No less...

I just finished reading a book by a Zambian woman called Princess Kasune Zulu. She is HIV positive, and writes about her journey with the disease. It is probably the most optimistic book about HIV/AIDS that you will ever read.

The virus led to the death of both her parents, her sister and her husband. At one point in the book she talks about grief:

Death is so much more common in Africa, but does it hurt us less? I've thought about this a lot. I believe that losing your parents or anyone you truly love hurts the same no matter where you are from. Death may not surprise us as much in Africa because it visits too many of us too early and too often. We're always wary; we know the ugly head of tragedy may lurk in childbirth, in the contaminated water we drink, in the mosquitoes that bite us as we sleep, in the breast milk we have no choice but to feed our babies, in an outbreak of TB or cholera that spreads when opportunity is ripe and immunity low, in disease much of the world has the luxury of calling preventable. But does it hurt less? I honestly don't think so.

I can still recall the pain. Even now there are times when it sneaks up on me, making me wince. I still see myself curled up in a tight ball, a sharp ache spreading from my heart, throughout my body, exhausting me. So no, I don't think it hurts less."

One of our staff, a young man named Lovemore, lost his 17 month old son this afternoon. Someone came to find him at work and tell him that his son wasn't doing well. Rick, one of the missionaries here, gave him a ride to the clinic where I happened to be at the time. We all went together to Lovemore's house and were directed to their outdoor cooking area. An older woman was holding the little boy (about 17 months old) in her arms. He was struggling to get air, gasping with each breath. His arms were completely limp. He couldn't hold up his head. His chest was all crackles and wheezes under my stethoscope.

I told Lovemore to take his baby to the clinic right away and have him weighed so that I could calculate the dosage of antibiotics. I would go and get the drug and come back.

I went back to the farm to get the drugs. It probably took about half an hour as I had to look up several things. Rick and I went back to the clinic, expecting to find Lovemore and his son there. The health workers told us that they had come, weighed the baby, and left. As I was turning to get back into the truck one of the health workers said, "But...we hear the baby has died."

I got angry. "Who told you that? Didn't you see this baby yesterday at the clinic? Which one of you assessed this baby?"

The health workers looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. No, they said, they didn't bring the baby to the clinic until today. And, Keren...that baby was very sick.

I know, I know. I'm sorry.

We went back to Lovemore's house. As we walked into the yard we could hear the telltale sounds of mourning; the family was together behind closed doors, wailing. Someone told Lovemore that we were there and he came out, wiping his eyes and weeping. This was his only child. His son. He is devastated. We are devastated for him.

Thousands of children in the developing world die every day from preventable and treatable conditions like respiratory infections. I know this. I can rattle off all sorts of similar statistics. I am guilty of forgetting that all the numbers represent real people...real families...real grief. Grief that hurts no less simply because it is in good company.