The Heart-Wrenching

 If you haven't read my little introduction on Kalukembe, take a few minutes to check it out here.

A series of stories and letters of the people I brought with me but left behind.

The hallway where it all happened:
A day before.
Wash room/medicine room door to the left; where the people crowded straight ahead;
opening to the room where the code took place, down and to the right

You brought your 40-some year old daughter in. She didn’t have a pulse. She wasn’t even breathing. I can’t imagine the anguish, fear, and desperation in your heart as Dr. Young and Wilson--pulmonologist and OB/GYN in first year of residency—were called while they were seeing patients in the women’s ward. As time passed and as best they could, they fought for your daughter’s life. There was no oxygen tank waiting. No ventilator. No plethora of cardiac meds designed for this moment. These things don’t exist at Kalukembe. There was epinephrine which started your daughter’s heart and helped it stay beating for seconds. She would gasp and fight but crash right back down. 

We were in the OR that Friday night when Wilson burst in and told us what was occurring 300ft away. “We’re trying to run a code.” The room is silent as he tells Dr. Annelise what’s been going on. She replies calmly and empathetically, like someone who has sadly walked that road, with the haunting reality of Kalukembe—if anyone comes in with a stopped heart, they most likely won’t be seeing the next morning. We do what we can with the little we have. We do our best. Don’t forget to breathe. 

Everyone else was scrubbed in and sterile. But not me. I walk back with Wilson to the women’s ward as we prepare to call the code. When we arrive, Dr. Young had already called it. It was the right decision. The hallway was crowded with curious bystanders. There was around 8 beds in the room with 7 ladies sitting as they watched. One lady lies very still—too still. 

Your daughter’s time of death was 1823. 6:23pm. 

We watched you as you turned from the room, walked through the hallway and out the door. Tears were streaming down your face and the sound of a breaking heart lingered behind you.

You don’t speak Portuguese, so Wilson couldn’t explain what happened and how hard they fought for your daughter’s life. Your husband walked in through an opposite hallway. He speaks Portuguese. Wilson spoke with him and extended our condolences.

It all seemed like a slow-moving blur. A nurse attended to your daughter’s body. I picked up a few pieces of supplies and helped bring trays over to a make-shift table to be wheeled out. Dr. Young wrote in your daughter’s chart for the last time.  

We make our way to a room used for medication storage and hand washing. Dr. Young and Wilson wash their hands. I stand in the doorway, looking down the hallway where you exited. People were still crowding 10 feet away. For some reason, your loss weighed on me. It’s all I could think about. I thought I was holding myself together pretty well until Wilson looked me in the eye and said, “It’s okay to cry.”  

Then I lost it. 

It’s been a few days. Your loss is still on my heart. I pray for you. I have no idea what your daughter’s name was—or even your name for that matter. I don’t know if your daughter knew how much God loves her and what He did to show that love. Truly, I hope she did. I hope you do too. He knows the loss of a child too. So I pray when your days don’t make sense, you will find hope. I pray when your nights feel lonely, your heart will be comforted. I pray when special days and occasions feel empty, joy will find you and give you strength. I pray that peace that surpasses understanding will surround you. 

This is my letter to you.