First off, hello to all you Benny Lavers… The time since the last post has gone by so fast. Its funny, sometimes I feel like im sprinting through time, and every now and then i come up for air. This weekend, the boys are home, so im relaxing.
One week ago exactly, Luis (the youngest brother of Jose David, Carlos, and Ruben) came to the casita to stay with us for a while. Their mother was in the hospital, so noone was home to take care of him. He is a good boy. Two days ago (Thursday), Jose David (the oldest brother, 14) asked me if I would come with him to visit his mother at Antonio Lorena Hospital. Of course I went. It was evening and pretty chilly. We entered the quiet hospital and made our way to the “Womens” section. As I entered the building, things just looked disorganized. I had been to the Clinica Paredes with Marion when she had her apendix (appendix?) taken out, but that was a private clinic. This was a public hospital. We walked into the room, and like I had only ever seen in movies, there was Sna. Calsin lying in one of what must have been 20 beds that lined the walls. No privacy, not being able to sleep at night, due to the painful moans of the other patients. Just one of the many poor, sick women given a bed for a week before getting kicked out on the street, whether she is better or not. I approach her bed and, barely having the energy to speak, she begins trying to lift her hand to greet me and seeing her struggle, i tell her to let it go. She explains to me, whispering and with her eyes barely open, that they are taking too much blood from her. Jose David, concerned, tells me that sometimes, the nurses take blood from the patients and sell it. This is why he decided to spend the night at the hospital, in the bed next to his mother. Luckily it was vacant. I ask her what the doctor told her, but she doesnt know. How can she? Drifting in and out of sleep, malnourished, extreme blood loss. I ask her when the doctor will return, and she tells me the next day, at 9. In mid-conversation, i notice that she is falling asleep, and i tell her its okay, and that she should go right ahead. she whispers thank you, and sorry, and sleeps. Sitting there with her son, only 14, watching his mother sleeping with lines of pain on her forehead, almost broke me. I though of my own mother. If it was her lying there. So weak and hardly being able to move or speak. Not knowing what she has. Rumors of unspeakable acts done by the nurses. No doctor in sight to consult. A large, cold hall filled with other cases. But it would never be my mother. My mother would be lying in a private room. With flowers on the table next to her bed. A friendly doctor telling her and her family what she has, and how it will be fixed. I would kiss her on the forhead, give her a smile and tell her, knowing it was true, that everything was going to be alright. My mother isnt poor. And that simple fact, makes her life worth more. I stroke her head, and with as much conviction as I can muster, tell her everything will be alright. But who knows?
9:00 a.m – Friday. I briskly enter the room to find the Doctor standing at bed three, tending to a woman. Sna. Calsin is awake. I approach her bed and instantly have a small, stalky nurse in my face, telling me that I must leave now, and can see her when the doctor finishes. The gag is, the Doctor already checked her, and now i had to wait for him to check the other 19 women. I plead for 1 minute, and am denied. I tell Sna. Calsin I will wait. As i leave the hall, i hear the doctor tell the nurse to lock the door behind me. I go outside and lie down on the sun-drenched bench. Other people are waiting to see their mothers, sisters, wives, grandmothers. The mood is somber. I can feel the doubt. Time goes by, and all of a sudden i see Sna. Calsin walking out of the door. Very slow, very thin, very weak. I jump up to assist her. We sit down on the bench. “I have to go home. They tell me I have to be out of here by 11.” “But what did the doctor say? What do you have?” “He said I can go home.” “But what do you have?” “He said i can go home”… She explains to me how she ended up in the hospital in the first place. She sells things on the street. But for the past few weeks, the police have been kicking her out of her spot, telling her she cant sell there. The little money she has been able to make, she spends on the rent for her 2×4 meter room where she lives with her oldest and youngest child. (the three boys live with us, with Luis, four. The daughter is 16, old enough to take care of herself…right?) 6 people in a room with two beds, a dresser, and a small camping stove. She tells me that she hasnt been eating. And what she can get her hands on, isnt merely enough to sustain her. She was at the market the week before, when she suddenly fainted and his her head on the ground. The next thing she knew, she was in the hospital. On top of her malnourishment, she is anemic. A weak body, but a strong heart. Husband dead, taking care of her 6 children as best as she can. Doing everything for them. If the Casa Don Bosco didnt exist, life would be impossible. She says she tried to call her daughter, to come pick her up, but she wont answer the phone. Even the poorest of the poor carry cell-phones. She asks me if I would go to Fe y Alegria (the school Jose David attends) and get her boy to come pick her up. I go. I have no problem getting past the door-woman. She knows me by now. The Gringo from the Casa Don Bosco. I enter, explain, and 5 minutes later Jose David and I are walking back to the hospital. I give him some change to take his mother in a taxi. I shake his hand and tell him to take care of her. 14 years old, dead father, sick mother, 5 siblings. At 14 I was dancing with girls at activities night.
