A Hard Morning

Every Sunday morning, we awake early and walk up to the Church to catch the end of the 7am mass. After the majority of parishioners have emptied out of the Church, a trail of little, old ladies with small white bags tied around their necks filtered out from the altar and pick up one of us to accompany them on their way. These are the ministers of the Eucharist who bring communion to those unable or incapable of going to Church. Last week, I walked with a lady named Nohemia and went to three houses. Hands down, this was one of the harder things I have had to do in Honduras.

Nohemia and I walked together along the streets and stopped by the first house home to Dona Reina, an elderly lady who was unable to get to Church for the Eucharist. Could she have made it to the Church? Maybe…probably. But the next house was a different matter. Well, it wasn’t truly a house. We continued walking down the main street and came to what looked like a pretty well off house. Once we had walked through the front gates, I realized that this wasn’t a house, but a courtyard with multiple rooms surrounding it. I am still not sure whether it was a nursing home or a hospice. Nevertheless, we entered into the first room on the right to the room of Dona Christina. And this is where I could feel myself mentally starting to crumble. In a good sized room were two beds and in one twin bed lay a tiny, miniature lady. Curled as tightly into the fetal position as possible, the bed looked enormous in comparison to her small body. She looked fragile and uncomfortable. I cannot even think of something to compare to her to describe how tiny she appeared. Once we had entered her room, her aide scooped her up like a small child and placed her in a padded wheel chair. To unfold her ninety two year old brittle bones, her aide pulled forcefully at her legs so that they were only slightly tucked up to her body and shoved a pillow behind her bed. As I introduced myself, I was told that she couldn’t speak, but her eyes warily eyed me as a stranger in her world. Nohemia proceeded to say the abbreviated version of mass as this little lady sat fragile, scared, and seemingly completely unaware of every thing. And that’s where I began to crumble, this old lady was alive, but was she really? She wore adult diapers and could not do anything for herself. Even when the Eucharist was given to her, a tiny piece of the host was given and even this large crumb had to be put in her mouth and then her aide had to use her fingers to help Dona Christina swallow it. Her days are probably spent curled tightly in the fetal position hoping for what? Looking forward to what? This tiny old lady was smaller than Nanny and in my head and in my heart, I said a prayer of thanksgiving that Nanny died before getting to this stage. Selfish…probably. But, I don’t know whether I can say that I would rather be alive in the state of Dona Christina than dead. This all sounds so harsh, but it was the sadness and emptiness of this lady that made me physically feel ill and made me mentally have no idea what to think or what to hope for for her life.

As if this visit was not enough to label the morning hard, we then continued on to one last house. Earlier in the week, the sister of Matt’s host mom had passed away and Matt and Tyler had gone to the appropriate rituals and such surrounding the death. On this Sunday morning, the death of this thirty year old lady was far from my mind and my heart could still not get over the previous visit. We arrived with Matt and his minister and Nohemia and I at a house that was near to where the wake had been. When we entered the house, two ladies met us and went to get there mother. From behind a curtain emerged a small, elderly lady of about seventy or eighty wearing a scarf over her head and wrapped up in an oversized cardigan. As soon as one of the ministers went over to greet her, cries of pain and grief filled the room. She was the mother of the deceased lady and the two ladies who had greeted us were the sisters. The sadness and despair that surrounded this room was so poignant. I did not know the connection between these women until after the visit, but without a doubt, I could feel the pain and sorrow like a sharp knife at my heart. The elderly lady struggled to sit down and as the abbreviated mass started, tears streamed down her face. She mopped at the tears with the corners of her scarf. I don’t think there is anything sadder than seeing an elderly person cry. Something about the whole picture is just so painful and I keep using the word ‘pain’ because I cannot think of any other way to explain it. At the sign of peace, a usually joyful time, every woman in the house had tears in her eyes and the grief of losing someone way too early in life was sharply felt by all.

A hard morning.