You're my sugarplum, honeybunch, pumpyumpyumpkin

I never really thought that I would have any inkling of the pain a mother goes through when she loses a child at such a young age.  And without even having birthed a baby.  Who would have thought that the biggest loss of my twenty years would be a three year old Indian girl with cerebral palsy? 

On Wednesday, May 14, around 6:30 pm, Kajol, mera baccha, died.  Sister tells me that she was fine most of the day, but around 5:30 pm she began to have convulsions.  Sister gave her an injection and got in the ambulance with her to go to the hospital.  She died on the way.  Sister says that she died peacefully with her mouth open just slightly as if she were about to say something.

Thursdays, the homes are closed, so I didn't go to Shishu Bhavan.  Friday, I walked into my floor and immediately Ashapriya, one of the older mentally handicapped girls, takes me by the hand and takes me over to one of the posters on the wall with pictures of all the kids.  She points to Kajol and I nod and smile.  She then makes a motion with her hands as if she's shooing someone away.  My immediate thoughts are that she's been moved to another home, which happens often.  Cabita, one of the teachers, walks up to me and says, "She's dead."  WHAT?!  Maybe she's joking.  She could just be joking.  Why would she joke about something like that?  But, still, maybe she's joking.  It's possible, right?  The Indians sometimes have a weird sense of humor... "Really?"  "Yes, on Wednesday."  "Oh."

You want to convince yourself that it's for the best.  She's with God.  No more pain.  No more convulsions.  He is holding her right now, as she should be held.  But you're human.  You're selfish.  Why can't it be me holding her?  Why did you take her from me?  Your arms are empty.  You sing to her.  You know she can hear you.  That puts a little of what was ripped from your heart back.  But still your arms are empty. 

But as a good friend of mine said to me, "Don't cry.  You'll only hurt her more." 

The first few hours were a bit hard, but the more I think about it, the more that I know it's for the best.  That knowledge slowly makes its way from my brain to my heart and it doesn't sting quite as much.  His arms are far more comforting than mine are.  And besides, I'll have another chance to hold her.  It's not over.  The love will always be there.

You're my sugarplum, honeybunch, pumpyumpkin. You're my sweetie pie.  You're my cuppycake, gumdrop, schnoogumsboogums.  You're the apple of my eye.  And I love you so and I want you to know that I'll always be right here.  And I love to sing sweet songs to you because you are so dear.

Sundery, Sundery, I love you. Sundery, Sundery, yes I do...

It has been a long day.

I did not go to the volunteer breakfast this morning, as a Sudder St. friend of mine was teaching me how to make his delicious Nepali Chutney.  I went straight to Shishu Bhavan from there and got there a little bit early, just as the masys were beginning to arrive.  As I was sitting on the bench outside my kids'  floor, one of the masys, the one I respect the most, came to me and said, "Sundery dead." and made the sign of the cross.  I didn't really hit me at first, but as soon as it did, I rushed over to the volunteer breakfast area to see one of the other volunteers who I  knew was particularly attached to her.  She wasn't there, so I just went back to Shishu Bhavan and got started with the kids.
It was really hard to see the way the masys walked around in a daze all morning, and heartbreaking to see the one masy who knew her best and took care of her most begin to cry as she stood in front of the empty bed.
The woman who died, Sundery, was 39 years old and had been at Shishu Bhavan all of her life.  She was severely deformed, and rarely ever left her bed.  She could not speak, but could smile, cry, and show other forms of emotion.  She was beautiful.
This is one of the reasons why I get so upset when people criticize the way the Missionaries work.  The MCs worked hard to keep Sundery alive and well and allowed her to live much longer than she should have.  Despite the fact that she could not move or talk, Sundery was able to bring joy into the lives of millions of Sisters, masys, volunteers, and visitors with just her smile.  Her life could have been wasted, but it was not.  
I know that she was in a lot of pain and that God is taking care of her now, but it was so hard to sit there feeding baby Khajol with that empty bed in front of me.  
Please, everyone, keep her in your thoughts and prayers.  And remember always that a smile can mean a lot to a person.