Guilt and Grief and Gratitude

"I would give anything
To make you better"
- Better, by Brooke Fraser 


As I said in the previous post about watching one-year-old baby Sael for a week, the sweet boy was sick with a bad cold. When I took him to a nearby clinic, I explained to the doctor that his parents were especially concerned because when he was six-months-old he had a bad bronchial infection. At that time, there was one night when he stopped breathing. His mother Desi screamed for her husband Miguel, who grabbed Sael and ran into the street, jumping in the first taxi he saw and racing to the hospital. Miguel rubbed Sael's chest and patted his back and tiny Sael breathed shallow, difficult breaths. They spent the night at the hospital, and though Sael recovered and was fine, Desi and Miguel are understandably cautious when it comes to their son having any kind of cough and congestion. Desi describes how, as Miguel ran with Sael to get him to the hospital, all she could do was sob, her three-year-old daughter clinging to her, both nearly catatonic with fear. "It was the worst time in my life," she's told me.

I explained the concern to the doctor, who examined Sael as he sat, surprisingly calm, in my arms.
"There's no infection," she told me, and I was filled with relief. I repeated it back to her just to make sure. "No, but you need to give him these three medicines for his cough, congestion, and mild fever," she said. I pushed Sael in his stroller to the nearest pharmacy and bought the medicines. I gave them to him every day as prescribed. At the end of the week, he was still coughing but seemed better. He was congested but was falling asleep fairly easily. He was playing, laughing, smiling. I too, was still coughing and congested so I thought, "It'll just take a little more time. He'll be fine soon. We both will be."

The evening Miguel came and picked up his baby, Sael puked again. Concerned that he still wasn't well, Miguel took him to the doctor - a different one - the next day.
"How is he?" I asked, when I saw the two of them that Monday afternoon at Casa Gabriel.
"Mal," Miguel said, shaking his head. ("Bad"). "The doctor says he has a serious infection, all through here," to which he placed a hand over Sael's chest.
I was devastated.
"The doctor at the clinic said no. I asked specifically."
"It's okay, he'll be alright," Miguel assured me, though I could see he was worried. Sael looked at me with tired eyes: tired from the doctor visits, tired of medicine, tired of being sick.
"He'll be alright," Miguel repeated. Yet something in me felt broken. I couldn't shake it. I said goodbye to Miguel and Sael and headed out to run some errands. Walking down the street, I began to cry behind my sunglasses. I couldn't stop. I cried for hours.

I wish I were exaggerating. Finally home, I messaged Rachel while sobbing, trying to make sense of why I was such a basket-case.
"They trusted me with their child. I feel like I should have known he was more seriously sick, maybe taken him to a different doctor. I know that I didn't know and did what I could, but I feel terrible for him."
"Oh Sonnet, " Rachel exclaimed, "You must be exhausted! You were sick while caring for him and doing everything else. You were running around feeding the Douce's dog and doing the orientations and finances. I know you took good care of him. It's not your fault."
"Thank you, I know, I do, it's just that for nearly eight days all my emotions and energy went into caring for him, feeding him, rocking him to sleep, bathing him, carrying him with me everywhere, trying to make him feel as safe and loved as possible - so to have him gone and hear he's not okay is a little devastating," I admitted. "It feels like the worst kind of failure."

We messaged back and forth while I kept thinking I was done crying and being proven wrong. Feeling sick and tired certainly makes emotions that much more vehemently earnest.


The next day I went with Miguel and Desi to help them translate for the team from Holland. I cried a little when I saw Desi, but not too much. The team was split into those who could fit into Miguel's car and those who had to take a bus. I went with Desi and the bus crew and we talked about their trip to the coast. Desi smiled warmly as we chatted about the mission outreach to the coast. Her friendship is a huge blessing, another reason why thinking I had let her and Miguel down in caring for their precious baby was so terrible. We drove and walked out to the northern edge of Quito, to a very poor neighborhood with plain cement homes. We did various outreaches there while the sun beat down, giving me and others a wicked sunburn. We spoke and sang in Spanish, English, and Dutch. I love seeing the mixing of different cultures and languages. The different tones of skin and eye colors, just like Miguel and Desi: dark African-Ecuadorian, pale Dutch, and the beautiful children who are the result. Or like my own parents, Hispanic and Caucasian, and the freckled, dark-haired children who are my siblings and I.


When it was time to head home, Miguel drove, Desi walked with the rest of the team to get taxis, and I sat in the back with Sael. Miguel told me, "Someone else from the team was holding him yesterday, but he kept crying and reaching for me. He knows you, he'll be happier with you."
 The team and I were all dusty and hungry and content. Four of us squished into the back of the car while Miguel drove in true South American fashion: changing lanes without a blinker, honking to communicate and warn that he was passing a cross street and had the right of way, and of course having his two kids in the car held in laps without car seats or even seat belts. I settled Sael in my arms. He looked up once to see who was holding him, then began to play with my phone. He nestled in my lap, cuddled cozy, fell asleep in my arms. It felt redemptive.