News & Updates

Nathanael, October 14th, 2009.

On Monday morning, the diagnosis was leptospyrosis, a bacterial infection that is acquired from flood waters where rats or other animals have peed in.

 

His vital signs were not good. After a frantic phone call from his older brother, one of our long time boys, I made the decision to transport him to a private hospital just near us. As soon as I could, I ran to the emergency room and found him alone with nurses and doctors. He was hooked up to all kinds of wires, intravenous fluids, and other medicines. He was already in critical condition. His kidneys had shut down. Dialysis would need to be done immediately, but his blood pressure was only 70 over 40.

 

I held his hand in the emergency room. I can’t count the hours I stood beside his bed and held his hand, wiping his forehead. His head hurt, he said. I made a decision then, to trust in God, to do everything possible. To fight for his life.

 

In my world, death is common. I am familiar with the valley, though it is cold every time.

 

This time, I felt to fight. I was not to be in the ICU but the doctors sort of danced around me as I talked to Nathanael into the night. I explained every procedure. I told him the prognosis and the next step. I prayed. He smiled, he laughed. He even cried. We talked about his life, his plans, his baby son, his desire for God to use his life. The night hours turned somehow into the morning and we continued with every treatment possible to make his kidneys work. There were signs that things were not working as they should, but I ignored them and stood firm. I told stories, and rubbed his feet. I helped him breathe as though in labor, teaching him to control his oxygen levels by watching the monitor. It gave us a few hours of controlled peace. Then by Wednesday morning, he was struggling so hard. Everything hurt. He hadn’t slept in 4 days. His eyes and skin were so yellow. I fought for the best surgeon, the best specialist. I did everything right, I think. And I stood by his side.

 

On Wednesday evening, through the final dialysis, I held his hand. When his oxygen levels went too low and I knew we were losing him, I kept up my faith. As he slipped in and out of consciousness, he said, “Ate Cher, if I fall asleep, please do not leave me.” I promised. He woke up again and told me again not to leave. I promised again. A knowing glance from the doctor. I nodded. I knew what was next.

 

I stood beside Nathanel’s bed holding his hand through every procedure though I felt I could not stand. Evan came around 7 pm. The infectious disease specialist explained to him in hushed tones that there was nothing more to do. Nathanael was in pulmonary failure. It would just be a matter of time. Evan held Nathanael’s hand for a few minutes. Then motioned for mine again. It was all I could do to look him in the eyes. The doctors eyes were moist, and she wiped a silent tear. My own tears fell freely and softly. Nathanael somehow fell asleep and the straight line of his heart beat echoed in the quiet ICU.

 

The intense suffering for Nathanael was over.

I crouched somehow, on the floor outside the ICU and wept.

I continue to grieve this precious young man who I know is now in the presence of Jesus. I grieve for Ezekiel, his older brother. I grieve for his 3 month old son, his young wife, his mother, his siblings. I imagine him with his father, his brother, and his grandmother, walking the streets of gold. I know he is well and whole.

 

But my tears seem to have no end. My heart seems unable to heal. I do not understand why I was allowed to hold his hand to the last breath or why God would allow me to be there. I do not usually cry but for Nathanael, I am somehow unashamed. My tears flow on and off throughout the day.

 

 

Mark Schultz sings a song:

 

Even though I’m walking through the valley of the shadow

I will hold on to the hand of Him whose love will comfort me

And when all hope is gone and I am wounded in the battle

He is all the strength that I will every need

He will carry me.

 

God was with us in the flood, in the clean up, and in this new aftermath.

He is faithful though His ways we do not always understand.

 

In Memory of Rose.

Beautiful. Her soft skin like velvet against mine.

Tiny. The scent of heaven still on her skin.

Fragile. Needing the strength and warmth of our arms.

Delicate. Too new for this unclean world.

 

Our arms ache.  

Empty.

Her little pink blanket lays folded on the piano. No one has the strength to put it away.

 

Grief. 

 For a baby that was ours for too short a while.

Tears come in waves. We hold each other.

 

Our hearts will hold tight to a memory of what should have been.

To a dream, a prayer and the hope that we had for her life.

 

In Memory of Rose Arlene.

September 6, 2009 -  October 7, 2009.

 

Baby Rose was just 3 weeks old and went into hospital with Sepsis. She was treated with strong antibiotics but her little body just couldn’t seem to rally to fight the infection. Gentle Hands takes in fragile babies and there is always risk in that. Jomar, Ezekiel, and Joed helped me care for Rose the most and were with me in the hospital room when she died.

 

We were blessed with a kind, loving, compassionate doctor who cried for us when Rose took her last tiny breath. Maybe we were just too shocked to cry. But tears will come in time. Grief is like that. Especially when it takes you by surprise.

 

 

 

 

Aftermath

I watched people walk away from the flood. Their faces were tired, drawn. Their eyes staring straight ahead. The lady with one slipper on. The man carrying a plastic bag with only an empty water bottle inside. Caked mud on their feet, some up to their waist. Most carrying nothing. Thankful, maybe, to have their lives. I do not know why but my eyes well up with tears and I am so sad. So sad.

