Doris Hahn, June 1912 – in Purulia Leprosy Asylum, India
Already it is an unbearably hot morning. Every year I hope for the monsoons to come early – as a birthday gift to me. But there are still no signs of clouds for the past two weeks; only the dry stifling heat. For my sixtieth birthday am I gifted with conditions more oppressive than usual? Or am I simply feeling the trifles of old age?
Opening my eyes in the dark before the dawn, a dull awareness came over me of my every joint, limb and ligament. A dryness in my throat contrasted with the stream of sweat that ran down my spine. It seemed near impossible to rise and emerge from the mosquito-netted bed. Consciousness rose from somewhere within me that suggested that remaining prostrate on the bed was no longer an option. Yet in rising it seemed all my inward parts cried out in protest.
Once seated on the edge of the bed, I paused to catch a rhythm in my breath. Slowly, systematically, and sleepily I moved each limb. Extending my left leg then my right. Rotating my ankles. I would have fulfilled my morning regimend, but for the pain that cut each movement short.
Circulation seemed to reach my lower extremities. I rubbed my hands as if to press out the aches housed within the ligaments. I tried to raise my arms to stretch, but in those dark hours of the morning my hands fell to my side, hands limp on the bed.
What was this weakness coming over me?
With a sigh of resignation I gently slipped on my cotton housecoat and slipped out from under the netted canopy.
Straightening my back, I surveyed the yard of scattered beds. In the dry hot season we customarily brought all the beds out on the front yard. To sleep outside at night, hoping to catch the occasional breeze from the open heavens. The cots of the two children are next to mine. Their small bodies, typically bursting with the life of youth, now sprawl out in stillness. Maria, their mother and my daughter, remains asleep despite her persistent cough. In our feeble attempt to isolate her from us she sleeps next to a line of banana trees on the eastern edge of the yard. Her husband Paul’s bed is by the hedge at the end of the foot path that leads out from the veranda of our family home.
Suddenly Blase und Darm (bladder and bowels) are my only urgency. With limping haste I made my way through the still dark to the gusslekhanna (bathroom). Once my business was done, having lit a candle, I washed: mostly to cool my face and neck and arms. I never bother anymore to look into the mirror to straighten my hair. In passing I caught a quick glance in the candle lit room and wondered what old woman looks back at me.
A feeling of gratitude washed over me as I stepped out on the veranda skirting the bungalow. This has been my home for the past 12 years and regardless of the seasons this is my special place and favorite time. Setting the candle down on the small desk I ladled out water from the sarai (water pot) into a glass. It is the coolest and sweetest water that comes out from this clay pot. Then sitting in my wicker chair I sat quietly and took in the refreshing drink.
It is on this veranda that so much of life has passed me by, I recalled as I looked out over the yard and the community beyond its hedges. The early light of dawn now outlined the homes and dormitories of the Leprosy community. Dark figures moved about their homes carrying out their own morning rituals. I noticed the closest neighbor walking to the well. Unable to carry her water pot on her head a make-shift cart on wheels has been made for her, so that she can take care of her family duties, despite the fact that this terrible disease has deformed her hands. At least she still has her feet and can walk to the well, pull the water up from the well and deliver it home.
As with every morning, it is such sights that inspire me to take on whatever the day ahead may bring. Whenever I feel the pains of aging strike I remember those who surround me who suffer from Hansen’s disease. This disease robs these precious souls of feeling. We were created to experience pain as a protective mechanism. Without that protection they damage themselves, losing fingers, toes, noses and ears. One cannot fully appreciate pain until it is taken away. I remember this as pain becomes a constant companion to me. From those who feel no pain I learn that one must somehow adapt. It is a daily humbling to simply keep on going.
I sip my water and look out over the yard, the walkway stretching out from the veranda and to the hedges on the yard’s edge. The chaukidar (night watchman), a strong young man who has just recently been attacked with the disease, stands from where he was squatting next to Paul’s bed. Noticing that I have now started my day he bows his salutation and returns to his own home. The bed is empty. That is why the chaukidar feels it is important to stand watch near by the house. I have no reason to be concerned, there is no thieving in the community and we rarely see any wild life. Still he has taken it upon himself to watch over the Sahib’s family when the Sahib is out of town. It is reassuring to know that there is someone ready to respond incase sickness or some other danger visits in the night.
I am sad that Paul’s cot is empty. Since my husband died, two years ago, I have found a great pillar of strength in my son-in-law. He now manages the Assylum and, as I am able, I assist. Paul has been gone a couple of days to Calcutta. There he will receive a shipment of medicines. A shipment of Antileprol had been sent from the London Mission the Lepers. It was the latest pure preparation of Chaulmoogra Oil. We were in great hopes that it will prove to be a less painful treatment from the mixture we use locally. Nothing cures this dreadful disease but we are grateful something is available to slow down the degeneration.
