June 26, 2018July 6, 2020 Amy

Nana

Honduras

I watched a woman die today.

A few weeks ago…

Both children were upstairs in bed taking their afternoon nap and I was settling down in the comfy sofa with a cup of tea and a new book when we heard a loud commotion outside our door. Someone was simultaneously ringing the doorbell and banging on the window yelling: « Dona Amy, auxilio! Dona Amy! »

I ran to the door to find the empleada (maid) from next door looking very worried: « Es Nana, no esta bien, venga, rapido! »

I called out to D to follow me with the cell phones and quickly ran across the street into the house next door. Poor Nana lay of the sofa, her mouth open, her breath slow but steady, her skin greyer than usual. She did not respond to her name and seemed half asleep.

The two empleadas were running around in circles not knowing what to do. Their two young children were weeping loudly, big wet tears brimming on their scared and confused little faces. I noticed some smelling salts, a baby bottle filled with milk and an onion sliced in two laying on the table near the patient…

I immediately switched into adrenaline mode.

I first tried to ring the main private hospital in the city, only to be told that their ambulance service was presently out of order. I then called the local Red Cross and was put on hold; in an emergency, for an ambulance! The third number I tried, another hospital, heard my cry for help and unceremoniously hung up the phone.

We took turns trying to reach Nana’s daughter Lo, the duena of the home but her phone line was busy. I check Nana’s vitals for breathing and pulse, she was getting weaker and fainter. S and F, the empleadas children (Nana’s surrogate grandchildren) were helplessly walking around in shock. I worry they should not be seeing this and over their loud sobs, I suggest they watch some TV.

“Let’s drive her to the hospital!” the women plead. D and I look at each other: my basic first aid training tells me not to move an unstable patient. I also wonder how would we transport her in our car with the car seats, and our children sleeping upstairs?

I want to ask about the sliced onion and baby milk bottle  as I watch Ly trying to fan Nana vigorously with a piece of paper then attempt to shake her awake. I gently suggest that we lay Nana down again on the sofa.

I notice that Nana’s breath has turned raspy as her eyes are staring blankly. Time seems to slow down. It’s hard to think straight.

Today…

In retrospect, I wish I had simply spoken to her, held her hand while she slipped away. Made her feel safe.

Nana had recently turned 94 years old. In a country where the average life expectancy is 73 years (World Bank, 2015.) She lived a good life. She was lucid, happy and healthy up until the very end.

Eight months ago…

Nana was one of my first real friends here in Honduras. Every afternoon she would sit on her beaten up sofa in the shade of the open garage across the street from our house. The pickings were slim in the little gated community we called home, but I was lucky to meet her. At first, she would speak Spanish with T and ask to hold baby B in her arms. Then she invited me for coffee and a chat. Soon, she started to tell me stories about her childhood growing up in Honduras. I appreciated this narrative of Honduras in the forties and fifties. My daily chats with Nana were a good distraction for my lonely days home alone with the children. Especially so when we were homebound during several weeks of political unrest which led to an early curfew.

Nana told me stories of her father who was a doctor in the small rural village where she grew up. He would often be asked to travel by horse to visit his patients. Even in the middle of the night, there was always a horse ready in the stables. She remembers lying awake waiting to hear the pitter-patter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones pavement under her window. Only then, once her father was home safe and sound, could she relax and fall asleep.

Nana spoke perfect Spanish, English and French which she learnt whilst at boarding school in Guatemala- her father having sent her away for a better education. She went on to become a primary school teacher and principal of her own little one room school house. Being a teacher myself, we often exchanged anecdotes about the classroom and smiled in fond memory. We also agreed how important a good education and proper manners are no matter your culture of background. Nana paid special attention to the maid’s young daughter S, encouraging her to learn how to read, write, count and color from a young age. She would sit outside and patiently play tea time or make believe with her for hours on end.

Nana’s husband worked for the United Fruit Company, and oversaw the banana plantations. From what I understood, he was a middle man for the aforementioned American company which set up shop on the coast of Honduras growing and exporting bananas to the north (hence the name “Banana Republic.”) Together they had two sons and a daughter and lived in a self-contained village which included a store, health clinic and an English school for the children of the plantation workers. Nana told me she once rode the banana boat all the way to NYC with her youngest daughter. What a sight they must have made floating by the statue of liberty on a pile of bananas! What a contrast it must have been leaving little Honduras for the bright lights of the Big Apple… on a banana boat!

Today Nana lives with her adult daughter Lo, a live-in maid Ly and her young daughter S. Rapidly, the eclectic household across the way came to love T and B. The feeling was mutual. T being only two years old and lacking the concept of propriety, would often run out the front door, stroll across the street and let himself in without even a second glance a at the doorbell. After a few minutes of frantic searching, I usually found him in the living room, sitting comfortably beside Nana on the sofa as they watched TV together. Both inside and outside of the home is filled to the brim with furniture, religious icons and decorations. T’s favourite is a mini mecedora or child size rocking chair made from the trees on the land of her family home in La Ceiba. La Ceiba meaning the name of a tree with particularly strong wood in Spanish, this chair was made to last. Once, in the midst of a particularly strenuous toilet training episode, T ran outside naked, with only his t-shirt on. He proceeded to showed off his bare bum to Nana and S. This was met with first shock and then laughter as T continued to gyrate and fondle his privates to all and sunder. Although Nana would mix things up and get confused at times during her storytelling. To my deep embarrassment, that particular dance of Ts was one episode she did not forget! She gleefully told -and retold- the story to any passerby willing to listen. “Remember the time when T came outside with no pants on….!”

A couple of weeks ago we celebrated T third birthday with a traditional piñata party. The theme was ocean animals: we had an octopus veggie platter, Goldfish, mini beach Jello cups, a lifesaver cake and a whale piñata. From little B, all the way to Nana, everyone took a turn whacking at the whale shape filled with sugary candy. I have a video of 93-year-old Nana hitting the piñata with a stick forcefully as hungry children crouch below, ready to pounce on the candy as it falls to the ground.

Today..

After what seemed like hours, a beat-up van screeches to a halt at the curb. Out rush a family friend and her husband – they offer to drive Nana to hospital. We still cannot reach her daughter by phone. I search her bedroom for a purse. Carefully, my husband and another man carry Nana out to the waiting car. Her body is limp and unresponsive. Her eyes open but glazed over.

She is pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital.

I frantically search through a hand-written telephone book in search of family members names and numbers we can contact. I rustle through drawers in Nana’s bedroom looking for ID which they will need to present at the morgue. L finally calls us back. No one wants to break the awful news to her over the phone…

I am glad I met Nana and appreciate the moments we spent together. Hers was a life well lived: rich in adventure and empathy up until the very end.

She so loved the chocolate cake that I baked for T’s third birthday party that I promised to make her one just for her. I lovingly baked her a chocolate cake and topped it with red cream cheese icing. We shared it with the ladies from church group who meet at her house every Thursday. She devoured her piece surrounded by friends and family who loved her.

She passed away the following Saturday.

Nana welcomed me into her home and made the transition of moving to Honduras a little easier. I still expect her to walk out the front door and sit on the old sofa waiting for the children to come play as she tells me another story from her colorful past.