16:00 p.m – Friday. The boys just finished cleaning their clothes, ive handed out the bus money, and they are sitting in front of the Casita, ready to go home. Gladis (the educator) and I have finished the care package for the Calsin family. A bag of rice, sugar, beans, lentils, bottle of oil, can of tuna, big package of noodles, all wrapped up in a big sack. We are waiting in the afternoon sun. Some boys excited to go home, some reluctant. The two Pantoja boys are all packed up and ready and I hug them goodbye. Antonio grabs my hand, looks up at me, and says “My dad abandoned us. My mother told me today. She came to my school and told me he left with another woman.” I go back inside and make a small care package for the Pantojas. In the meantime, thier older brother Julio Cesar arrived to pick them up. I put the package in his backpack. I hug Antonio again, and tell him that it will be okay. I dont know what else i can do. Now that the oldest brother Marco is here, the Pantoja boys go home. A home without a father. Their father didnt work, ate their food, drank, and beat their mother. Are they better off without him? Is a bad father better than no father? My anger tells me yes… But the tears in Antonios eyes make me think twice. I wanna say thanks to my dad, for always being there and loving me. Its not a given. Now the last of the boys has gone. We get into the car with the Calsin brothers and with Nikolas and Lucio. We drop off the Calsin boys and their care package at their home, and go on to drive for 1 hour to visit the home of Nikolas and Lucio. They have a house. With four rooms. Each room the size of the Pantojas and Calsines entire home. They have two bulls, a cow, guinea pigs, chickens and ducks. This is the life in the country. Its poverty, but a different kind of poverty. A poverty one can survive. Not the city poverty, which is far more relentless. Lucio jumps out of the car and runs to their neighbors home to pick up his mother. We go on to the house and say hello to his older sister and younger brother. Lucio comes sprinting down the dirt road, pushing his mother in her wheelchair. She is laughing and so is he. Its dangerous, but who cares. His mother gets down off of her wheelchair and drags herself towards me, i kneel down and give her a big hug as she kisses me on the cheek. She is happy and smiling and thanking me for coming. I walk around as the Hermano talks to Sna. Chile, pretending to understand Quechua (the native language). I come upon a litter of puppies underneath the stairs. So cute!! In one room sleep Nikolas and Lucio, in one room their older brother, Leonidas, the third is shared by their older sister and younger brother, and in the fourth, sleep their parents. They have a terrace upstairs where one of the boys has to sleep outside at night to make sure noone steals the animals. Also, on the sunny side of the terrace, they have layed out all of the corn they recently harvested. Its all sorts of beautiful colors. Nikolas, the genorous boy he is, starts grabbing the corn and giving it to Marion, telling her its for us, and the Padres. I ask for just one, a beautiful black, red, and yellow colored one. It looks like fire. We stay around for about an hour, before saying goodbye to the whole family. It was a short visit, but I know it was hugely important for our boys. Its easier to trust someone when theyve been in your home and seen where you are from.
Well, it was a tough week, 5 of the boys didnt have school monday and, all 23 had off on wednesday. This means that on these two days, I worked from 7:30 a.m, until 9:30 p.m. I know this post was written a bit dramatically and I must add that these things occur here daily, and arent taken as seriously by the locals. A father leaving, a sick mother. This is a part of their lives. Only when I look at it through my “european” eyes, am i shocked. Ive written this post with my european perspective. I hope thats okay with you all. I love you very much and thank you all for your continued interest.
Dont miss the pictures of the visit to the home of Nikolas and Lucio!
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