He also hopes to make travel arrangements. It has been painfully clear that Marie needs to go back to Germany to be treated for Tuberculosis. A plan has taken shape to settle her in a Sanatorium in the Harz Mountains. I am to return with her and care for the children. At least that is the plan. I have many misgivings about it. How can I leave our work? I carry on what my husband and I have established over the past forty years. India is my home even though Germany is my Fatherland. But it matters not where this shell of a life stays on this earth. My whole life has been lived for the Heavenly Home we have been promised. We do what we can to establish it here on earth as it is in heaven, knowing full well that in the end there is nothing here for us. When our work is done we go on to our true home.
But it is not really where I find my home that is bothering me. I believe I have learned to be content wherever I am. Right now my concern is about the travel itself. How could I possibly survive the trip? And having done so, do I have strength in me care for these lively boys. Wouldn’t I be more useful here assisting Paul, who will be left alone with no family? Am I of any use anymore here? For the past few weeks, it seems as if life is slowly being sucked from me. How can I possibly manage?
Before the others wake. I close my eyes and fold my hands to pray. I am accustomed, especially in the heat, not to have any words come to mind. Still the time is spent silently calling upon the presence of God and to offer up my heart heavy with the concerns that mount up around me and beyond me.
A modest breeze stirs me. Turning to my morning reading, I pick up the Licht und Leben (Light and Life: Evangelical Weekly). The reading for today’s meditation is a poem. How I do love poetry. How remarkable! It fits with my frame of mind this morning:
What is the greatest art in the world?
With a glad heart to grow old!
To rest, where you want to create,
Not to mention where you are in the right.
To hope where there is despair.
To be obediently silent in carrying your burden,
To envy others, to see the godly go spry.
Where once you were helpful,
Now it is made clear in humility,
That you endure weakness…
The art is never fully completed.
There remains still some hard struggle,
Waged in the aging days,
Until you balance your steaming heart,
And willingly give up bargaining
In quiet humility, to be nothing……
Sigh. I lean back in my favorite large wicker chair. In the stifling heat, expectant for another breeze and look to the sky for a hint of a cloud. Truly I was restless. Lately more than ever before I feel weak and useless. I cannot seem to muster the energy to get even this morning started. Of what use will I be if I too now become ill? Then for sure I will be nothing.
Reading on:
Then God has by grace given us the art
Saving the best work,
You can encourage other hands,
You can fold yours without end,
Drawing down louder heaven’s blessings
On all of your life paths.
And then the final and persistent assurance:
Come - You are mine,
Even in this, I will not leave you!
A
Already it is an unbearably hot morning. Every year I hope for the monsoons to come early – as a birthday gift to me. But there are still no signs of clouds for the past two weeks; only the dry stifling heat. For my sixtieth birthday am I gifted with conditions more oppressive than usual? Or am I simply feeling the trifles of old age?
Opening my eyes in the dark before the dawn, a dull awareness came over me of my every joint, limb and ligament. A dryness in my throat contrasted with the stream of sweat that ran down my spine. It seemed near impossible to rise and emerge from the mosquito-netted bed. Consciousness rose from somewhere within me that suggested that remaining prostrate on the bed was no longer an option. Yet in rising it seemed all my inward parts cried out in protest.
Once seated on the edge of the bed, I paused to catch a rhythm in my breath. Slowly, systematically, and sleepily I moved each limb. Extending my left leg then my right. Rotating my ankles. I would have fulfilled my morning regimend, but for the pain that cut each movement short.
Circulation seemed to reach my lower extremities. I rubbed my hands as if to press out the aches housed within the ligaments. I tried to raise my arms to stretch, but in those dark hours of the morning my hands fell to my side, hands limp on the bed.
What was this weakness coming over me?
With a sigh of resignation I gently slipped on my cotton housecoat and slipped out from under the netted canopy.
Straightening my back, I surveyed the yard of scattered beds. In the dry hot season we customarily brought all the beds out on the front yard. To sleep outside at night, hoping to catch the occasional breeze from the open heavens. The cots of the two children are next to mine. Their small bodies, typically bursting with the life of youth, now sprawl out in stillness. Maria, their mother and my daughter, remains asleep despite her persistent cough. In our feeble attempt to isolate her from us she sleeps next to a line of banana trees on the eastern edge of the yard. Her husband Paul’s bed is by the hedge at the end of the foot path that leads out from the veranda of our family home.
Suddenly Blase und Darm (bladder and bowels) are my only urgency. With limping haste I made my way through the still dark to the gusslekhanna (bathroom). Once my business was done, having lit a candle, I washed: mostly to cool my face and neck and arms. I never bother anymore to look into the mirror to straighten my hair. In passing I caught a quick glance in the candle lit room and wondered what old woman looks back at me.
A feeling of gratitude washed over me as I stepped out on the veranda skirting the bungalow. This has been my home for the past 12 years and regardless of the seasons this is my special place and favorite time. Setting the candle down on the small desk I ladled out water from the sarai (water pot) into a glass. It is the coolest and sweetest water that comes out from this clay pot. Then sitting in my wicker chair I sat quietly and took in the refreshing drink.
