STELLA

I saw the car speed into the yard while perched on top of the ruins. From my vantage point, I could see a cluster of people carrying an elderly woman into the hospital. I was concerned and curious, but given the urgency with which the people were carrying the woman, I decided that I would stay on top of the ruins for awhile until things calmed down.

Hospital, Leogane, Haiti © 2011 Mike Taylor

It was 2011, and I had been sent to post-earthquake Haiti to examine the still-colossal rubble situation. This was my first solo excursion in a developing country, one that was soon to be cut short by an improbable bout of malaria. At this moment, though, I had sought some solitude at the top of the collapsed concrete and steel hospital where I had made my base of operations. As the noonday sun reached its peak, it became much too hot for me to remain on the roof. I decided to try to get back to my little room while causing as little of a disturbance as possible.

What I saw inside was not encouraging. The woman was unconscious and looked to be about 80 years old, if not older. The majority of her family was gathered around her bed, and Dr. Jo was kneeling at the headboard to listen to her chest. My number one concern while in Haiti was to make sure that I did not impede the normal functions of the hospital, so I crept into my room and closed the door. I stayed there nervously for several hours, passing the time by reading Neil Gaiman’s Fragile Things.

Eventually I heard a knock at my door, and to my surprise, it was the doctor himself who had come to visit me.
He asked me, “Did you see this woman?”

“Yes, I did. Is she ok?” I immediately realized what a dumb question that was.

“No…she is not doing well. She has what I think is pneumonia, and we have medicine, but without knowing what is wrong with her, I cannot know what medicine to give her or how much. I may guess, but I need instruments and tools that this hospital does not have yet. This is, as you know, very far from the city.”

“Can you move her to somewhere else where she can get care?”

“No…she is not stable enough to move anymore…I will do what I can, but I am afraid that she will die. I wished to let you know now, so that you too are prepared for what you might see.”

I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally peeking out to see if anyone had left. In the early evening, after Bernard had brought me another meal that was too large for me to eat, the singing started. I have struggled many times to put anything into writing which could describe what I heard through my closed door, but it always falls short. Suffice to say, it was beautiful. While I couldn’t understand any of the words, I felt like her family was singing her the song of her life in those last minutes as it drew to a close. When the singing finally faded away that night, I looked outside my door to find that the bed was empty.

It has been nearly two years since that afternoon, and I still feel conflicted about committing this story to paper. At the time, I did not quite know what to feel, except for a sensation of guilt in having witnessed something immensely private and profound. That feeling has persisted, but I hope that by finally sharing this story, I can do some small honor to the memory of the woman I never met.

I have to imagine the details of what went on beyond my door, but I believe there was grace and closure in her passing. The world is harsh, certainly harsher in some places than others, and there are many emotions with which one may approach death. I do not believe this woman or her family had fear, or anger, or confusion. In her decades, I cannot doubt that she overcame more adversity than most of us have ever known, but the sadness and pain of those moments were surely accompanied by the joy and love and gratitude of the family she raised around her. Now, as her family sang to her, she accepted her well-deserved rest. I can only hope that when it is my time, whenever that may be, that I can pass on as gracefully as her.

Some Haitians have a way of looking at time that is very different than we do. As I struggle to bring this to a close, I find myself thinking back to my first day in Haiti when everything in that country was new to me. My eyes kept flickering between my watch and the dusty road while I shuffled my feet and waited for a car that was already forty minutes late.

“What time do you think our ride will be here?” I asked my Haitian friend, trying not to sound impatient.

My friend grinned, and told me simply “I do not know, but I will give you your answer as soon as it arrives, and no sooner than that.”

— Mike Taylor, 2013

Mike Taylor is a researcher at Carnegie Mellon University currently pursuing a PhD in Robotics.  He first traveled to Haiti in 2011 to study the energy infrastructure and rubble situation in Leogane after the 2010 earthquake.  Mike documents his work and travels through photographs, such as the image above and this panoramic view of Port-au-Prince.

— LC