Red spots. All over her legs. Petechiae . . . internal bleeding . . . leukemia? A clotting disorder? Hemorrhagic dengue? My thoughts raced as I inspected Safi’s legs. My face showed no alarm—a skill I developed as an emergency room nurse. Zara’s reaction, however, was one of a mother, worried for her daughter.

“What? What are these spots? What does it mean, Carly?”

I tried not to worry her with excessive information, but I said that it could either be from a viral infection or something more serious. We decided to wait a day or two and see if it resolved or progressed (a conservative measure chosen for a variety of reasons I won’t list here).

A couple of days later, Safi showed multiple large bruises on her body and bleeding from her gums and nose. I took her right away to a clinic to get blood tests. After a simple blood draw, she developed a golf ball-sized hematoma at the injection site despite applying pressure. There was clearly something wrong. The results showed severely low platelets, among other critical values. We got back to my house where Eric was watching her other three children playing with ours. I applied an ice pack to her arm to try to stop the bleeding.

I texted a few doctors to get some advice. It was quickly decided that she needed to go to a children’s hospital in Siem Reap, six hours away. The best for blood disorders. The most caring and dedicated of the hospitals. We had half an hour to get Zara and Safi in a taxi. 

Earlier that week (before any of this happened), I had asked on a Facebook community page for second-hand clothes for Zara’s children, who were always dressed in raggedy, ill-fitting, stained clothing. I got an amazing response. Most of the donors sent their parcels to my cousin in Phnom Penh who collected them to send to me as one package. One donor sent her donation directly to me via a delivery service. Some generous people even sent money to help her. God knew that the money and one package of clothes would be needed earlier than the rest of the donations.

Zara ripped open the package and quickly found something Safi could wear. “Here, put this on,” she told her daughter, helping her step out of her ripped and stained dress. After quickly throwing together some belongings, we were standing on the road to hail a taxi. Zara was wearing high heels because her regular shoes were broken. Rain drizzled on us while we watched the road. Finally, a van stopped and after negotiating the price, off they went to Siem Reap.

Thankfully, an Adventist Cambodian friend in Siem Reap agreed to receive her and take her to the hospital. His wife even cooked food for them for the time they were there.

Throughout this stressful time, I kept reminding Zara that God was with her. God was near her. God had a plan. God was going before her. She kept saying over and over, “Thank you so much for your help, and thanks to God for showing Himself to me.” 

Over the course of several weeks, I spent many hours coordinating, researching and communicating to try to get Safi the best medical care. The problem was that Zara’s family was not all on board with these plans. After being received promptly at the hospital in Siem Reap, Zara’s mother-in-law and husband forbade her from letting Safi get the tests she needed to diagnose her condition. This was unspeakably frustrating as I helplessly watched. Safi was in and out of hospitals for weeks, receiving blood transfusions and medications. Finally, the week of Thanksgiving, she was rushed into Phnom Penh’s government hospital with a severe headache. 

The day after Thanksgiving, I decided to drive Selah and myself to Phnom Penh to be with Zara. Things were looking bleak for Safi, and Zara felt so alone. When I woke up in the morning to pack up, I got a gut-wrenching message from Zara. Safi was already dead.

Eric and I left our Thanksgiving weekend guests with the Lewis family and drove our family two hours to the funeral. There is something so wrong about seeing a tiny lifeless body that should be running and jumping with childlike joy. I couldn’t believe this was the same Safi who had just been playing with my kids happily with no symptoms of sickness. I braided Safi’s sisters’ hair as I always did on our visits. They had greasy, tangly and unkempt hair from having to look after themselves at grandma’s house while Zara was in the hospital with Safi.

Zara was crumpled up. Sitting up took all the energy she could muster. She was trying her hardest to be stoic. It’s forbidden in Islam to cry during the burial ceremony, and women are prohibited from being at the graveside for the burial—even of their own children. Zara held my hand for much of the funeral. Her other children huddled close to her, confused and sad that their sister was gone. 

The funeral consisted of some religious rituals. The men did their prayers while the women stood at a distance. There were no tender reflections on Safi’s short life or flowers to decorate the grave. It was quick, efficient and quiet, as Great River funerals are. After the burial, visitors were saying their goodbyes and leaving. “Stay a little longer?” Zara asked me quietly, the fear of being alone with her new reality written all over her face. We stayed late into the evening. “It feels hard to breathe,” she described to me. “Like there’s something heavy on my chest.”

It’s been hard walking this painful road with Zara. She was already suffering before her daughter got sick, and losing Safi was another crushing blow. She has resigned herself that, “This is Allah’s will.” 

Zara is no longer in my village, but I keep in touch with her via voice messaging. Even though we had relatively little time together before she moved, we share a closer bond than I have had with any other Great River friend. I pray that I can be a good friend and that God will use these painful trials to draw Zara close to His heart.

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