I am so angry.
And so very heartbroken.
Usually death affects us personally because it reminds us of
our own mortality. Scary unknowns. The
fleeting state of life. Grief for those left behind. But today death touched me
in a new way. It left me flaming mad.
And drenched in a watery, exhausted sadness.
My special baby at the orphanage died.
Her name was Pretty.
Pretty, found on the side of a road in our city, who I had first
met when she was five days old. Pretty, who I bothered the staff with too many
times. Pretty, who we bought diapers for
and brought clothes to. Pretty, who was
not thriving. Pretty, who I had
instructed the “care workers” to take to the doctor for the obvious, severe
thrush infection in her mouth identical to one my baby had had years before. Pretty,
who had the same diaper on after friend Julie and I returned to the orphanage
four days after it was put on her. Pretty,
who was so malnourished that after those four days the diaper was bone
dry. Pretty, who I was not allowed to take to the doctor. Pretty, who we scoured the orphanage
to find bottles for. Pretty, who we
tried desperately to cool off in her constantly fevered, bundled state. Pretty, who lay in her crib untouched by staff for days. Pretty,who I was not allowed to adopt because I am foreign.
I can’t save the world, but I definitely didn’t save Pretty.
The irony is hitting me hard. I was about to post a piece of writing I
entitled, “The Communal Child.” It was
about the parenting I’ve seen in my African country. And how the saying “it takes a village” has never
been more true than here. But it’s in
the trash. Because today is all about what happens when people do not take personal
responsibility in their jobs, in their parenting, or in their care for a child.
Pretty is one of thousands.
But I will console myself that she is finally out of the system. And that there are at least a few people
crying for her sake tonight. Fly away
fast, little girl.
.
