Daniel (2004-2016)
Daniel March 25, 2016
I am Daniel and I am dead. Severe malaria is what got me. That’s what the doctor who never saw me said. That and uncontrolled diabetes, though I dispute this part. For over five years, I’ve kept my blood sugars in the 350 range, yet at JFK Hospital my sugars rose to 670, 725 and finally to 800. Coincidence? I think not. The problem when you’re unconscious is that it’s hard to ask for your insulin. Had I been conscious, I would have told my neighbors, who found me under the plum tree near the water pump, not to take me to JFK in the first place. Every Liberian knows JFK stands for Just for Killing Hospital! Bring me instead to JDJ where Augustine works. He’ll know what to do and if he doesn’t, Dr. Wang will. Had I been conscious, I would have explained before vomiting blood and seizing for that last time that when you have diabetes, you need your insulin, even if you have malaria.
How is it that a 13-year old Liberian boy like me knows so much about insulin and sugar control? Well Grandpa would say for one you shouldn’t stereotype what a boy like me understands. But two, given the general poor state of Liberia’s public education system, dying does seem to have increased my vocabulary (I now seem to be able to speak French). I am Christian so I believe in miracles. But every Saturday for five years, I have taken the two-hour walk and yellow bush-taxi ride to JDJ off Congo Road to meet with Augustine at the diabetes clinic that the Chinese man—I mean Dr. Wang-- and he started. I bring my thermos with ice to put on the two vials of insulin and six syringes. My temperature is taken and my lungs and heart listened to. Augustine measures my blood sugar. He says, “Uh Oh, Daniel you be taking your insulin because its 340,” and I say, “Yes when there’s food to eat.” And he nods while looking down because he knows that Grandpa takes care of us nine children as best as he can.
That night the waves were particular strong. The crashing of water blistered the sand and drowned out my unintentional cries. It was dark as JFK’s generators were out again. There was a steady western breeze. Shadows from Seaside Village’s night fires flitted across the room showing a pair of eyeballs here, a protruding foot there, and the flash of twenty-two steel beds with accompanying plastic bucket unevenly positioned across the room. The nurse was sleeping. The medical assistant was text messaging. I was having an out of body experience, because I could watch my body convulse and red froth come out of my mouth and still breathe. It was kind of funny because I was the only one noticing me! Well little baby next to me noticed me but she was more preoccupied with the contours of her hand. And God noticed me as he does all but in terms of qualified medical professionals, personne ne m’a remarquer.
Daniel in 2012. Grandfather far left.
Grandpa and Augustine always told me I needed to speak out more. Ms. Famata also told me that as a man of the future, I had to act in a way so I could be heard-- like David in the bible-- though by that analogy, this was easier said than done. I guess it’s about fear. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear that you may not be understanding things right. Fear that those you care about will be disappointed at what finally comes out. And then after a while you kind of get used to being a certain way—a sort of analysis paralysis—and others do too. The very people who once urged you to be better forget what they were asking, as if they got tired. One time. Two times. The magic number is three. Even Dr. Wang made the mistake when he came back to Liberia to visit us last year. We kids were very excited. Dr. Wang is the only white man Nusch, Pricilla, Princess, Jovani and I have ever known. For many years he took care of us and since he is rich, treated us to dinners after clinic at Golden Beach, where we ate Tilapia, French fries and water since we aren’t allowed to drink orange Fanta.
That day when it was finally my turn to come to the examination table, Dr. Wang gave me a hug despite the Ebola edict and I didn’t care at all. He wondered out loud how I had grown so tall without also sprouting facial hair, which made me laugh. He then asked me how was school and what was my favorite subject and grades. Now, this was a great number of questions, which deserved thoughtful response. Perhaps I lingered too long or Dr. Wang mistook the shrug of my shoulders as a final answer but he soon turned to Augustine, “The schools are closed due to worries about the virus," Augustine said, "Daniel like the others hasn’t been to school in nearly a year.”
“That’s idiotic,” Dr. Wang said.
“The President says Liberians can never be too serious about Ebola,” Augustine said.
“Apparently about science and reason too,” Dr. Wang said.
“It is true. Daniel and the other children are getting quite bored without their studies to occupy their time,” Augustine said, “it is not like they don’t play together or shop at the market with their parents during this time.”
Their dialogue continued in this fashion with occasional attempts to draw me into the conversation but what really was I to say? How could I match their glib words? How long were they willing to wait? Dr. Wang is a busy man and sometimes if you don’t take advantage of the space he gives you, he will fill it. I don’t hold it against him. I would probably do the same but it’s not like I feel the same. Maybe that’s the difference between adults and kids, this consistency.
Children in diabetes clinic. Daniel third from right.
In the end, it was the crash of the IV pole that drew the attention of the medical assistant and nurse. The jerk of my legs and arms slowly but surely inched me off the side of the bed. The force of my body hitting the pole base catapulted the entire contraption up, out and towards baby girl who thankfully was protected by her jutting steel head-board, which acted like a shield, causing the pole to bounce away from her all together onto the concrete floor. Words were shouted. A lantern fired up. The doctor unsuccessfully phoned at first because the nurse didn’t have phone credit then later because the doctor was actually at his house sleeping. It would take him forty five minutes to arrive. The nurse having no doctor in support decided to intervene. Having put upright the IV drip system and finding it thankfully still functioning, she told the medical assistant to grab a 25-gram vial of Dextrose, which she promptly infused. When this made my seizures worse, she had the medical assistant bring her a 5-mg tablet of Diazepam which she tried to insert into my rectum but my violent movements made this very difficult. In the end, she ended up depositing the medicine in a hidden area between my buttocks, which appeared right but wasn't. Having inadequate suction, the medical assistant went into action, wiping the vomitus at my mouth off with my blanket. He then worked frantically before I could fall off the bed again to roll the heavy metal oxygen tank across the room to me, which allowed him and the nurse to administer oxygen. This act in final analysis didn’t hurt me as much as the other acts though the adult-mask didn’t really fit me and I eventually vomited in it—a dramatic and visually stunning mess.
Here is a truism: Dying is strange. You never think it’s going to happen but when it does it is all at once agnostic and autistic. What does it mean to have your life cut short from the world? How do you give a satisfactory summation to those who might not even hear? Dying is not painful. It’s like falling onto your head at distance or getting hit in the face during a fight. The feeling is dull and numbing but there are no sharp sensations. I didn’t think to cry at all. It’s the realization part afterwards that you have to work through. For me, I had to come to peace with how things always seemed harder than they needed to be; how my medical treatment was far less than ideal; how it was Jalaba who stole my favorite school notebook then burned it to get rid of the evidence, though it was I who got spanked. Learning to wait for those you love is also a challenge. I miss you Grandpa so much. You were never afraid to love me and sneak me plantain chips-- my favorite-- though we were all constantly hungry. I know you had to be away at my passing because of John, Amelia, Bagus, Grace, Jalaba, Charles, Tani and the others, so don’t worry about that at all. Would you believe that I can still feel the coarse texture of your finger tips from all the times you helped give me those dastardly insulin shots as Augustine would say twice a day every day? I thank you for your prayers, which I listen to each night before sleep. Mom is here which was totally surprising. Her hair is longer than before but otherwise she looks exactly the same. There is much freedom and joy in my life right now. Here when it rains it doesn't flood. I am in heaven after all
Farewell dear Daniel
