He doesn't wear a cape.
He wears a baseball cap that used to be blue, I think. He wears a long-sleeved shirt that is thin and faded, as he appears to be himself. But it is washed and his navy slacks are also worn, but somehow spotless, as if immune to the dust they swung through on the way. He wears shiny leather shoes.
He mentioned in passing, answering another question, that his leg was sore. Just in passing, so it wasn't a big deal. But we were waiting around for the bus to take the families home from a group meeting, so to be polite I asked about it. I asked, if it wasn't embarrassing, could I see the leg?
He shrugged. He lifted the hem of his trousers, scrunching them up to his knee. I grit my teeth.
I asked him to wait. I went to the clinic and gathered some things. Through a translator we spoke to each other gently. He came and sat on the low rock wall where the clothes are washed, where the faucet gingerly rises from the dirt and the earth slopes towards a drain at the base of the compound wall. He is a very brave man. I know this because he did not flinch or cry out as I carefully pulled away the dead tissue, as I scraped the pus and the scabs from his wound, digging out the strip of cloth bound around his calf. His leg was swollen to over twice the size of the other. It was hot and red and festering. The infection had opened a gaping hole and I knew there was little I could do with first aid to help it. I asked him if he had ever changed the makeshift bandage, grown over now, which I was extracting from his shin.
He explained that he had children who were not infected with HIV, as he was, and he was afraid that if he changed or cleaned his wound, there would be blood, and he would expose them to the virus. To protect his children he had sacrificed his own health and comfort. I knew this was nothing new to him. He works nearly 24 hours a day, a toll visible in his wan face and the dark circles around his eyes. He is a guard. So for 20 hours a day, he must stand on that leg. Walk and patrol on that leg. Hide any trace of pain or malady lest he get fired for the state of that leg. He had suffered like that for many weeks. He does this because he must.
Some time ago, his wife- six months pregnant at the time- was at work collecting garbage at the large open air market, when she was attacked. A metal cart was thrown forcefully at her, tearing through her abdomen. She lost the baby. She very, very nearly lost her life. She still may. She recovers now at home- a structure made of boxes, metal scraps, and blue plastic tarp- and is unable to leave bed. Even if she lives it will be a long time before she can return to work. So her needs and those of their children depend on this father keeping that job- walking and standing without fail on that leg, day after day, without showing his pain. And day after day, he does it.
I did the best I could. I showed him how to clean his wound with water and disinfectant, how to bandage it with sterile dressings. We explained how to change and clean it so that his children would be safe. And then, which was difficult because I know his situation at home, I had to tell him that though I am not a doctor, I was fairly certain he would lose that leg if it wasn't treated by one very soon. He is a kind man. He is a calm man. He just nodded and thanked us and took his bundle of supplies. When he walked away I cleaned up the blood and the gauze and things and I thought about fortitude. I thought of him working hard, working though pain, working in the face of very little hope for anything but a long life of work and pain; doing it for love of his family. No one knows this man. He lives in a shanty in the middle of a city slum. He doesn't wear a cape. But if you ever want to know a real, true hero, I know where to find him.
**Updated to add: AFC has ensured that this gentleman is receiving medical care, are are trying to help him find another job which will be less painful. He participates in a community outreach program through the AFC organization.
He wears a baseball cap that used to be blue, I think. He wears a long-sleeved shirt that is thin and faded, as he appears to be himself. But it is washed and his navy slacks are also worn, but somehow spotless, as if immune to the dust they swung through on the way. He wears shiny leather shoes.
He mentioned in passing, answering another question, that his leg was sore. Just in passing, so it wasn't a big deal. But we were waiting around for the bus to take the families home from a group meeting, so to be polite I asked about it. I asked, if it wasn't embarrassing, could I see the leg?
He shrugged. He lifted the hem of his trousers, scrunching them up to his knee. I grit my teeth.
I asked him to wait. I went to the clinic and gathered some things. Through a translator we spoke to each other gently. He came and sat on the low rock wall where the clothes are washed, where the faucet gingerly rises from the dirt and the earth slopes towards a drain at the base of the compound wall. He is a very brave man. I know this because he did not flinch or cry out as I carefully pulled away the dead tissue, as I scraped the pus and the scabs from his wound, digging out the strip of cloth bound around his calf. His leg was swollen to over twice the size of the other. It was hot and red and festering. The infection had opened a gaping hole and I knew there was little I could do with first aid to help it. I asked him if he had ever changed the makeshift bandage, grown over now, which I was extracting from his shin.
He explained that he had children who were not infected with HIV, as he was, and he was afraid that if he changed or cleaned his wound, there would be blood, and he would expose them to the virus. To protect his children he had sacrificed his own health and comfort. I knew this was nothing new to him. He works nearly 24 hours a day, a toll visible in his wan face and the dark circles around his eyes. He is a guard. So for 20 hours a day, he must stand on that leg. Walk and patrol on that leg. Hide any trace of pain or malady lest he get fired for the state of that leg. He had suffered like that for many weeks. He does this because he must.
Some time ago, his wife- six months pregnant at the time- was at work collecting garbage at the large open air market, when she was attacked. A metal cart was thrown forcefully at her, tearing through her abdomen. She lost the baby. She very, very nearly lost her life. She still may. She recovers now at home- a structure made of boxes, metal scraps, and blue plastic tarp- and is unable to leave bed. Even if she lives it will be a long time before she can return to work. So her needs and those of their children depend on this father keeping that job- walking and standing without fail on that leg, day after day, without showing his pain. And day after day, he does it.
I did the best I could. I showed him how to clean his wound with water and disinfectant, how to bandage it with sterile dressings. We explained how to change and clean it so that his children would be safe. And then, which was difficult because I know his situation at home, I had to tell him that though I am not a doctor, I was fairly certain he would lose that leg if it wasn't treated by one very soon. He is a kind man. He is a calm man. He just nodded and thanked us and took his bundle of supplies. When he walked away I cleaned up the blood and the gauze and things and I thought about fortitude. I thought of him working hard, working though pain, working in the face of very little hope for anything but a long life of work and pain; doing it for love of his family. No one knows this man. He lives in a shanty in the middle of a city slum. He doesn't wear a cape. But if you ever want to know a real, true hero, I know where to find him.
**Updated to add: AFC has ensured that this gentleman is receiving medical care, are are trying to help him find another job which will be less painful. He participates in a community outreach program through the AFC organization.
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