By Juli McGowan Boit | Published: August 29, 2013
Loice Waringa
1989 – 2013
Guest at Living Room: July 3 – 8, 2013
The first time I saw Loice she was curled into the fetal position, lying in a bed at the far corner of a fully occupied women’s ward. I was at Moi Teaching & Referral Hospital (MTRH), participating in palliative care rounds with Juli McGowan Boit and the rest of the MTRH palliative care team.
We gathered around her bed, chart in hand, reviewing her case. Loice slowly opened her eyes and turned to look at the crowd of people that had gathered around her bed. Her look was confused, her eyes a bit glassy. Her kidneys were failing. The nurse on the team bent down to ask her a question and then went to retrieve the nurse overseeing her care. She was in pain and was in need of some morphine. Loice turned her head back toward the window and closed her eyes.
Just 24 years old, with 4 children at home, Loice was dying. She had metastatic sarcoma, kidney failure, and was HIV positive. Wasted away to not much more than skin stretched across a small frame, her body beneath the blankets looked like that of a young girl, yet her face was aged, betrayed by years of hardship and pain.
The nurse returned with a dose of oral morphine, the clear liquid drawn up into a plastic syringe. She bent over Loice, gently waking her to administer the drug. Loice opened her eyes and again took in the crowd of people huddled around her bed. With her eyes fixed on me, she whispered something in Swahili. The nurse bent over to listen. She had asked for me; she wanted me to give her the medication. I came closer to the bed and knelt beside her and slowly pushed the medication into the back of her mouth, where it wouldn’t threaten to spill out. She swallowed, looked at me one more time, and then turned back towards the window to fall asleep. I rose from her bed and turned to follow the rest of the team as we continued our rounds.
A few weeks later, as all of the Americans staying in the little village of Chebaiywa gathered to celebrate American Independence Day, Juli mentioned to me that Loice had been transferred to Kimbilio Hospice. I was very glad to hear the news and asked if I could stop in and visit. An open invitation was extended. The next day I made my way along the dirt roads to the hospice, where I was led to the small room where Loice was sleeping. She slept most of the time, I was told, and when she was awake she was often confused. As I looked at her lying there, she looked calm. Peaceful. A quilt hung above her bed. The windows looked out to green hills and farmland. I sat down in a chair next to her, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, quietly praying a prayer of peace and blessing over her.
She opened her eyes, slowly taking in the face of the visitor sitting next to her. Her eyes opened wider with excitement, and she began to speak in Swahili. I did not understand what she was saying. She continued to speak, and she grabbed hold of my hand. The nurse attending to another patient in the same room came over to help translate. Loice was saying that she knew me; she remembered me. I confirmed we had met before in the hospital. She smiled and clapped her hands in excitement. She looked at me and in Swahili said, “You are my Mzungu (Kiswahili for ‘white person’). I am so happy. So, so happy.” In her excitement, she continued to say more, but I no longer had the help of a translator. Still holding my hand, she closed her eyes and again fell back to sleep. There were tears in my eyes as I continued to sit there for the next hour, holding Loice’s hand while she slept.
The next day I returned and again took my place in the chair next to Loice’s bed. She was sleeping more, seeming to only drift into wakefulness before going back to sleep. She did not recognize me and was no longer aware that the Mzungu who had given her morphine was sitting there next to her. I could tell the end was near. Again I said a prayer over her as I held her hand. After some time, I quietly got up and left.
Two days later I received the news that Loice had passed away. My heart was saddened, but I was glad to know that she did not continue to suffer for long. I imagined her there, standing among angels before her Maker in her new body, tears wiped away. The pain etched into the lines of her face was gone, and she was beautiful. Radiant.
I only knew Loice for a very short time. Yet in those few hours of sitting next to her at her bedside, I was blessed to overflowing. God took me away from my home, brought me to this small Kenyan village, and gave me the privilege of being Loice’s Mzungu. I felt God’s presence as I held her small, frail, dark hand. And I knew that it was no accident that He allowed for just a few moments our lives to intersect. As I held Loice’s hand, I felt an overwhelming sense of God’s favor. I was right where I was supposed to be. And it was a good place to be.
- Elizabeth Robison, Visitor and Friend of Living Room
Loice is worth running for
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