Skinny Love

3/14/2011


“We are stronger for all that we let in.”

Connection is something I’ve always sought out. I was grew up this way. I am fully aware, however, that connection has its costs. It can cause painful vulnerability and dependence. And in the end, you are at risk of the worst thing to come of reaching out: loss.

“I just visited my sisi, Polile, in the hospital.” Brook texts me. “Can you come over tonight?” Brook is, without a doubt, my best friend and also, without a doubt, another Peace Corps volunteer like myself. And her homestead sisi is dying of AIDS. Recently she has been diagnosed with TB. And I know Brook is not one to reach out. So when she casually asks me to come over, I hop on the next bus to her homestead. “Do you want me to go with you tomorrow to visit her in town?” I ask. We agree to go to the hospital the next morning. “I want to warn you Mere. It’s like something out of a civil war film. Cots filled with bodies. Unattended. I swear there was a dead body lying next to her. Hidden under the covers.” Tears collect in her eyes. As much as Brook thinks I can’t handle this. I need this. I need to be unnerved. I’m strong.

I’m the girl for the job. I think.

Let us open with the stereotypical third world hospital scene. Babies falling out of every corner. You walk into the lobby throbbing with florescent midday heat, and spot an obedient crowd with fidgety children in laps,waiting for visiting hours. The submissivness of the people here reeks of faith. And it's something, right now, you long for. To share their trustfulness. Their faith. That everything is going to be all right. But why must I believe. Because I NEED to? Their God is different than ours. Dictator. Authoratative. Turning us into beggars. But can you blame them? Needing some sort of control in this horrific world. Glory to God in the Highest. It's never been for me. I want the here and the now. The Earth and present. But it's moments like these, I wonder, will that suffice?

The hallways feel like arteries; pulsating with people who lead us to the heart: Polile. We stick out in this crowd and the people wonder what we’re doing in this governmental hospital. The white go to the private clinics. Are we volunteers? Nurses out of uniform? They wonder. We walk through doorway after doorway. Doorways where there are no doors. Open and exposed. Anyone could walk in. The female wing carries cot after cot of half dressed women, suffering. No air conditioning, not even a fan and it reeks of stale body. Mothers by their sides fan them as they sit and stare. No words exchanged. I’m going to have to bury my own daughter. They fear. I wonder, do they ever glance over to each other and ask, “What have we done wrong? They’re all dying on us.”

But we aren’t there yet. Brook and I continue to walk to the very back, pass these suffering skeletons, to the quarantined. “You’ll need a mask.” A nurse tells us. We put our shields on. We are ready for battle. The masks cover our nose and mouth, plastic covering our eyes. I’m already finding it difficult to breath. Anticipating. We open the door and we’re in. Brook sees Polile in the back and goes to greet her and her mother. I’m at a stand still. So many of them. Pain in their eyes. I am sure the dead have climbed in from their graves. Motionless skeletons. Enormous eyes are all that’s left of them. They stare at you with captivative horror, and a splash of hope. As if you’re about to pull out a syringe from your pocket. You carry the cure. You are here to end their suffering, they hope. And when you leave all they will see is your amputated arms, your rotten stumps with nothing to give them. What a tease, they will think.


Their bodies. Trembling leaves. Their bodies. Dying. Trying hard to stay alive. Their organs burst. Intestenial swelling. White webs climb outside from their throats. Their brains melt.

