Wasti was the first to leave this morning. Last night, we gave her the money for her cow, and it was one of my favourite moments of this entire outreach. We brought her to an empty room, away from prying eyes and listening ears. (You can never be too careful with that much money.) We pulled out a picture of a cow and she pointed to it, making a sign to show us that, yes, she used to have one of those. But it's gone now. I showed her the little plastic bag full of brightly coloured bills, and her eyes grew wide. She sat, frozen, looking at us, hardly daring to hope. We laughed and pointed to the cow, pointed to the money, pointed to her. Incredulous, she slowly pointed to her heart. For me? This is for me? More laughing and nodding and pointing, and after a short forever, she finally worked up the courage to hold out her hand. We dropped the bag in her outstretched palm, her eyes got even wider, and she threw up her hands, praising God in a language we had never heard before. She made lots of signs, and the only word we really understood was bebe. Through her wildly moving hands, we were made to understand that her baby was not okay before, but now he is fine. He is fine.
When we got back to the ward, after cautioning her not to tell anyone, she was bursting with the news, so she ran to her bed and scooped up Wasti from his pile of blankets. She held him close, kissing his little cheeks and whispering in his ears, telling him all about the cow and the hope for their future. And this morning, in the darkness of near-day, Esther and Liz and Natalie bundled mama and baby into a LandRover, all her bags of formula and rice cereal and her little pouch of money tucked securely under her shirt. They drove through the sticky air to the bus station where they piled them onto the bus and waved them away. Her family will meet her up north. Wasti is going home.
As the morning wore on, we raced around, trying to beat the clock. The translators were working until noon, when the ship threw a huge thank-you party for them, and we had to get everything done by then. Around ten, Therese and Beatrice and Josua climbed into the elevator and then headed down the gangway to a waiting car. Their nurse went with them, to see them safely to the clinic where they will be staying until their wounds have healed.
Not long after that, the next volunteer came bearing car keys. Christine and all her bags of supplies were packed into the car, and her nurse, too, headed out into the heat of the day, along with one of the translators, in search of the local private hospital she's being referred to.
I was left alone in the ward, two patients still in their beds. I worked methodically, enjoying the feel of charting and bandage changes and discharge instructions after such a long time sitting at the desk. When the first patient was dressed and ready to go, I turned my attention to the very last patient. It was only then that it hit me. The last patient was Benedicte.
So I gave her grandma the instructions. I gave Benedicte one last snuggle, kissed her fat cheeks one last time, and they were gone.
They're all gone.