Paul Farmers death is shocking. I thought about his dear family. I thought about how life is precious. What ever you do, whatever impact you make, we will die, sometimes suddenly so one must treasure each moment and love hard and broadly. I thought about the love Farmer showed me early on in my career— giving me carte blanche authority to make decisions on behalf of patients. That was Rwanda 2007. He really made real that preferential option for the poor he talked about. I remember my third day in Rwinkwavu. We went to draw blood from Hutu’s with HIV in the District prison. The prisoner were dressed in what only resembled pink pajamas. At the far end of a drab room with only 3 walls, Farmer was doing all the blood draws himself. While he did so he was upbeat and talked about how care had to be delivered in spite of politics. He then told me to take pictures of some data that had been scrawled on the wall re: number of prisoners housed. I was so scared to get caught and my camera confiscated by the guards all around us but I was more scared of saying no to Farmer!
Soon, I was knocking on Paul’s door at 7:05 each morning for a month to wake him for hospital rounds. It was the only time in the day he sounded vulnerable as I knew he had gone to sleep at 3 a.m. writing letters of recommendations for Harvard students or preparing a presentation for the Clinton Foundation. The hospital was very crowded and there would be commotion as the “Blan” Dr. Farmer walked. I could not help but think of a pale Ghandi with stethoscope and very loud shirt. Arms from every direction handed him X-rays to read, medical charts to decipher and bills to pay. He was so lighthearted. He talked to everyone and took all the time needed to listen. Once it was Paul who ended up with a chicken.
Famers vision and generosity were contagious. Later, when I was by myself in Kirehe tasked to represent PIH care at a health centre trying to become a Hospital, I would remember the importance of keeping things light. So many had it worse. Soon, all the patents in the TB ward were wearing my socks. Early past midnight after attending emergencies which happened night after night, I went to hold babies outside the scary delivery room and made small talk with mothers via my full time interpreter who converted my horrid French into Kinyrwandan. In 2007, the Chinese had not yet conquered Africa and I was only a different kind of Blan. A blan who represented wealth and a possible alternative route. It was so lonely these moments magnified by the falsity of the notion but it was also powerful like there was a real chance at the impossible so long as you carried the belief of others and worked with all you(r) might. #RIP #RealLifeHero #PIHLove