I bite the inside of my cheek and pinch my sideburns into points. All my nervous ticks come out. I walk fast. I stand by my friend’s side and I greet our skeleton. I grab her skinny hand with both hands to greet. I want her to know I don't care what's inside. She's more than this to me. That I too, love her. The others sit in fascination. How did this girl get two whites to come visit her? Why is she so special? She sits up now. “You’re looking SO much better today Polile.” Brook assures her. Are you kidding me? I think. This is better? Polile’s eyes are trained on me. She tries to smile for us. Her lips quiver and she struggles to make them curve upward. Her whole body shaking. Brook hands her three cards. “These are from your children. They miss you so much and can’t wait for you to come home.” She holds the cards in her hands, barely able to bend her fingers to turn the page. We help her. She looks out the window and smiles a weak smile. “They’re in town today." Brook continues. "They’re running in the competition for school. I know they wish you were there Polile.” Polile says nothing. She looks out the window and stares. Her daughters so close to her and yet she is unable to get to them. It’s not culturally appropriate for her or anyone to show emotion at this point. She is to shed no tears in front of us. But I know she’s in pain. She knows there will be many track competitions she will miss. She knows she very well may never get to hold her babies again. Her husband died two years ago (AIDS), and she knows what’s in store for her. If she gets to leave this place, it will be her mother and children that will wipe her ass and spoon feed her porridge until her end. But she stays strong. She cradles her cards and she gives us a smile.

I stand in spotlight. I find it difficult to breath inside this mask. Inside this place. I take a look around. The half dead lie here next to me. They had their chances, and they blew it. They shouldn’t have been distracted by the boys, their bad romance. They shouldn’t have trusted them, they should have focused on their studies, they shouldn’t have said yes. Why hadn’t they awaken from their zombie slumber. Now their children will be orphaned, raised by greedy relatives, slaves will become of them. I’m seeing the beginning of all the stories I’ve read or heard from my students and friends. It all begins here. The death of the mother.

I’m putting it all together and they’re taking me apart.

If they could talk. What would these skeletons say?

I was born. I grew up. I studied. I loved. I married. I procreated. I made mistakes. Just like you. Passionate affairs. Reckless adventures. Now. All gone. I went. I saw. I did. Farewell to my decaying heart. Farewell you young men with alluring eyes offering me risky voyages and luring me in with your gems and germs. Farewell friends and family, you’ve shifted from my view. I once had hairdos and told jokes like you do now. I once had a dream and a future. I once was like everyone else. I used to sing like sirens and dance like daisys do. But now my rhythm and dance are gone. My mouth is open and tongue cut out. The leaves crinkle, and the air stagnant. And so too will my heart lie still and no longer beat and I've fallen silent.

I’m 30 years old and I’m going into the ground.

Goodbye to my children, goodbye to my parents, goodbye to my dirty dresses, to my unfaithful husband, to my boyfriends, goodbye to my scabby knees and calloused hands,, goodbye and thank you to my aching back for holding all my children. To all these things that have made my life, I say goodbye. You say, what a simple life. But it was mine. I owned it. And now, taken from me. Gone.

Their sadness is worn like an old book. The damage and pain shows along the borders. No longer hiding. It’s out for me, and anyone passing this ward, to see. They stare into my eyes. They stare beyond my flesh. I feel them inside me. They want me to end it. Slit their throat. They whisper to me now, “Empty your mind. And make a space for me. Don’t forget me like everyone else.”

I’m reminded of the scene in Aliens. A cheap comparison I know. But it’s all I have. Sigourney Weaver walks into a room of her clones. Lying there, dying, untouched, unloved. One calls out to her, her deep brown eyes staring into her origin, she pleads for her to end it.

Like Sigourney, I feel so connected. This connection is more than just being woman. We are human. No one should have to suffer like this. And I hear them. I wonder what it’s like to breathe so heavily. I need to breathe.

These women’s faces. Their frightening expressions. Lie there exposed. Un-phased by my presence and their bare breasts. Breasts no longer used. Washed up. The milk all sucked out. Now lay on top of their skeletal bodies. Crushing them. Their job done: Procreation. Now they can die. “Life ends today.”

