Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Grieving Pretty


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.

  


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