The boy had recurrent fever and was confined at the local doctor's clinic, but the relatives took him out of the clinic to bring him to an albularyo. By the time he was properly diagnosed, it was too late.
I don't know the child or his parents, but for a moment, I felt anger. It's not a very rural place, almost everyone has cable TV and therefore would have a passing knowledge of what dengue fever is, and how dangerous it could be. They have access to medical professionals at the town proper, one jeepney ride away. The family is not destitute either.
But how could you not know that there is something very wrong with a child whose fever keeps coming back, and who is so pale his limbs look bloodless? How could you not understand it is serious when he passes blood in his stool? How could you think that he might still be afflicted by some engkanto or maligno?
They say the mother blames herself. I am sorry. I have no wish to find fault or add to the anguish. I guess it's the mother in me that reacts strongly to the story of how he died. I would move heaven and earth to keep my children with me. And my mother's heart breaks a little for the loss, for all that the child could have been, for the missed chance to have him well and laughing again.
And call me paranoid, but by the time we have rested, my husband and I scoured the neighborhood stores to look for insect repellent lotion. I lathered the kids, then we spent the night in his sister's house, which had screens on the door and windows.
That damned mosquito might still be flying around.
