LUKE

A snippet of a chapter from Saving Mandela's Children

I woke up with a jerk. Someone was yelling.

“Mama D. Mama D. Luke is getting bad. Come quickly”.

I jumped out of bed and ran down the passage. Luke was ashen, lying with his big eyes looking at Amore as she held him. Amore was one of the many young people that I had gathered around me during my life. I always seemed to have with me a young person who was troubled. She had come with me to Middelburg because she had problems with her family, and although she did not take Patience’s place, she did have a very special place in my heart.

Luke had the most beautiful eyelashes and eyes I have ever seen on any child. Luke was eighteen months old and dying of AIDS. He had been living with us for almost ten months. When his mother brought him to us to take care of, the doctor told us that he did not have long to live, and the best that we could do for him was to make him comfortable. But we never believed doctors. We lived as though there were no tomorrow. Luke had been sick before and we had managed to get him well again. He had even managed to go through the baby stages, getting teeth, sitting up, trying to stand and walk, all the things that he was not able to do when he arrived. For some reason, we just all believed that Luke would be like all the rest. He would just grow up and be like all the other kids. Whenever the children got too sick, they would be brought into my bedroom and there they would stay until they were well enough to join the others. When they got really ill, I would put their little bodies against my chest, wrap a baby blanket or towel around the two of us, and let the baby feel my heartbeat. I would not put them down other than to change their nappies or to feed them, and then back they would go, tied to my chest. And time and again, they would get better.

Now was the time for Luke to come to my bedroom. When Luke became ill this time, Amore asked me if she could take care of him.

I agreed, but I did warn her that it might be traumatic. Amore was only twenty at the time. She wanted to be with him 24 hours a day so that he would not be alone for one minute. I agreed, as I would be there as well.

Amore sat rigid in the chair, her eyes as wide as saucers. I could see she was afraid that Luke might be dying and she was scared of death. Luke was conscious but in pain. His frail little body was sore and as I gently took him from her arms, he moaned faintly. His breath was coming in short sharp intakes and the out breaths just left his chest without any effort on his part. His heart was racing. You could see how the artery was fluttering in his neck. He was looking past me as though he was seeing something there that we could not see. “He will not die now Amore, but Luke is dying”, I said gently. I knew that there was nothing more we could do for our little boy. He was beyond our help. This time we would not be able to save our boy. “Nooooo!!!”, she howled as she leaned over and put her head in her lap. Her body shook with grief and her anguish poured out of her in great big sobs. When Amore had calmed down a bit, I asked her, “Do you still want to be with Luke till the end?” “Yes”. “Then come”, I quietly encouraged her. I called the staff and told them that Luke did not have long to live and they went to break the news to the other children. The children were sad and crying, but they all came and said goodbye to Luke, some kissed him, others touched his forehead and others just stroked his little feet. The staff stood around and said a prayer. I called Father John and he came and baptized Luke and gave him the last rites. Father John called me aside and said, “Dianne, you are forever calling me out to baptize your children at all hours of the day and night. I think you should now do it yourself. I can’t always be coming out, day and night, whenever you think one of your children is going to die and then they don’t. All you have to do is say: “I baptize you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit”. OK?”. “Yes, Father, thank you for coming”, I said. We sent word out to try and find Luke’s mother, but she had gone to Cape Town. Then Amore and I took Luke to a quiet place and sat with him.

It took eighteen hours for Luke to die. He never lost consciousness. He was awake the whole time. He suffered for eighteen hours. His breathing became more and more erratic. He could not swallow. He could not pass urine. He could not cough. He would take a deep breath, exhale and then there would be no breath for a long time and then he would take another deep breath. And so it would go on. And on…and on...and on. Amore grew tired. I told her to go and have a sleep. I would wake her if there was any change. We were taking it in turns holding Luke in our arms, talking to him and singing to him all the time. Amore curled up on the couch with a blanket and was soon fast asleep. The emotions of the day were draining and she needed to rest. Who knew when this would end? In the stillness of the night, Luke’s breathing became more pronounced and his suffering became more evident. I longed for the suffering to end. This poor little mite was struggling to breathe for hour after hour. I had already phoned the pharmacist and asked her if there was anything that would ease his suffering and she had told me that there was nothing. I knew from experience that there was nothing at the hospital. What could I do to help this little soul? The minutes ticked by so slowly. I kept looking at the clock. How much longer does this have to go on? I started to pray. “Please God, stop this suffering. Take this child into your care now. This is enough. Don’t let this carry on any longer. Please don’t let him struggle for one more breath. Just let him stop breathing”. But no one heard. The silence was made more deafening by the incessant struggle for the next breath from Luke.

OK, I thought. I will do something now. Amore is asleep. No one will know what I am about to do. I will take a pillow and put it over his mouth and then he will stop breathing and it will be over. Not even God listens. To allow this to carry on is beyond cruel. I lean over and take the small pillow out of the pram. I hold it up in my right hand. Luke is lying in my left arm. He has stopped breathing. I don’t have to do it. Thank you, God. Then he struggles for the next breath. I have to do it. I hover with the pillow still in my hand. I hesitate, knowing that I have no right to take another’s life, but at the same time consumed by the need to stop the suffering. I

move the pillow closer to his head. Closer still: the pillow is now just above his face. And still I hesitate. Do I or don’t I? I need to stop his suffering. I have an irresistible need to stop this awful breathing that is filling my brain and my mind and my soul with anguish and suffering from hell. He looks at me. Those big eyes of his look at me. What is he trying to tell me? Help me? But how? The pillow goes down on his face. Gently. My hand holds the pillow gently on his face. I pull the pillow away from his face and fling it across the room. I can’t do it. I have failed him. “Oh, Luke, my darling, darling little Luke, I am so sorry, boy. I am so sorry I could not make you well. I did my best, but you must go now my love. Please go now. Don’t stay any longer”. “Amore”, I call, “wake up, and come and hold Luke”. She stretches and comes over. I put Luke into her arms. He is still struggling to breathe. I tell her to tell him it is OK for him to leave us now. She does. It is not long and she screams and throws Luke at me. I catch him in my arms. He has stopped breathing. He will never breathe again. Our baby is dead.

I phone the hospital and tell them that our baby is dead. “What must I do?”, I ask. “You must phone the police”, they tell me. “Because if someone dies at home, it could mean that it is a homicide”. I phone the police and tell them that our baby has died. Two police officers arrive within minutes. They call the mortuary van over the radio. The mortuary man arrives and takes Luke. He opens the back door of the mortuary van and wants to put our tiny little Luke into the back of the cavernous vehicle. “Please can’t you take him in the front with you”, I beg. “OK”, says the man, obviously seeing how distraught Amore and I are. Luke leaves and our family mourns: the staff, the children, Amore, me. For the rest of the night, I cradled Amore in my arms. Little did we know what the next day would bring.