On my way to the third day of the net distribution in Saraya, I heard from Dr. Ndiaye that one of his patients had malaria. He told me this because I mentioned never having seen malaria “up close” despite working on the issue. The disease didn’t have a face or name for me – but no longer. Malaria to me, now and probably forever, is a 12 year-old boy named Famory.

By the time I reached the clinic, 12-year-old Famory was already in a coma. It wasn’t a “Hollywood” coma where the person looks like they’re in a peaceful sleep. Famory was lying on a dingy gurney, facing the wall with his eyes wide open. He was shaking violently and straining for breath. There was an intravenous (IV) in his right arm that gave him solution for hydration. (The health clinic didn’t have malaria medicine, or running water and electricity.)

On the bed across the room sat Famory’s Arabic teacher’s wife with her head in her hands. (Famory’s family couldn’t make the long trip from near the border of Guinea to Saraya so Famory’s Arabic teacher and wife brought him to the nearest health clinic.) The teacher prayed on a mat outside. Both looked tired and distressed. They traveled days to get to the clinic after first taking Famory to a spiritual healer.

I started conversation with the Arabic teacher (Dr. Ndiaye translated) because I wanted to know more about Famory’s condition. He told me Famory woke up the night before to a dream someone was bashing his skull in. The teacher interpreted the dream to mean it was Famory’s “time to go.” And most likely, the headache was a sign the disease reached his brain.

Owen, my 9 month-old son, instantly came to mind, and I felt sick at the thought of how Famory’s loved ones were feeling. I rubbed Famory’s arm. His shoulder bones poked through his worn red polo shirt. His blue shorts crumpled around his skinny frame. His big brown eyes remained glazed over and fixed on the wall.

We all wanted to help Famory but I wasn’t sure what was possible. Ultimately, we helped the teacher arrange for Famory to get more medical attention, which included transportation to and medicine at the nearest regional health center in Tambacounda, six hours away. Famory had a chance.

The next day was hard. While driving 13 hours back to Dakar, my thoughts were with Famory. Would he make it? Dr. Ndiaye emailed that Famory was transported to Tambacounda hospital and admitted to the recovery unit there. I was hopeful.

Over the next six days, Dr. Ndiaye and I continued to exchange emails. As the days went on, it seemed Famory hit a plateau. Until finally, on Thursday, January 21^st, I received the email that Famory had died the night before.

Back at the office, this disease I talk about everyday now has faces and names. Malaria is Famory in a bed fighting for his breath. It is a father saying goodbye to his son. It is a teacher feeling helpless. It is pain, fear, heartbreak. Malaria isn’t a statistic; it’s a tragedy.

Please share Famory’s story and remember that a $10 bed net could have saved his life. Your $10 donation will help save another child from malaria. Thank you.

In later emails with Dr. Ndiaye, I learned our efforts also helped buy medicine for another boy at the Tambacounda hospital. This time, the boy survived his fight.

Tags: Famory, Jeff Smith, personal stories, Senegal, Twitter Nets

Tags: Famory, Jeff Smith, personal stories, Senegal, Twitter Nets
Categories:On-The-Ground