Jimmy's story has been reblogged from "Girl. Nurse. Ship. Africa. Dream come true." It is by far one of the saddest stories I have ever read. I can only thank God that Jimmy found a ship called Mercy.
I met Jimmy last Monday. He’s 28 years old and was being admitted to
have his right leg amputated. We’ve had a few patients who’ve had to
have amputations and I’ve always wished we could do more for them,
thinking that amputation is the worst, best solution. But when I talked
with Jimmy, I realized, that this was his only option. And he was ok
with it. Even excited.
Here’s why…
I came back from my lunch break and was told that Jimmy had arrived
to the isolation room. I walked into the small room with a translator
and said, “Tongasoa!” in my best Malagasy accent, which means
“Welcome!” . His eyes were bright and his smile put one on my face as
well. I looked at him and told him how happy I was that he’d come. I
tried not to let my eyes drift down to his wrapped right leg and his
bandaged left, or to the dirty, unmatched crutches that were propped on
his bed next to him. I tried not to grimace at the smell that had so
quickly filled the small room. The smell of rotting flesh. I gave him
instructions about how he would need to remove all of the bandages,
bathe, put a gown on, and then I would re-wrap both of his legs in
preparation for his surgery. He asked me several times, “So I need to
take the bandages off?”, “Are you sure you want me to take them off?”. I
knew that he was embarrassed by the severity of his wounds, that he
wanted to protect me from seeing what lie beneath the dirty bandages. I
reassured him and told him as soon as he was finished bathing I would be
there to cover the wounds again.
I was called back into the room by my translator when Jimmy was
finished. I prepared myself for what I’d briefly seen in his
pre-operative photo, but seeing it in person was different. I walked in
the room, and my breath caught in my throat at the site of his grossly
infected right leg. The wound started mid-way down his calf and
extended to the tips of his toes. Both bones of the lower leg were
exposed and the wound had warped and twisted his foot into a gnarly
shape. There was raw flesh, dead tissue, and a smell that would knock
you over. All I could think was, “How is this boy not dead from
sepsis?”, “How on EARTH did this get so bad?” I did all that I could to
keep my composure, wanting Jimmy to know that it didn’t bother me. I
gently wrapped up his leg with several rolls of Kerlix and then put a
plastic bag over it and taped it just above the wound, where they would
make the amputation. The left leg was no where near as bad, compared to
the right, but bad enough that it would need to be debrided of dead
tissue and a wound vac placed, to aid in healing so a skin graft could
later be placed. I wrapped that one as well, then sat at a chair next to
his bed, prepared to start his IV, and asked him his story.
Through animated facial expressions and hand gestures Jimmy’s story
unraveled. For as long as he could remember, he’d been un-liked by his
step mother. When he was 12 years old he got into an argument with her
about something trivial. She grabbed him and held him over the cooking
fire that they’d had burning in their home. Unable to hold him there on
her own due to his attempts at freeing himself, his father stepped in
and helped. And there they held his legs in the fire until they were
burned. His burns never healed, they got infected, and have been for the
past 13 years.
For 13 years, over HALF of his life, he’s been in pain. The kind of
pain that happens when you have a burn that goes as deep as your bones.
The kind of pain you have when a wound gets infected to the point of
never healing. The kind of pain your heart endures when you yourself
can’t bear the smell that is coming from your own body and know that
others can’t either. The kind of pain you have when you’re homeless and
spend your nights alone outside Bazaar Be, the local market..
I went to see Jimmy the day after his surgery and as soon as I walked
in the door he gave me the biggest smile. I walked to his bed seeing
the stump that was now his right leg, and reached for his hand. “Tsara
Be?” (Is it good?) I asked. And he replied, with the biggest smile on
his face, “Faly Be! Faly, Faly, Faly, Faly!” (I’m so happy! Happy,
happy, happy, happy!). He told me through a translator that he finally
has no pain. That for the first time in 13 years he doesn’t feel pain
from those gruesome burns, from that moment his family betrayed him and
held him over a fire. My eyes filled with tears seeing the relief that
he held, seeing the absolute joy that embodied him.
Jimmy will leave here with a new life. He’ll be fitted with a
prosthetic and taught how to use it. His left leg will heal with time
and a fresh skin graft will cover the old open wound that once plagued
him. He’ll leave here with the new Bible that he’s already making his
way through. He told me he tries to read it every day. I looked in his
eyes and told him, “So good, keep reading it.. It’s so good for your
heart”.
I am in awe of how the Lord has brought hope back in to this man’s
life; and in further awe that He has allowed me to be a part of that
story. I pray that Jimmy will go on to “live a life worthy of
the calling he has received” (Eph 4:1). That he will never forget the
Lord’s redemption in his life. That he would give all credit to his
Father. Not the one who helped scald his legs, but the One who has been
in his every moment. The One who held him each night as he slept alone
at Bazaar Be, the One who helped him endure the unimaginable pain, and
the One who now brought him hope and a new life. The Father who IS hope.
“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” Hebrews 6:19
