply wasn’t quick enough. Media reports talked about nothing but the disease.
My aunt immediately became suspicious about me. She called the central number and asked for an ambulance to come and pick me up. After I arrived at the hospital, my test results were positive. I was admitted to a wing of the building reserved for Ebola patients. For a month and a day, my body hovered between life and death. I was bleeding from the nose, vomiting blood, suffering atrociously. The chaos all around me was horrendous, while the medical staff was on the verge of despair. Every corpse left behind puddles of bodily fluids—blood, phlegm, and other secretions. There was hardly enough time to clean up the traces of death before someone else was brought in…I’ve seen nurses doing their work without any protection, even though the floor was soiled with vomit and excrement. No one wanted to come near us, so scraps of food were thrown to us from a distance. There were so many dead that the bodies were piled up in a dark room; some had been tossed there headfirst, while others lay with their legs spread apart, repulsive in their nakedness.
How did I survive? Why was I singled out, despite being no better than any of the others? I heard the sick howling in their dread of the gruesome end that awaited them. They didn’t understand. Why, after leading such good, decent lives, could they not expect to be saved?
I recovered, thanks to the efforts of the caregivers who gave their all in the battle to expel Ebola from my body. I shall be grateful to them for the rest of my life. But being admitted to a hospital is like entering some kind of underworld. Everything goes dark. You become disorientated. There’s nothing left except inside and outside. Time’s your master, its power is absolute, and you must submit. You must wait for your organism to recover its balance and regain the place it lost.
Often, I would look out the window at the huge, majestic tree in the courtyard. The tree put me in mind of the baobab of my childhood. Sometimes, very early in the morning, I heard the birds chirping in its foliage. I found it very beautiful, and its presence gave me strength.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to respond to the rehydration therapy. My body started working again. I was able to leave my bed and walk around. Taking small, cautious steps. Later, I paid the tree a visit, to thank it for comforting us in the depths of our despair. When I leaned against it, I could sense its life-giving vibrations. I pressed my ear against its rough bark, and it spoke to me, whispering that it was there for me. I hugged it again and again.
I was tested at intervals of several days. All the results were negative. Then the doctor declared, “You’ve made it, you’re free to leave!” I washed myself with chlorinated water and was given clean new clothes, since my old ones had all been incinerated on the day I arrived. To help me gain strength, I also received a kit containing some protein-rich food and some vitamins.
When I tried to enter my aunt’s house, she refused to take me back. Two of my cousins had fallen ill, and she blamed me. I had no choice but to return to the hospital, where I was put up in a dormitory reserved for patients’ families who didn’t want to leave their sick relative alone or who had nowhere to go. There were posters on the walls warning that the establishment would soon be closed down. The patients were going to be transferred to special Ebola clinics that were being set up all over the country. They were looking for volunteers, and then a nurse came to see me. She suggested I should get involved, since the virus no longer posed any danger to me. I had survived, and now I was immunized for life. It couldn’t hurt me anymore. She said that because I was young, I would be the ideal person to counsel patients of my own age. I hesitated for a long time. And then I thought about my parents and my brothers, who, my aunt had informed me, were all dead. Still aching from the pain of not having been able to do anything to help them, I told myself that this was my chance to make up for that failure. So I said yes, and I was assigned to one of the new treatment centers.
When young patients are brought in, I’m the one who receives them. If I see that they’re losing hope and saying they’re about to die, I tell them that they, too, can survive as I did. They have to realize that it’s possible. I know very well how they must be feeling, lying there in their beds, all alone. They have the impression that an unknown force has taken control of their existence. They don’t know how to defend themselves. It’s a feeling I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I try to encourage them. I tell them that anyone can catch this disease, that it’s not their fault. I make it clear to them that they must never stop fighting, even when they feel their strength giving out.
I belong to a group of female Ebola survivors. We go around the town, explaining that people like us still have their rightful place in the community. We present no risk, we say, and we shouldn’t be ostracized. We choose our words carefully and try to be reassuring. Generally, we’re accompanied by women who have never had the virus themselves. We hold one another by the hand, we walk side by side, and we talk among ourselves, showing the others that there’s nothing to fear.
Yes, it’s true, I was lucky to escape with my life. But deep down I can’t help thinking that I wasn’t the one who should have been spared. The man who should have survived at all costs was our head physician, who was personally responsible for the recovery of hundreds of patients. He was the only hemorrhagic-fever specialist in the entire country. We were all praying, but in vain, he couldn’t be saved. All the newspapers carried articles about his death.
I read that one day, at the Ebola center he’d been running for many months, he told one of his colleagues that he wasn’t feeling well. He’d done his regular patient rounds that same morning. On seeing a male nurse who had contracted the virus and was now lying among the other patients, the doctor had said to him, “But, my son, what are you doing here?” He didn’t know that it would soon be his turn. The center was full, and the sick were everywhere, even on mats laid out on the floor. He didn’t want to stop, or maybe he just couldn’t stop. But before long, he started shivering and he was forced to take a few days off to rest. It turned out that it wasn’t just a bout of malaria; it was actually Ebola.
His colleagues immediately went into action. They put in a request at the local branch of a large health organization to have him urgently evacuated to Europe. “N
o,” the answer came back, “because the head physician is not a member of our staff.” A petition was circulated, calling on the international community to have him taken to the United States or Great Britain for treatment. All in vain.
Some Canadian researchers who were working at a local laboratory had a small supply of an experimental treatment. This “secret serum” had been shown to be effective in monkeys infected with Ebola. So far, it had never been tried on humans, but at least it offered a chance of saving him. Unfortunately, he had been transferred to another treatment center. Contrary to all expectations, the people in charge of that center replied that in good conscience they felt it would be unfair to give him the serum, since there were so many other patients who needed it just as much as he did. And besides, they didn’t agree with the idea of administering experimental treatments with unknown effects that might even turn out to be negative in the long run. Time passed, and his health deteriorated.
Finally, after countless discussions and negotiations, his evacuation abroad was authorized. But it couldn’t be carried out because of his vomiting, which made moving him extremely dangerous. While attempts were made to solve this problem, more time passed, and he died a few days later.
In the Company of Men Page 5
