Optionless

The past few months of volunteering in the Philippines have been very educational in all sorts of ways. Two particular recent events made me realise again how difficult life can be for those who are physically unwell or seriously ill in a less economically developed part of the world.

During our time in Cebu, one evening, whilst we were travelling to an event with CFA, one of the children developed a high fever. At 6 years old, J has a petite physique, almond-shaped eyes and curly hair that hung loosely on her shoulders. Her name in Cebuano actually means a particular bird, which I have always thought is very apt, as when J speaks she does sound like a little bird singing melodiously.

J doesn’t normally cry easily but she was whimpering when I tried to help her swallow some medicine. I carried her to one of the vehicles, laid her on the seats and, in the dark, started to wipe her little body with wet cloths. I felt terrible when she couldn’t take in much water.

Her whole body felt like a furnace. Some Nehemiah girls came by the bus and said a prayer for her. I tried to comfort J by promising her some sweets when she got better.

After an hour, the fever subsided considerably. I almost cried when J finally sat up and started sipping some Coke (for the lack of better alternatives) and eating some biscuits. When we finally went home she sat on my lap whilst I held a damp towel to her forehead, and she must have been feeling a lot better as she started chirping away to her favourite Kuya (older brother).

That evening I was struck by how helpless one must feel when a child whom you care about is not well, especially if you couldn’t afford any medical help. And we, including J, are actually the lucky ones – so many don’t have access to any medical help, and even more don’t have access to clean drinking water. One of the feeding team workers told me the same night that when a street child becomes ill, he or she will usually have no choice but to bear it and hope and pray that they will get better. And the sad fact is sometimes they don’t.

Last week, in Manila, in a different context, the staff worker at a project we visited came to us with a different sort of very serious need. Leading us into her kitchen, she introduced us to her frail and pale faced son. Sitting on a bamboo chair and leaning against the window, he had tubes coming out of his nostrils and at the side of his neck there was a big patch of plaster covering a wound. The boy looked younger than his real age, and he was staring, expressionless, at the television.

He needed a new kidney, she explained, showing us several bottles of medicine which he needed to take continuously to stay alive, and to pay for the new kidney and operation would cost several million pesos (several tens of thousands of pounds).

My first thought was: oh no, not another need again. We have seen a lot of need just in the past few months.

We looked at her, and then at the boy who was still expressionless – as if to say that he had seen this scene many times before, where the visitors, though moved upon hearing about their plight, were unable to help.

Our friend said he would try to speak to the board of directors to see what they could do. We then left the little house with our hearts still sinking.

And then it occurred to me that, if I were the mother, I would have done exactly the same as what the lady did – to ask for help wherever possible. She wasn’t hysterical or breaking down in tears, she didn’t beg us, but she did tell us that she needed help. There was nothing shameful or undignified. She had no choice, nowhere to turn to; all she could do is ask.