Our guard at Gentle Hands lost everything but the shirt on his back. His eyes are full of tears as he tells his story. He watched his cinder block house slide into the river. He saw his neighbours family seeking refuge on their roof. He couldn’t reach them. Their house was ripped away by the current of the raging waters. They were still on the roof. He watch them disappear downstream. He is exhausted, still unable to rest as there is not enough food for everyone taking refuge in the school rooms in his community. He is left with nothing. Nothing. 

Our cook and her children, though they only rent the house they lived in, lost all their earthly possessions. Everything was ripped out of their home by raging flood waters. 

One of our other staff members, had all her belongings destroyed. She has worked so hard to save and buy that little TV and her little fridge. Months of saving and sacrificing to have material things for the first time in her life. 

These people have no savings account, no back up plans, no insurance, nothing. Life here is day to day for most people, not just the for the poorest of the poor. 

We are doing what we can. Malabon is our focal point at the moment. The people who live on the very edge of our island, right beside the ocean, are used to flood waters. But they are stuck in the local school. They still cannot go back to their homes. The water is still waist deep. 

We grieve for those who have lost so much. We grieve for those used to having everything. They will be given help by the government for sure. But the poor. They are used to having nothing… does that mean they should not be given anything?

Help us provide food, water and blankets, for our people, please. Help us restore our staff. Help us be the hands and feet of Jesus. Please.

FLOOD

We went to Malabon despite the rain and the fact we suspected some flooding in the streets. There is flooding every week so we weren’t too worried. The rain didn’t stop and by the time we were done checking on our patients and handing out meds and feeding children, we were drenched. Soaked. (Don’t ask me why we NEVER have any umbrellas.)That didn’t bother us much. The flat tire that had to be changed was nothing. We have learned to be flexible with all things. HaHaHa.

On the way home we were shocked to see the water so high and flowing so far. Knee deep in some places we laughed and sang and didn’t think much. When we got to the main road, we knew we were in trouble. Traffic was crawling. The streets were totally flooded. A trip that normally takes 45 minutes, took 2 and ½ hours. Suddenly the streets became a parking lot. Through texting and calling, we found out that the Metro Manila Development Authority told everyone to abandon their vehicles and get on the LRT to get home as soon as they could. So EDSA was full of abandoned vehicles. 

I was getting texts already from one of my staff, M’lou. Their whole first floor was underwater, just a block from GH. I called Evan. M’lou had 3 kids with her and the street was a raging river. Evan had gone to look and there was no way to get them out.

Meanwhile, some of the boys were really sick of being in the van and decided to walk home. I thought they were crazy. I had Kuya Al, a tuberculosis patient who was not doing very well, and little Patrick, too little to walk in the rain and in that distance. In groups of 4 and 5 they slowly piled out and began the trek home. Little did we know…

Minet, my social worker texted. “Our house is flooding. The streets are knee deep already. There is no way to get out. Ate, help.”

As we sat in the van, not moving, the texts came from the boys with panic. “The water is up to our waist. To our neck now. We’re scared. The roads are all flooded. There is no way to get home.”

Soon, we knew there was no choice. After 2 more hours of sitting, we needed to find a way to get out. The rain was pounding. It was cold, hard, relentless rain. We wrapped our cellphones in plastic, locked up the our van and off we went. Aries, in his muscle shirt and army pants, Ryan with my expensive guitar, I holding little Patrick’s hand, 6 ft tall Mark Anthony, who would prove to save me from the rapid waters, little Vincent, and Joed and poor sick skinny weak Kuya Al. 

Teeth chattering, and shaking limbs, we were shellshocked as the rain pelted us. It was only after about 5 minutes that I realized just how far we would have to walk. 

Hours of passing through knee deep, then chest deep, then finally neck deep water. 

The current had swept one woman away. They had put her body in a sack. 

Mark carried Patrick on his shoulders. There were soldiers and barangay officials all along a long thick rope tied through the flood waters so people could pass. Cars were underwater. Just the tips of the roof peeking out. It was cold. We almost lost Al twice. He was white as a sheet. I screamed over and over for them to hang on to him. He was sick and weak. The men grabbed him on both sides. Vincent went under. Aries grabbed him by his shorts. Mark held my arm like a vice grip. For over a kilometre it went… on and on and on… by the end, I didn’t think I could go any more. “Mark, I’m tired”, I sighed. My legs were shaking. There, just one more block, I could see we would be through the water. We reached the end and Al collapsed on the ground. I wrapped my arms around him. He wasn’t breathing. Oh Jesus. “Al, you can make it. We’re almost there. Almost. Please.” Mark Anthony picked him up and put him on his back. I could have cried. 

Patrick gripped my hand and we picked up the pace. Almost home. Almost. The rain just wouldn’t let up. We weaved through stopped traffic. There. Our street. There. Our home. I sprinted the last half block. I needed to get into the ICU. Al was in hypothermic shock. I yelled for Ezekiel and Evan. Mark Anthony put him in a chair and he fell on the floor moaning. I threw blankets over him and yelled for someone with dry clothes to hug him. The boys had only just arrived too… in motley groups. Wet and traumatized, all.

