Mission Stories

April 24, 2003

Hope
Written by: Melissa Sissons

            The tears just came to my eyes and spilled over, I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t stop them.  I was sitting on the hard wooden floor of the Hope family home.  Across from me was young Vanessa, barely 30, and her three small children: Juillian 5, Notoya 3, and Leroy Jr. 1 ½ years old.  Just in the last hour, Vanessa became a widow and her children fatherless as her husband, Leroy Hope, 34 years old, took his last breath and died.  She was braiding Juillian’s hair as she turned to Notoya and said:  “Don’t worry baby.  The tough days are over now.  It is all over.”
            Her words chilled me; I felt I had just imposed on such a private moment.  I cried because as a nurse, I know the tough days have just begun for this now family of three.  Leroy, or Smokey as they called him, had AIDS.  His wife is HIV positive and the children…no one knows…yet.  Their tests have been negative so far, we can only hope they continue in that pattern.
            About one year ago I sensed something different about Smokey.  Ever since I was a little girl, my mother has told me stories of her own nursing “instincts” with patients.  She always advised that a wise nurse knew not to ignore the subtle changes, the slight differences that might seem insignificant.  I should always investigate; always listen to what my intuition was telling me.    Smokey kept having diarrhea, fevers, and weight loss.  It would come and go for months at a time leaving behind this gnawing belly pain.  He tried to tell me that he was suffering from wind (gas) or “naro” as they call it.  He had gone to town for treatment, but nothing was helping.  He was hoping I had the answer, the cure, and then he could get back to his farm doing the work he loved.  I studied him for a while, his quiet face.  His dark East Indian and African features had become more pronounced with the recent weight loss.  His cheek bones stood out prominently, leaving deep pockets for his black eyes. Should I tell him?  Should I be that honest?  I knew I had the responsibility, but I didn’t want it.  Slowly I began to explain my concern about HIV and that I wanted him to return to town for a test.  I could see his mind turning, contemplating my potential diagnosis.  Then he sputtered, “But Nurse Melissa, I have never been unfaithful to my wife in all our seven years of marriage.  How could that be? How could I get HIV?”  I gently asked him to think about his lifestyle before he got married, even back to his teens and early twenties.  Then he very silently stood, nodded his head, and whispered that he would have his blood drawn and let me know.  I hoped I wasn’t right.
            Since that time I have been the unfortunate witness to a dying young man.  He would have his good and bad days and it always lifted my spirits to see him “pulling” (paddling) on the river.  He refused to believe that his body was giving up on him as he held on to the last of his failing strength.  I warned him that he had to do his best to stay healthy through a nutritious diet, to give up the drinking and smoking, and to stay away from others who were sick so he could remain strong. Gilbert and I promised to come and study the Bible with him and his wife.  I began to read everything I had on AIDS and tried to fill my brain with all the possible complications he could encounter. 
            One day near the end of March, Gilbert called for me to come down to the dock.  Smokey had come to see us but was too weak to get out of his boat.  His body was hot with fever and as I listened to his lungs I heard the ominous sounds of pneumonia creeping its way into his fragile body.  We slowly assisted him up to our home as he walked tediously like an old man.  His blood pressure was so low I was surprised he was still conscious.  I asked Gilbert to go and get the donated gurney from our storage container and take it to the clinic. We had been meaning to move it out for quite some time and now was the time.   I wanted to give him intravenous fluids, antibiotics, and monitor him more closely in the clinic.  As we awaited the signal to head down to the clinic, Smokey relaxed into our rocking chair and began to talk.  He told me about his life of yesterday, his encounters with the law and even his time in a Guyanese prison.  He had been tangled in marijuana and alcohol abuse from a very early age, but had decided to stop once he was diagnosed with AIDS.   He expressed his concern that he no longer be called Smokey because of the association with his old life.  Our conversation continued in the clinic as I inserted his intravenous line and hung the bag of fluid.  His veins were beautifully bounding and easy to probe.  All the years of manual labor had primed his muscles and pumped up his veins; they weren’t ready to cave in to the wasting of the rest of his body.  Recently he had recommitted his life to Jesus and was having daily devotion and prayer with his wife.  I began to realize the importance of hospice nursing (the care of the dying) as I conversed with him.  When people are terminally ill, they have so much to tell you about their lives.  I gladly listened making a mental note to have Gilbert and I move up our Bible studies to once a week or more.  I felt he didn’t have much more time.  I asked him where he wanted to receive care when he got extremely ill.  I told him my resources were limited here in the river, but that I would give him the best care possible.  He always had the option of going to town for treatment.  He said he wanted to stay home with his family because he had no intention of vanishing just yet; he would pull through this or would die trying.  He must have talked for over an hour and then he drifted into a contented sleep stating the gurney was the most comfortable bed on which he had ever lain.  He said he always rested while hoping for the healing of the Lord.  
            He survived that episode and even came to church two Sabbaths in a row after we were able to get him some decent dress clothing.  What a blessing it was to see him there with his family, glowing with love for God.  But the third Sabbath in April came and Leroy was absent.  We went to call on him after church and he was bedridden, weak, emaciated.  Luckily there was a visiting doctor in Kimbia who suggested a different course of antibiotics to attack the pneumonia.  We encouraged Leroy, prayed with him, and as usual he said he wasn’t planning on dying because he still had construction to do on his home.  I hoped he would live to see that construction through.
            This morning a haggard, breathless, and sweaty Vanessa came to my door.  I cringed.  She said she needed some gloves because Leroy had been losing control of his bowels since yesterday.  He had soiled all the sheets and she had already bathed him numerous times.  She wrung her hands as she described her dilemma; mothering her dying husband.  I fought back the tears.  Was this the end so soon?  I sent her with the supplies she needed and began to watch for Gilbert and Warren on the river.  They had taken our engine out and were due back shortly.  I saw them approaching our dock and ran down to meet them.  I found out they had just been at the Hope home and the report was discouraging.  We decided that we should gather the elders and go have an anointing service for Leroy.  With the speed of our new engine and boat, Gilbert was able to round up two elders, Warren and myself and get us to the Hope home quickly. 
            As soon as I saw Leroy, I knew it was hopeless.  Yes he had been dying for months before my eyes but now he was at the brink. His breathing was labored and it was hard for him to speak.  His blood pressure was stable but I didn’t even need to place my stethoscope to his chest to hear the fluid gurgling in his lungs.  This was death and I hated it.  “Nurse Melissa…I can’t…catch…my…breath…” He stammered.  I nodded my head in a knowing fashion.  “Your blood is too weak to fight the infection in your lungs, even with the antibiotics.”  I said. We reviewed his options of going to town to the hospital, but he still refused.   I think he knew that hope was gone.
            Warren led out in a beautiful session of prayer and I felt the Holy Spirit in our midst.  Yet Jesus held back His healing powers.  We left their home and I began to cry as I passed the three children playing in the mud under the house.  They were covered in dirt and giggling, oblivious to their fathers struggle in the room above their heads.   Leroy Hope died a few hours later, surrounded by his family and friends. 
            But wait, there is still good news to come.  We have this blessed HOPE!  We have the hope in the coming of our Lord Jesus.  He is coming again and so very soon.  He will take the faithful ones to heaven where there will be no more sickness and death.  No more crying and despair.  Leroy and his family will be reunited in a place where we will never have to hope again as we live in the very presence of Christ.  Come Lord Jesus, come. 

            “In a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.  For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed…Death has been swallowed up in victory.  Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”  1 Corinthians 15:52,55.