Ian examined him and then told him he’d see him before the surgery. He stood, smiled briefly at Pasteur, and then put out his hand. Pasteur rose slowly and shook it with both hands.
“Thank you!” Pasteur burst out in heavily accented English as Ian walked toward the door.
Ian stopped in the doorway and turned back to look at Pasteur.
Pasteur smiled broadly and added, again in English, “God bless you!”
Ian smiled back briefly, gave a quick nod, pivoted to turn down the hall, and disappeared.
“You know some English?” I asked Pasteur as we started walking out of the clinic.
He stopped, smiled softly, and shrugged. “Goood mor-neeeng!” he said. He raised his hands in front of him. “Good morneeng, my brozzers and seestersssss!” He laughed softly.
I laughed with him. Then I heard Ian’s deep voice in my mind—This is a huge case—and stopped laughing.
We began walking through the hospital to get to the parking lot.
“What is meant by a big surgery?” Pasteur asked me as we walked.
I was glad it was starting to sink in. Based on his questions about lasers and scars, I feared I had not adequately prepared him for what lay ahead. I had never really known how much Janel understood about what was going on or whether he had truly wanted all of the medical treatment he received. It had weighed heavily on me. But here was a chance to try to do things better.
“Well, it’s big for many reasons,” I began. “A surgery on your thumb would be small: a small reason for it, a small incision, a quick surgery.”
“Yes, it’s just a little finger,” he said.
“Right. But because this surgery goes into your head around your brain, it is big. Because it will take many hours, it is big. Because it will have a big scar, it is big. And because the recovery is long, it will be big.” My limited Creole forced me to speak simply, but maybe that was for the best.
He looked at me silently for a few moments and then shrugged. “E ben, Dye konnen,” he said (“Well, God knows”), with no more emotion than if I had told him it might rain tomorrow.
“Are you scared?” Although I had asked him this earlier that morning, I thought he understood everything more clearly now and I wanted to see how he felt.
“No, I’m not scared, no!” he said with the same intonation and facial expression as a few hours earlier. “Do you know the story of Isaac?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“God asked his father to sacrifice him,” Pasteur explained.
“Ah, Isaac, yes, sorry,” I said. Pasteur’s Creole pronunciation had sounded more like “Ee-zak” as opposed to “I-saac.” “Actually, I think maybe I do know that story.” Somewhere out there in the universe, I imagined my second grade Sunday school teacher smiling. “Isaac and Jacob, right?”
“No, not Jacob, Abraham!” he corrected me.
The Sunday school teacher somewhere out there in the ether shook her head and frowned with disappointment.
“God asked Abraham to sacrifice his own son to test his faith,” he began, “but when they arrived to do it, God produced a ram!” His voice had risen with excitement. “A ram! Bondye ka fè tou bagay!” he exclaimed joyfully. (“God can do anything!”)
A few people walking by us in the hospital turned to look at us, the man with the bulging right eye passionately speaking in Creole to the young doctor walking beside him. Pasteur saw that he had attracted attention by speaking louder than the normal hospital din. More softly, with reverence and seriousness, he repeated, “Bondye ka fè tou bagay.”
“So why did you think of this story when I asked if you were scared about the surgery?” I asked him.
“Because it shows God can do anything!” he said with quiet confidence, pointing one finger upward. He grinned.
We reached my car and got in. “I admire your courage,” I said, before starting the car. “But it’s important to understand it’s a big surgery. A big brain surgery. It has risks. We hope it will help you, but it could also cause new problems for you. We don’t know.” I thought of Janel’s vacant, wide-eyed stare and tried to suppress a shudder. “I want to make sure you understand.”
“Dye konnen . . .” he said, trailing off and looking away, nodding slowly. (“God knows.”)
I started the car and began driving.
“Glwa a letenel!” he said with quiet passion. (“Glory to the eternal one!”)
“Are you going to rest this weekend before the surgery?” I asked him.
“On Sunday Joseph is taking us to his church,” Pasteur said.
“Nice,” I replied. I wondered if I should ask if I could join him. I was curious to see this community that had welcomed and supported a complete stranger. And curious to witness what sounded like very high-energy church services, based on what I had heard in Haiti. There’s a church across the street from the staff house in Mirebalais. Lively music, resounding sermons reaching a feverish pitch, and emphatic call-and-response often wafted into our windows late into the night.
“What do you think about me coming with you?” I asked. I felt a little guilty that it was a request made out of curiosity rather than a religiously motivated one. I didn’t want to offend him.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. “All are welcome!!”
“You know, I’m not Christian, so . . .” I began.
“Of course I know!” he said. “Aaron, the brother of Moses! It’s a Jewish name!”
“True,” I said and laughed, “but I’m not really—”
“I want everyone in the church to meet my doctor!” he said enthusiastically.
I laughed again. “I’m just a small member of a big team, Pasteur.”
“God bless this team!” he intoned joyfully, raising his fists in front of him.
* * *
One by one, they emerged from Joseph’s apartment building into the bright summer morning. Joseph led the way at a bouncing pace in a slightly too big black suit, white shirt, and red tie. Pasteur ambled behind in a gray checkered suit, light purple shirt embroidered with tiny purple diamond shapes, and a purple and black tie, carrying his Bible in a small leather case. Dorotie followed him in a black dress patterned with a red and green floral print around the neck and sleeves, her hair pulled back tightly with a barrette adorned with a large black flower.
I exchanged kisses on each cheek with Dorotie and shook hands with Joseph and Pasteur. Pasteur’s handshake was gentle and welcoming, his hand slightly pudgy. I smiled at him. Then I heard Ian’s voice in my head: This is a huge case. Pasteur and Dorotie looked so happy to be going to church, but I couldn’t help feeling a certain sadness and trepidation. What if Pasteur’s case turned out to be a long drawn-out saga like Janel’s? No, I tried to reassure myself as we got into Joseph’s car, he was starting from a much better place than Janel. Still, that meant he had further to fall. I hoped he would make it out of this unscathed.
As we entered the church, I felt like I had walked through a secret portal directly into Haiti. Everyone inside was Haitian, speaking in Creole. Women wore broad-brimmed church hats with various combinations of fancy buckles, sequins, and lace. Older men wore oversize somber dark suits and dull primary-colored ties that dangled below their waists. Younger men wore tight gray or white suits, brightly colored shirts, and fashionable patterned ties. A band composed of organ, guitar, bass, and drums was tuning their instruments. Joseph excitedly introduced me to people as we took our place in one of the front pews.