A Little Light Goes Out.

Little Mayra passed away this week.

The nurse told me somewhat casually when I asked her if Mayra had gone home or to another hospital: Mayra passed away. They were unsure why.

I am unsure whether it is a sign of maturity, of a hardening in my heart, or the staunch realism that has taken root in me over the past few years, but I didn’t react as I always thought I would to such an announcement. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel my heart break in my chest. I didn’t fall to pieces, inside or out. I felt sad, but I felt something more unexpected: 

relief.

Mayra was seven months old, racked by constant seizures, and rarely awake and cognizant enough to interact or engage with anyone in any way. She often seemed completely oblivious to the world around her. That does not mean that she was, but it cannot be denied that Mayra enjoyed a significantly diminished quality of life due to her constant seizures.

It feels unnatural, wrong somehow, to feel a sense of relief at knowing a small baby has passed away. To think first, “No, oh no,” and then, “it’s better.”

When I have come here under the premise of improving quality of life for children like Mayra, it feels cruel and insensitive to think, “It’s better this way.” Does it show a lack of empathy? A lack of honest hope in this mission, and confidence in my ability to actually improve life for these kids? A lack of commitment and sincerity?

I know this, and this only: Mayra was a little baby who would grow into a little girl who would not smile, laugh, or know her mother’s face, let alone run, jump, and play. She may have drawn comfort from touch, from the sound of a voice. But she may not have. It is impossible to know. In the moments I had with Mayra, I did not see even a flicker of engagement on her face. No visible response to any interaction. She may well have been interested, hearing me, feeling my hug, and enjoying it.

But for Mayra, a little girl in a country where many families have at least three mouths to feed and few resources to feed them with, where domestic abuse is rampant and conditions often dire, her passing may mean that she has escaped a sad, tragic life. 

I don’t know what type of family Mayra had, where they lived, or what their situation was. And I don’t want to. To see that Mayra had loving parents who cared for her, doted on her, kept her safe and clean; to learn that she slept in a warm, soft bed next to the mother who had carried her and loved her unconditionally despite her challenges; to hear that they had the means and dedication to bring her to the many medical appointments she needed and seek the therapy she would have needed as she grew; to know any of this would shatter to pieces the perspective I have embraced in order to peacefully accept the death of this little baby.