Just the beginning

Semean is in bed one. His mother, Musu, sleeps underneath the bed, where there is about a 3 foot clearance. Next to him, is Sonnie, whom I have also befriended, in bed two. Sonnie is 32 years old. She lives in Red Light district (not a red light district but a section of Monrovia named by that name). She had a shriveled hand and forearm. They grafted some skin from her thigh onto her arm and she will be fine. She has a radiant smile, reflective of her kind heart. She is spunky, confident and slightly mischevious. Today, she was discharged from the ward and allowed to go home.



I visited her this morning to say goodbye. When I came in, she was packing her small leopard print bag. Her face was downcast. I sat down next to her and she forced a small smile. The nurse handed her her medications, wrapped some more gauze on her leg, and gave her some curt instructions. She nodded, wordlessly.

“Are you sad to go?” I ask.

She nodded. No more words.

The women who come to our hospital, aside from getting physical healing from their ailments, also receive a sort of simple respite from their daily lives. As with many other places in the world, these women are often the providers, nurturers, teachers, and leaders of their families. They often do not have a husband or mate who can help out. And while Sonnie has not had any potential suitors, due to the deformity of her hand, I know she was enjoying the atmosphere of our hospital. A break away from the mundane, the everyday life of shame she may have felt from her deformity.

“Sonnie, Mercy Ships is not the end of all the good things in your life. It is the beginning of all good things to come. When you leave this boat, you will be starting a new life. God has many good things for you. He will see to that.” I told her.

She nodded, and began to weep. I pulled her to me and she rested her head upon my shoulder. Musu looked on, concerned.

Sonnie’s nurse pulled me aside.

“Is she your ‘adopt-a-patient’?” The nurse asks.

“No, she’s my friend.” I answer.

Sonnie says her goodbyes to everyone in the ward. Several patients get up and walk her to the end of the hall. I open the big heavy door that leads to the rear gangway. I carry her bag for her and we descend onto the dock.

“I leave you now,” she says.

I smile back. “Yes, but you will be in my heart!” She laughs at this.

We walk down the dock, pass the gates. The Nigerian UN guards nod to us. We nod back. Walking out of the gates, we are on a dirt gravel road, heading towards the street. The sun is baking down on the dirt and the heat from the cement radiates into our skin. Dragonflies are darting around. Geckos skitter across the pathway quickly. The barbed wire along the tops of the cement walls look dismal against this beautiful day.

“Michelle. I cry then because what you say is true. You give me good advice,” she says.

“It must not have been me,” I answer.

“It was something from God!” She decides. Yes, must be, I think to myself.

Sonnie and I talk about all sorts of things. She casts glances over her shoulders and looks at the big, white boat getting smaller and smaller.

“I need to pee!” Sonnie declares. She runs to the side of the path, pulls up her skirt, squats and urinates.

She calls her pastor on her cell phone. I can’t hear what he says, but his voice is ecstatic.

We reach the gate that separates the port from the road. The guard opens the gate for her. Monrovia’s smells and sounds flood through the gate.

See you later, we say to one another. She smiles, stretches out her new hand, and hails a cab to go home.