Suffering

June 8

Yesterday we celebrated with a family whose child had been baptized. The children in the small nook of huts ran around wildly, jumped and hopped in circles around us, grabbed our hands with broad white smiles stretching across their tan white faces. New life.

Today we saw Father give the last rites. End of life. Today we met Suffering. We met her suddenly without any warning other than a quick briefing before we entered the crumbling hut. We probably should have seen it coming. All the outward signs were there. The mud walled house had a large gaping hole that looked like it had been blown out, but realistically was just a victim of situation. A small child stood at the outside of the door. His face read like a book. He had never met Suffering either; he was confused. Where had she come from?

As we entered, she knelt defeated on the floor, her knees clasped firmly against the cavernous hollow that was once her breast. The breast that surely once fed the children who stood solemnly, cramped in the room and by the doorway. Her slender frame had worn to a skeleton of what had been. She probably served cha (tea) to guests like us when we came. She would have smiled curtly as we thanked her for her hospitality and then shyly hid her face with her orna as do most Bengali women. She would have stood and fanned the room endlessly to cool her guests never accepting the plea to sit and relax.

But no, she did not serve cha. She did not stand and fan us. She did not stand at all; she crouched. She still hid her face, but she hid it between her bony semblances of legs, not a beautifully colored orna veil. When she finally glanced up I caught a glimpse of Suffering’s face. She had been sick for many days now Father said. There was a tumor on her shoulder which had apparently moved to her side now. No medical diagnosis was given or needed. She was dieing.

Sufferings face was sullen, battle-weary, and reluctantly defeated. Her skin was wrinkled and stretched. It draped over her bones, void of any muscle to fill out the form. The gloss of tears encircled her eyes which had apparently been dapped everywhere with her bloated hands. She had been crying, and the look of the bloodshot eyes around the room so had the others present, with the exception of the confused little boy still standing in the doorway wondering when his grandma was going to return.

Her husband crouched next to her, nearly as frail and withered as she. He crouched there loyally, faithful to the end, entirely aware of his inability to relinquish her grief. He did everything he could, and that was simply to be there. It was a cold hard relentless truth, but I couldn’t help but find an astounding beauty in that undying loyalty (or I guess as some would call it, love).

We heard Suffering’s faint cough. It was filled with pain but came so subtly that it seemed like she barely even had the energy to expend on this small outward display of her anguish. She just knelt there as if humbled by the entire situation, slowly rocking her weight back and forth and only breaking her melodious movement to cringe slightly from a jar or sear of pain. It’s amazingly ironic how we come into this world as a baby, so weak and so vulnerable, just to leave again slightly larger but just as weak and just as vulnerable.

We felt Suffering’s hand. We could offer nothing to her other than a sympathetic touch and a simple “Jesuna Rashong” (Jesus be with you). We felt her swollen hands. Felt our hearts sink as she gripped with what little strength she had left. Her arms quivered as she clasped her hands together while Father prayed over her solemnly. Yes, she had accepted her fate, but that’s not to say she wasn’t afraid. She trembled constantly, terrified, looking to Father for some sort of reassurance or relief. She quaked as she stared death in the face, all the while still suffering.

No, this wasn’t America. There was no bag of morphine to ease her into death. She bore her cross without any drugs, in the confines of a crumbling mud-wall hut containing only a single bed and some scattered clothing. Sometimes it seems like its almost more agonizing to watch suffering than to bear it (but probably not). It was obvious to me as I looked upon her that I knew nothing of this suffering. I knew pain. I have had my share of injuries and illnesses, but I knew nothing of this. I know its cliché, but as they say: pain is only temporary. This was to the end.

She trembled as she received the Eucharist and cleansed her mouth with water. Holy water splattered against the walls and the dirt floor. We exited. The still confused and solemn child hid as we came out of his doorway. We waved goodbye. Jesuna Rashong. As we rolled through the markets kids ran and played, wrestled over a ball, laughed and smiled. They stared with bright eyes and wide smiles as we drove by. Life went on.