Evan had been holding the fort, with our own children and Edu, and had been out every 30 minutes to check the raging flood by M’lou’s house, and was quick to send one of the boys to buy some brandy (a very old remedy for hypothermia). It did the trick. Al perked right up and given the circumstances, I’m sure God understood.

Slowly, we changed, showered, and sat down to our waiting lunch of freshly fried fish and rice which was now our supper. Believe it or not, wonderful comfort food. 

The rain still didn’t stop. Winner still couldn’t get home. We still hadn’t heard from Minet.

At 630pm, the river had gone down several feet and Evan and Aries went to rescue Mlou and Jenny’s kids. At least they were now safe.

Our cook lost her entire home. All of Jenny’s possessions were destroyed. Our boys house was flooded and all their beds, and things were destroyed. Our guards house was washed away. Other staff didn’t show up for work. So many questions. Thankfully, the boys stepped into action. Nursery duty, toddler duty, kitchen cleaning.  We will just have to wait to hear from the others. 

Rose Arlene, September 6, 2009

Rose Arlene, just 2.1 kilos (4.5 pounds) was born on September 6, at 645pm, in our little guest room on the 2^nd floor, (Used to be Ate E’s room).

 I had had to be firm with her in the delivery. She was scared, she was tense, she was tired and alone. It’s hard work to give birth in ideal circumstances and this was anything but ideal. All things considered, it was a beautiful birth with no complications but for the emotions that held the room silently captive.

 

Arlene held the tiny baby close for a few minutes and seemed relieved she was whole and well. She looked at me, ever so tired, and said, “I’d like to sleep, now.” I knew it was her signal for me to take the baby.

 

I took her precious daughter and held her to my chest. My hands were trembling. Such a painful sacrifice. In another world, perhaps another life, perhaps even just another time, this little one would be able to stay with her mommy. But now, in this reality, there is not really another option. Arlene is an orphan from birth, raised by a neighbour who mothered her and loved her as her own. Arlene made some foolish decisions and at 17 found herself living with boy a year younger than her and their family. She had dropped out of high school and was pregnant with their first child. After the child was born, they were told to leave the house. Arlene’s “mother” had since died, and they were without anywhere to go. They have been sleeping on the street on cardboard, begging during the day for milk for their baby. The boy, now 17, works as a delivery boy, hardly making enough to buy rice and food for one meal. This is the harsh reality of their lives as street dwellers.

 

Somehow, I came to know Arlene through another family I was helping in Malabon. I was only too thankful to hear she had decided long ago to surrender her baby for adoption. So many children are sold or given away illegally because the poor are unaware of our laws and of their rights. I have rescued too many children off the streets who are suffering and dying because of their parents poor choices.

 

As Arlene slept peacefully, probably for the first time in a very long time, I realized how tense I had been too. I sighed. These are children having children. The mercy is they took a step of faith to give a chance of life to this new baby. We so often focus on the rescue of the child, we forget to look into the heart of the mother. Surely God sees the childlike faith Arlene has and He will keep his hand on this tiny, little girl and bless the sacrifice of her mother.

Ace and Jesus

We sat with Ace all afternoon, Others coming in and out to check, nervous, anxious, suffering along with this little boy in the last stages of brain cancer. The mother and I did not leave his side and took comfort in each other. We took turns talking to Ace and holding his little hands. Every so often, she would lean close to his ear and whisper, “Jesus is waiting for you. I love you.”

 

There were no tears at first. It was so long since we had seen his little body still and quiet, the seizures had seemed endless. I watched her touch him and rub his head. Still no tears. We moved his body to the bed so we could wrap him in a fresh blanket. His body would be cold quickly.

 

I knelt down quietly beside the bed and without meaning too, I began to weep. I wanted to hold the sobs back. I am always the last one to cry. But she looked at me and her own grief was suddenly released. She fell on the bed beside her son and began to wail. The sounds of mourning are like none other. The waves of emotion came and went for several hours, her groans filling the silence of the ICU. Then she quietly stood and said, “I’ll get ready now.”

 

We would take the body to the morgue yet tonight. It seems odd that we would suffer by his side, hold his hand until his last breath, and then be responsible for taking his lifeless body to the morgue. Maybe that is what makes death and the grieving process so raw and real for us in this culture.

 

We will have a service tomorrow night in our little yard. Then little Ace will be cremated. We are all thankful his suffering is over. The memories of his laugh, his little voice, the way his tiny fingers moved, will be on our minds for many days to come. 

I will never forget one day when I came in to check on Ace. It had been days since he

had spoke. He was having regular seizures and we were all struggling. The room was quiet but for a Hillsongs CD playing (Mighty to Save). I leaned close to Ace. He was humming the song, ‘Hosanna’ in perfect tune. “He knows the whole song and doesn’t want me to shut the CD off,” his mom told me.

 

“I see the king of glory Riding on a cloud of fire

Hosanna, hosanna, Hosanna in the highest.”

 

Ace knew he was going to see Jesus. Though it doesn’t stop our grieving, it somehow makes it all that much easier to bear. Oh, how happy he must have been to run into the arms of his Heavenly Father!