Do they want to speak out? Do they want to tell me something? Bring your ear down closer. They’d whisper. Put your hand over your other ear, and listen. Can you hear me? Can you feel me? Do you feel what I feel? Ask me what you need to know. I know you’re just a neutral observer. A supplier of aid. Find your voice, and tell the others my story. But don’t exploit our human tragedies that are really none of your business. One day, maybe I’ll tell you how I got here. I’ll tell you how it got to this. I was young once. I was beautiful. I was sought after. The boys lined up for me. There were waiting lists. And now, so tiny. I’m so tiny, so wispy and whispery thin. How did I come to be shut up in this room with these other skeletons? I don’t belong here. My story is an incredible story. A story you won’t find in your world. My fight for survival. We all have stories we want to tell you. But we can’t. We don’t speak the same language. You are just an outsider to us. And I’m just a statistic to you.

So many bodies, scattered, slashed, venemous, contatious and broken. We are not able to process so many carcasses. In this number, they blend into the scenery. Now, just a landscape.I bring myself back to the individual.

Brook sits with Polile in silence. I examine the door. The gateway out of here. My way to escape. It seems so far. All eyes are on me. The spotlight is hot and heavy.

I can’t breathe.

“Are you OK?” Brook asks me. I need to stay strong. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I turn to Polile. “Do you need anything? From the store? To drink?” I ask.

Please say yes. Please say yes. I think.

She asks if I can get her something to drink. “I’m on it!” I grin. Inside suffocating. Tears collect in my eyes. Don’t let them see me now.

I turn for the door. I walk fast. Through water, my feet, my clothes, weigh me down. Halfway across the room now. The door moving further and further from my reach. Almost there. Keep it together. My heart, my anchor, holding me back. I run, certain that something is following, chasing, just about to catch me.

I shut the door behind me. Their eyes still staring. I try to untie my mask. I can’t get it off. No more breaths left in my body. I am light headed. Get it off me. Just get it off me! I rip off the mask and run outside. But even outside, I’m still inside. I don’t want them seeing me cry. Little white girl can’t cut it. They’ll think. No. I hold my breath. Focus on my breathing. A bubble in my throat. I shove it back down and I swallow hard.

I thought I could be strong for you. I thought I’d be stronger for letting this in. You’ve got the wrong girl I think. I feel myself getting weaker. I feel myself becoming unstuck. I break down and let the tears pour down my cheeks. My eyes, mixed with sweat, begin to burn. I lean hard against the wall and bury my head. It’s not fair. It’ just not fair. Like my Proud African seeing my notebook of stories of those living with HIV in our village. “So many.” He says to me. So many. I think now. So many dying. "Helloooooooooo mommmyyyyyyyyyyyyy. Helllooooooooo baaaaby." Two young men walk pass and call out. It takes everything inside of me not to pull them by the ears and drag them into the female ward. "Look what your little peckers have done to these women!" I would shout. But I have to remember, there's a whole separate ward of the male skeletons- waiting to die as well.

I collect myself and go back inside, drink in hand. I wipe the sweat off my palms and put my mask back on. I try to become callous and conquer these emotions. Despite this heavy mask, I can smell rotten flesh. It’s getting stronger. I am pushed aside by a nurse as a dead body is wheeled pass me. Not a family member or friend in sight. She died alone. No one to hear her story.

My healing visit concluded, I pass down the hall and notice a woman lying in her bed. I don’t hear her words, but her deep murmur of prayer. Her bandages soaked through. Rotten orange and red. Pulsating puss. And i've never prayed.

Why is it, after we feel something so strong, the touch of a man, the death of a dog, the realization that pain is everywhere, after the moment of feeling is over between us, the synapses continue snapping away? Isn't this the moment that should drive me to prayer?

All observations of life are harsh. Every one of us has experienced something that will sit with us for the rest of our lives. I know flashes of her face and other's faces like hers will stay with me. I know I cannot change this. I have to live embracing. Knowing each of these moments will, in the end, make me stronger. Only walking barefoot will I get the calluses I seek.

And when I get back home my mom will ask, What happened to my little girl? And I will say, She grew up.