Yesterday, I was having a shitty day that seemed to keep
getting worse. I left work early because it was too frustrating to be in the
office. Feeling a bit emotional, I resisted the urge to drink at three in the
afternoon. After a good cry, I resolved to attend a circuits class to get out
some pent up restless energy.
Totally unmotivated to go workout, I somehow managed to
convince 2 friends to join me so I wouldn't back out. After the warm up, I'm
feeling the endorphins running through my veins and I'm starting to feel
better; happy with my decision to stay sober and have a productive outlet.
For those who’ve never done circuits training, but it can be
a bit intense. It's not uncommon for people to stop and rest while others
continue on. So no one took extra notice when an older man sat down in the
corner for rest. He was laying down on a push cart with his arms splayed to the
side. A few people periodically checked up on him and then hopped back in the
training circuit.
A few more minutes passed and people stayed by his side
longer than normal. A small crowd grew around him. His face turned a ghostly
white. His hands locked up in a claw position.
He started convulsing. His breathing stopped...
The rest of us were remotely aware that something terrible
was happening in the far dark corner, but we couldn't really see. He was
wheeled out of the corner. Not handicap accessible, he couldn't be rolled out
of the gym. In the doorway, someone started giving him CPR. Panic started to
escalate as the seconds tick by and reality of the severity of the situation
sunk in. He was still not breathing.
People frantically tried to locate emergency numbers to call
an ambulance. A few people try to counter the naive Western assumption that an
ambulance would come in a timely manner. A few of us gently urged to take him
immediately to hospital instead of waiting. The idea was rejected for fear of
stopping CPR would do more damage.
The air being forced into his lunges gurgled out, as if
rejected by his body. Someone took off his sneakers to help circulation.
After several calls, an ambulance was dispatched. His chest
heaved from the chest compressions. Finally, consensus was reached that it was
better to take him to the hospital in a private car rather than wait for an
ambulance that has been known to take up to 3 hours to arrive. The group
continued to move with haste, but whispers had already infiltrated their
thoughts. It was too late. He was already dead.
They lifted the pushcart and carried him to a pickup truck,
where they continued to do CPR. They sped off into the night.
As I stood staring at his forgotten sneakers strewn on the
cold pavement, I could hear the shrill ambulance siren in the distance.
When people ask me what is the hardest thing about living in
Ethiopia, my answer is not expected food-related answer. Instead, I find that
the hardest thing about living in Ethiopia is being constantly faced with your
own mortality.
It’s too hard to accept the fragility of our existence; our
solace lies in the routine of our expectations. Only when something shakes us
from this monotony, can we see how quickly misfortune can happen; how quickly
we can lose everything. But humans are incredibly resilient. Our coping mechanisms are quick to suppress
the revelation, as it disrupts our comforting concept of reality.
