| I sat on the edge of the couch, close enough to hear what he was saying, hoping not to make him feel uncomfortable. He was always soft-spoken, and now the lilt of his African accent was even more difficult to discern than before. “The doctor has told me very diplomatically that there is nothing left to do. Now it is to my faith that I must turn. It is all I have left.”
It began as a simple case of acid reflux, or so the doctor said. But Victor knew better. There had been cases in his family lineage and others around his native Botswana. His request for a cancer scan went unheeded. The tumor was growing as Victor had believed, and by the time proper attention had been paid, the only label to be applied was Stage 4 Cancer – Esophageal.
News of his illness spread as quickly as the disease itself. Soon support was arriving from every direction. The Botswana Embassy stepped forward, assuming Victor’s insurance burdens. After clearing visa hurdles, his wife and 14-year-old son arrived from Gaborone. An aunt arrived from New York, a cousin from Dallas, a friend from Seattle. His classmates in Huntsville rallied around him, some spending sleepless nights with him at home. In the early going, one of his classmates, a Turkish police officer, had taken him into his home to watch over him.
But much time had been lost in the failure to examine properly, in the various negotiations about insurance, in the shuttling from clinic to hospital to treatment center, and in the decision-making about what to do. By the time he was examined at the oncological center, Victor had developed complications in his lungs. Doctors would need to address that issue before administering chemotherapy – yet another costly delay. Victor’s chances of recovery were slipping by as the pounds were mercilessly stripped away from his seemingly eternal paunch. He was already a thin man at my first visit, the flesh beginning to recede from his arms as well. His shoulders had risen to become almost pointed, previously tethered by meaty arms. A black mark had started to form around his eye, oddly noticeable against his African skin.
The students redoubled their efforts. Meetings were held to discuss what could be done further to help. An email group site was set up to keep everyone updated and to get out the call for volunteers. The university had pledged funding to cover the expense of the 160-mile roundtrip journeys to the hospital. For our part, the student-musicians set a date for a fundraiser at the local café where Victor had watched us play many times before.
By my last visit, Victor had lost a lot of weight, was already on oxygen around the clock, was receiving his meals mostly in liquid form, and his days were punctuated by doctor appointments. The appointments seemed more a formality at this point; everyone knew that Victor was now into the waiting game.
Over the years, Victor frequently made visits to my office, reports and papers in hand to be proofread before he submitted them to his professors. He perused my bookshelf for the latest arrivals, plucking those that were of interest. And he offered reactions to each issue of the magazine I edited as it arrived from the printer. “You will have to come to Botswana to help us with our police publication.” He had big plans, and others had big plans for him. After he completed the Ph.D. he was to return to Botswana to become the head of their national police service. There was much to live for.
Victor’s apartment had become the center of all our thoughts. Some students sat with him for hours at a time, others came and went with supplies, and still others kept the apartment where he sat at the center of their minds, hoping for a miracle. The miracle did come, but not the one we were hoping for. It came in small moments. It came when the local travel agents talked about Victor’s frequent visits to their office and their conversations about Africa and how much they loved him. It came when Victor said to me, “I always like it when you and Daniel come to visit. It makes me feel better,” somehow changing something in me forever. It came when Victor said, “I had no idea I had so many friends.” I sometimes think that Victor had done more for us than we did for him. He was the vehicle for us to be reminded of everyday miracles: the miracle of life, the miracle of togetherness, the miracle of putting someone in need before ourselves, the miracle of friendship.
On Friday morning, he had been rushed to the emergency room. His lungs were giving out. For the whole day friends from around the world hovered over his bed, hoping against hope. We went ahead with the musical fundraiser knowing the doctors had predicted that Victor would not make it through the night. The end came sooner than any of us expected, sooner than we were ready for. In the middle of one of the songs, a classmate approached the stage and whispered in my ear, “Victor passed.” Raising our voices and instruments in song turned out to be more of a send-off than support.
Last Friday, December 14, 2007, at 7:35pm, 44-year-old Victor passed away very peacefully, surrounded by friends.
December 2007
| | |
