"Hello, Doctor; come quickly. The patient in room 15 is not well."

I breathe deeply and close my eyes. All I need is a sound, undisturbed sleep after having been on duty for two days and two nights. I've seen more than 200 patients in the past 48 hours, and tomorrow I'll be on duty again.

My head is empty; my body is numb from fatigue; the telephone falls from my hand before the caller finishes. Sleep... sleep... sleep is the only thing I can concentrate on.

Still, the demands are relentless: "Hello, Doctor; come quickly... Hello, Doctor... Hello..."

Robotically I put on my white coat. In my head there is one sentence playing again and again like a broken record: "You are the man in white in this place of soiled linen..." Where have I heard that before? I have no idea. My brain is burned out.

Yes, death, here we are again. I think as I attend to another patient. You want to win. I've fought you many times. But God will have the last word, not you.

Last night it was a young mother; at 3:00 a.m. it was a little boy. Their eyes looked to me with confidence. I wanted to scream. All I could see was the word AIDS piercing my brain. I don't wear God's mantle. I'm less than the little finger on His mighty hand. Still, I fight sin, darkness, and the devil.

I seem to have forgotten the ones who walked through the hospital door wrapped in joy, their bodies restored to health. I did wonder about their souls, but only for a moment. I had to run to attend to others. I still wish I knew the answers. But how do I heal the unhealable? How do I reach the unreachable?

I learn to be humble; to work instead of sleep, to pray instead of cry. These lessons my teachers could not teach me in medical school. I have to find my own answers to the eternal questions: Why? Why me? Why now?

And so I run down the corridor to Room 15. "Here I am, my friend." Without you saying a word I understand the question in your eyes: Why me? My children are still young. My task is far from finished. Why is it now, Lord, why?

I hold your hand. I give you an injection to soothe your pain. But I want to cry. Oh, Lord, I'm losing a friend. Yet the man in white is not supposed to cry; not for a friend, not for the misery all around. They don't want my tears or my feelings. Only my skill, my brain, my sleep, my life!

Lord, did You see our friend? Lord, did You hear? He moved his lips. He whispered, "Let me go," Lord, did You hear? He is Your friend. I have to pack my heart in steel so that it won't break.

So many hundreds I have seen whose life drained fast away. But this was my friend Lord; I can't go on. Please help me keep going.

I have to face another day: to fight, to cheer, to lose, to win a race that never seems to end. No time for sleep, no time for dreams of sand and sea and beauty. They–my patients, my colleagues–did not see my heart break last night. I've quickly put it back in its encasement, before anyone could see my eyes misty with tears.

Oh, Lord, how do You bear the misery of this world? How do You heal? The fragment "We have to pray to comfort God" rings in my ear. Is that true, Lord? Does my prayer console You as it comforts me?

So hear my prayer then: Here am I, Lord. Help me make it through another day. My task is with the ones who live.

The telephone rings again. I have to go. My task is with the ones who live.

– Verena Jaggi, a tribute to her husband, the medical doctor. Verena is a teacher, medical technical assistant and secretary at Malamulo Hospital, Malawi. [Published in the Adventist Review, July 9, 1998.]

Dear Friends,

Eunice and I have also served at Malamulo Hospital, but that was long before 35% of the adult population were infected with HIV.

The next time I feel over-worked or under-appreciated I plan to remember this story. Maybe you would wish to do likewise.

Love,

Bob and Eunice