They Danced

Ali has such a descriptive way with words. Today was the first of many celebrations to come for the VVF women that have come for surgery to the Africa Mercy. I was not able to leave the OR to go across the hall to experience the celebration but it is a remarkable milestone of this outreach.  Gary

The ladies danced today.

Our ladies are the ones forgotten. I flip through their charts and see their pain in black and white on their screening forms. When was the pregnancy? The answers vary. Five years ago. Seven. Fifteen. The baby? Stillborn. Stillborn. Died within one week. Very seldom is alive circled, and these women have carried their sorrow like a cross pressing heavy on their shoulders. Do you leak urine constantly? Yes. Yes. Yes. And with each yes, another reason to stay hidden, another board across the window and so daylight barely reaches their souls.

But today they danced.

Five of them gathered in an empty ward, a tray of makeup on a bed in the corner. Each woman donned a brand-new gown, the fabric still stiff with wax, the colours vibrant against their dark skin. Around their necks handmade necklaces, jewelry crafted while those of us not cursed to live apart whispered words of hope to their upturned hearts. Loving hands wrapped and re-wrapped headdresses, fabric formed into peaks that nearly brushed the low ceilings of Deck Three when they stood to admire themselves.

One by one, we held up the mirror. One by one, the women gazed into it, seeing, maybe for the first time in five, seven, fifteen years, their own beauty. Eyes bright with hope. New cloth unstained with urine. The chairs dry under their legs as they sat and stared.

I didn't have a chance to sit in B Ward while they danced, while they told their stories of joy and triumph. But I was there while they prepared. I was there in the quiet moments while they breathed deep and composed themselves before taking the stage in front of nurses and doctors and sisters still in bed, catheter tubing running from beneath blankets, hope growing with each hour that passes dry.

I was there. I felt the grip of arms thrown around my neck, the softness of freshly-combed hair against my cheek. I saw the smiles, first hesitant, but gaining strength the longer they looked at themselves, transformed. I shared in their joy and could not begin to understand the pain that made it so unbearably sweet.

For all of this, I count myself blessed among women.

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Ali C.