I have been writing out the story of my experiences after Patricia's death. It helps me to write. I don't know why-- I guess I just want to share her story because her story matters...
It's a pretty long story as it was a long day. So I am going to share it in chapters.
Here goes:
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Chapter 1: This is Hell
Yesterday it was raining. It had actually been raining on an off for two days. Our trash pile was starting to fester and so I asked Hugues to pack it up so we could go to dump it. He did so and we left for the dump, which is incidentally right next to Pinchinat (the big refugee camp in Jacmel.)
I happened to have some diapers in my backpack and looked down into Pinchinat, which was a mud hole and thought, “With all this rain and mud, I should make sure Babette has diapers for Patricia.” It started raining harder and I almost reconsidered. The mud was thick but I reasoned I would just go and drop some diapers off with just her and then head out quickly. I told Hugues he could wait in the car if he wanted, but he said he’d like to come because he hadn’t seen Patricia in a while.
We walked through the mud and it was so thick it was the kind that swallowed your shoes and pulled them off your feet. We marched onward and headed down the row to Babette’s tent. Weaving our way through ropes and tent stakes we heard a horrific wailing. Someone was screaming. Loudly. As we approached, I realized it was Babette. She was sitting on a cot outside of her tent in the pouring rain. She was wearing no shoes and was covered in mud up to her ankles. Her eyes were so puffy from crying that they were almost swollen shut. Her wailing was loud and intense. And I knew right away that something terrible had happened.
“Babette!” I asked. “Sa ou genyen?” (What’s wrong?) She didn’t answer me but kept crying, almost in a trance. I had to kind of shake her to wake her from her wailing. “Babette, si vou ple, di mwen sa ou genyen?” (Babette, please tell me what’s wrong.) Her eyes focused on me as if she’d just seen me. Between sobs she gasped, “Li mouri, li mouri, li mouri!” (She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!)
Already knowing the answer I asked, “Kimoun mouri?” (Who is dead?)
“Pitit mwen. Patricia mouri.” (My child. Patricia is dead.)
Tears sprung to my eyes and I just held her. It was pouring rain all around us and I just held her and she cried and I cried. Someone ushered us into a tent. We sat on a cot and I held her for a while as she wailed. And then, as if a switch was flipped in my mind, my brain started processing all of the next steps. I have this tendency to do that. To just explode with emotion during trying times and then, unable to cry anymore I switch into “action mode.”
“Babette,” I asked her, “Kibo Patricia konye a?” (Where is Patricia right now?)
“Li andann tant mwen.” (She’s in my tent.)
“A kile li te mouri?” (What time did she die?)
“Twa ze de maten.” (3AM.)
I looked at my phone. It was about 10:30AM. Seven and half hours. Patricia had been lying there in the tent dead for seven and a half hours. With the rain and mud and all of children and babies running around, I knew she couldn’t stay there. I wasn't sure what to do. But I knew she couldn't stay there.
I asked her if I could take the baby to the morgue while we figure out what to do next. She seemed hesitant at first as she’d already called a bos to start making a coffin, but she had no idea when it would be done or how she would pay for it. I asked her to please let me find a place outside of Pinchinat to keep Patricia until she could be buried. She agreed that was best. I asked her if she wanted to come with me and everyone around me started screaming, “No! No! No! Li pa kapab ale avek you. Sa pa responsib li!” (No, she can’t go with you. That’s not her responsibility.) This was the first of MANY cultural things I didn’t understand that were about to happen. Babette’s sister, her brother, her neighbor in the camp and Patricia’s godmother also came along.
“I am in hell. This is hell. I am in hell.”