It is on this veranda that so much of life has passed me by, I recalled as I looked out over the yard and the community beyond its hedges. The early light of dawn now outlined the homes and dormitories of the Leprosy community. Dark figures moved about their homes carrying out their own morning rituals. I noticed the closest neighbor walking to the well. Unable to carry her water pot on her head a make-shift cart on wheels has been made for her, so that she can take care of her family duties, despite the fact that this terrible disease has deformed her hands. At least she still has her feet and can walk to the well, pull the water up from the well and deliver it home.
As with every morning, it is such sights that inspire me to take on whatever the day ahead may bring. Whenever I feel the pains of aging strike I remember those who surround me who suffer from Hansen’s disease. This disease robs these precious souls of feeling. We were created to experience pain as a protective mechanism. Without that protection they damage themselves, losing fingers, toes, noses and ears. One cannot fully appreciate pain until it is taken away. I remember this as pain becomes a constant companion to me. From those who feel no pain I learn that one must somehow adapt. It is a daily humbling to simply keep on going.
I sip my water and look out over the yard, the walkway stretching out from the veranda and to the hedges on the yard’s edge. The chaukidar (night watchman), a strong young man who has just recently been attacked with the disease, stands from where he was squatting next to Paul’s bed. Noticing that I have now started my day he bows his salutation and returns to his own home. The bed is empty. That is why the chaukidar feels it is important to stand watch near by the house. I have no reason to be concerned, there is no thieving in the community and we rarely see any wild life. Still he has taken it upon himself to watch over the Sahib’s family when the Sahib is out of town. It is reassuring to know that there is someone ready to respond incase sickness or some other danger visits in the night.
I am sad that Paul’s cot is empty. Since my husband died, two years ago, I have found a great pillar of strength in my son-in-law. He now manages the Assylum and, as I am able, I assist. Paul has been gone a couple of days to Calcutta. There he will receive a shipment of medicines. A shipment of Antileprol had been sent from the London Mission the Lepers. It was the latest pure preparation of Chaulmoogra Oil. We were in great hopes that it will prove to be a less painful treatment from the mixture we use locally. Nothing cures this dreadful disease but we are grateful something is available to slow down the degeneration.
He also hopes to make travel arrangements. It has been painfully clear that Marie needs to go back to Germany to be treated for Tuberculosis. A plan has taken shape to settle her in a Sanatorium in the Harz Mountains. I am to return with her and care for the children. At least that is the plan. I have many misgivings about it. How can I leave our work? I carry on what my husband and I have established over the past forty years. India is my home even though Germany is my Fatherland. But it matters not where this shell of a life stays on this earth. My whole life has been lived for the Heavenly Home we have been promised. We do what we can to establish it here on earth as it is in heaven, knowing full well that in the end there is nothing here for us. When our work is done we go on to our true home.
But it is not really where I find my home that is bothering me. I believe I have learned to be content wherever I am. Right now my concern is about the travel itself. How could I possibly survive the trip? And having done so, do I have strength in me care for these lively boys. Wouldn’t I be more useful here assisting Paul, who will be left alone with no family? Am I of any use anymore here? For the past few weeks, it seems as if life is slowly being sucked from me. How can I possibly manage?
Before the others wake. I close my eyes and fold my hands to pray. I am accustomed, especially in the heat, not to have any words come to mind. Still the time is spent silently calling upon the presence of God and to offer up my heart heavy with the concerns that mount up around me and beyond me.
A modest breeze stirs me. Turning to my morning reading, I pick up the Licht und Leben (Light and Life: Evangelical Weekly). The reading for today’s meditation is a poem. How I do love poetry. How remarkable! It fits with my frame of mind this morning:
What is the greatest art in the world?
With a glad heart to grow old!
To rest, where you want to create,
Not to mention where you are in the right.
To hope where there is despair.
To be obediently silent in carrying your burden,
To envy others, to see the godly go spry.
Where once you were helpful,
Now it is made clear in humility,
That you endure weakness…
The art is never fully completed.
There remains still some hard struggle,
Waged in the aging days,
Until you balance your steaming heart,
And willingly give up bargaining
In quiet humility, to be nothing……
Sigh. I lean back in my favorite large wicker chair. In the stifling heat, expectant for another breeze and look to the sky for a hint of a cloud. Truly I was restless. Lately more than ever before I feel weak and useless. I cannot seem to muster the energy to get even this morning started. Of what use will I be if I too now become ill? Then for sure I will be nothing.
Reading on:
Then God has by grace given us the art
Saving the best work,
You can encourage other hands,
You can fold yours without end,
Drawing down louder heaven’s blessings
On all of your life paths.
And then the final and persistent assurance:
Come - You are mine,
Even in this, I will not leave you!
A