This post is about a colleague and a friend, whom I'll call Salman.
Yesterday Salman had to bury his wife and their newborn child. Women dying in childbirth, although I know a far too common occurrence in many parts of the world, are not something I have ever had to give much thought to. Until two days ago, I had no concept of the desperate worry some face with the arrival of a baby. Not the kind of first world worry about becoming parents, but worry that rather than creating a life, you may be about to lose one.
The first I knew of any serious problems was a week ago, when Salman came in to work looking terrible. After he struggled through an office meeting holding his head in his hands and looking misty-eyed, I finally asked him what was wrong. He told me he was suffering from high blood pressure and migraines brought on by stress. His heavily pregnant wife was suffering complications and had been scheduled for a C-section the following week. I gave him some of my migraine tablets and tried to calm his nerves. I said this time next week he'd be a dad. I couldn't really understand why he seemed so worried.
Later, I mentioned to another colleague that I was concerned about Salman's health. He said immediately, "well I expect he's worrying about how he'll pay for his wife's operation." My naive NHS-accustomed self was surprised by this: "Really? How much will it cost?!" Of course, the cost would depend on how good the hospital was. Naturally. Because richer women need better caesareans than poor women. I made some enquiries and found out it would cost the equivalent of about 150-200 UK pounds at a decent enough hospital. At About 2 months salary for Salman, it wasn't surprising he was worried. I suggested to a few of my better-off colleagues that if we clubbed together we could easily help him with that money. I just wanted to put his mind at ease. As I handed over the cash, I felt that awful smug benefactor's satisfaction that now his worries were over.
A bit about Salman, because I'm sorry to say I never knew his wife, Shazia. I've got to know him quite well whilst doing some investigation work together. He is without question the kindest and gentlest person I've met in Lahore. Which is strange because he is also a convicted murderer and spent nearly 15 years on death row. He told me once that he was wrongly convicted, although I never asked, and it would make no difference to me either way. If a person is a sum of their acts, then Salman has proved himself to me.
He is the kind of person who would do anything to help anyone. When, during our work, we have frequently come in to contact with people who cannot afford to eat, he always reaches in his own pocket, even though, I know, he has next to nothing. For me, going out and about in Lahore on appointments could be a risky business if I wasn't with a colleague I could trust. Recently, we left one appointment to find that the car that was meant to drive me back to the office had disappeared. It's dangerous for me to stand around in the street or get in a rickshaw on my own. Although Salman had his motorbike and another important meeting to get to, he abandoned his plans, without complaint, and rode his bike alongside me in the rickshaw all the way to the office, not leaving its side, no matter how crazy the traffic got. Most importantly, when I leave here, Salman is the person at the office who I know I can rely on to feed my stray cat, Isis, just because I've asked him to.
On Monday Salman was giddy with excitement and nerves. On Tuesday he went off work. He told me the plan was to be at the hospital on Tuesday, with the operation scheduled for Wednesday. By Thursday I hadn't heard anything, but I'm only a colleague after all, so I just assumed he was busy enjoying his new family. If only.
Piecing things together now, it seems that Shazia had got scared - scared of the operation, the needles, the hospital - so they did not go to the hospital on Tuesday or Wednesday as planned but Thursday instead. By this time her blood pressure was already through the roof and her health very fragile. She had a panic attack before they could begin the surgery. The panic attack brought on a heart attack, which she survived. The hospital attempted to get her to another hospital that had the expertise to deal with the precarious situation. Only, the ambulance meant for her got stuck in traffic and never arrived. They had no choice but to rush her into theatre for the operation. She suffered a second heart attack and haemorrhaging that neither she nor their baby survived.
Shazia had waited for Salman for 15 years whilst he was in prison. His life has certainly been tough; it doesn't get much tougher than the torture and suffering that accompanies a death sentence in Pakistan. I imagine Shazia's life was tough too - she was poor after all. They had not been on speaking terms with her family for years, due to his lengthy prison term and her decision to stand by him. He has almost no family alive making them, very unusually for Pakistan, a unit of only two (and almost three).
Before we went to the funeral yesterday, some of the people in the office recounted their experiences of childbirth gone wrong. All of the poorer people spoke of someone in their lives/extended families who had died in childbirth and even some of the richer ones too. Although upsetting for everyone, this grave turn of events was nowhere near as shocking as it should have been.
Would they have lived in a better hospital? Would they have lived if they'd not delayed? It does no good for me to comment now on the quality of their medical care. I am no doctor or nurse and I do not really know what happened that day. It does no good to suppose that, had they been British, things would have turned out differently.
Pakistan holds many firsts for me. I don't think I've ever seen a grown man break down and weep uncontrollably from grief. When I saw Salman yesterday, I wanted to say something to bring solace, but of course I could not do that. You are left with only platitudes. I hope that Salman will find some comfort in his God. I will not try to write something meaningful here; I have nothing to write. I will have to turn to Dylan Thomas for that, and for my comfort:
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.
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