The trouble with silence

Thandi sat next to her sister’s makeshift bed and held her hand tight. She waved a pamphlet to keep her sister cool and occasionally swatted a fly against the wall of the hut. The African sun was as merciless as ever and was doing its bit to dehydrate the patient. Thandi paused for a moment to wipe the sweat off her sister’s face. The patient thrusted her face into the cloth as if desperate for the cool it provided. Thandi felt the urge to wipe her own face as well but used her shirtsleeve for that purpose.

On the other side of the world, the same sad scene was playing itself out.

Monica turned her son’s head so that he faced her. She could not stop staring at her only son’s white face. She did not know for how much longer she would have that pleasure, so she savoured every moment. A sister, clad in white, came into the patient’s private room to do a routine check. Without regard for the intimate moment between mother and son, she checked his vital signs. She tore off a printout from the machine adjacent to the patient’s bed and left the air-conditioned room, not seeing the tear rolling down the mother’s cheek.

Back in Africa, the hut was now filled with more people than previously.

“Mama, would you like something to eat?” A little girl asked timidly as if the person she was addressing was not her mother but rather some stranger in the street. Her older brother as well as some well doers from the community joined her in the little hut. The mother only made a strange gurgling sound and had a big coughing fit. Thandi looked at the girl to confirm the answer: the mother had not eaten for the previous five days so it was no surprise. Her emaciated body lay hidden from sight under the thin blanket.
Thandi looked at the two, soon to be orphaned, children and wondered who would bear the brunt. The children were already without father – his death certificate said he died of T.B.

Back in the hospital, the man’s wife and children joined Monica.

They stood around the father’s hospital bed. His body was weak despite the intravenous feeding he received constantly. His two children held his hands on either side of the bed. With great effort and pain, he turned to both of them and uttered the same words.
“I love you with all my heart.”
He breathed heavily and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He had had more than enough time to beat himself up over his choices. Now the virus had its turn to batter his body.

The next day in Africa a sombre atmosphere existed in the hut.

Thandi knew the inevitable moment was nearing. She sat in her customary place next to her sister’s bed. The patient’s daughter was crying softly by herself while her brother had trouble playing his part as man of the house. The patient breathed heavily and as her last breath left her lungs, a deathly silence filled the room just before the wailing began. Thandi tossed the pamphlet about AIDS she had received at the clinic into the fire- maybe there it would be of use.

A world away, things had also taken a turn for the worst.

The doctors summoned the family as the patient had not opened his eyes for a whole day. They stood in the room listening to the rhythmic sounds of the life-support machines. No one said a word but for one uninformed member of the family who whispered to his wife, “I thought pneumonia was curable nowadays.” The sudden stop of the beeping of the machine signalled the end of the wait. It had been a long illness for his wife with only the crescendo shared with the family.

Silence kills...