On Tuesday, in between
the regular clinic, a man comes in and takes the stretcher, indicating to me
that either someone stole his bed, or someone very sick is about to enter the
clinic.  Sure enough, a young woman (35ish), face drawn, ashen, apparently
dehydrated, and generally not looking very well.  I ask what is wrong. She says
she’s had diarrhea and vomiting.  How long, I ask.  About a month.  Oh.  I touch
her skin and she’s burning with fever.  I listen to her heart and her pulse is
170 — not good.  But her face doesn’t quite match the scenario to me.  She has
a relaxed, peaceful look about her.  I know I have to stop everything and take
her into the pick-up and whisk her up the bumpy dirt road 15 minutes to Ngangalizwe Clinic where she will be seen by a doctor.  Her husband and I carry
her in on the stretcher and we’re waiting for a nurse or doctor.  She looks at
me and smiles peacefully.  What courage, I’m thinking. 

    She says in Xhosa that
she doesn’t want to be here, she wants to go.  “Go where?  Back to Itipini?” 
“No,” she says.  Where?  She points up.  “Itipini,” again I ask?   “No,” she
says.   No.  Now I’m slowly getting it.  “To God, I ask?”  Yes, she agreeingly
nods.  How long she’s been sick, I’m not sure.  She was tested for HIV last
month, but didn’t get the results because the government didn’t pay the bill for
the test.  These eyes are ready, her smile that of a knowingness I can’t reach,
but have seen before many times.  I ask again in my three primitive Xhosa words,
“You want to go to God (“Thixo”)?”  She nods yes.  I knew then that the most
important thing I could do this moment was not race back to the long line
waiting for me at the clinic, but just to touch her arm, look into her eyes, and
simply be with her.  And so I did.  Blessings exchanged.  Communion.

    I still don’t know
what happened to her, but whatever did, she’s with God.