It was the summer after my junior year in high school. Mom, Dad and I decided to take two weeks of vacation at Lake Madimape. This was a small lake nestled way back in the rolling hills and forests of Congo, far from any town. The only lights lit at night were the fires in the village on the hill across the lake, and our own lanterns. When the sun went down the stars were so bright it seemed like you could reach up and touch the Milky Way. We flew in and landed on the airstrip about a half mile from the cottages. We had no vehicles to come and go.
We were vacationing with Fremont and Sarah Regier and their family. Heidi, Chuck and I enjoyed exploring the other smaller lake nearby, seeing who could walk the furthest into the water without getting their clothes wet (I lost), taking hikes up to the big cliff we had always observed from afar, hiking down into Baboon Canyon, and having walking-stick-carving contests.
While we had brought food in with us, we also relied on local produce and the hunting skills of the local village men. They would come by our cabin with the Basenji dogs in tow, and sell us their latest catch of guinea fowl. Mom and Dad also did their best at catching fish in the lake and frying it up for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Dad had created a less time consuming, more productive way of fishing. He took a fishing line and tied hooks to it about every two feet. He put bate on each hook, and tied up the line from a tree, hanging it into the water for the night.
One Sunday morning Dad got me up early to go with him to bring in the many fish he had caught on a fishing line he had placed in the water off the shore of the other smaller lake about a quarter mile away. We took the bucket and the inner-tube and headed out on the main road toward the little lake. Soon we took a small footpath off the main road and rounded the edge of the lake. There we stopped at the foot of a tree that leaned over the water. On this tree Dad had tied the nightline.
I climbed up the tree, which was at a 45 degree angle over the water, to which the fish line was tied, and started to pull the line in, while Dad got into the inner tube in the lake, took the fish off the hooks one by one, and plopped them into the bucket.
It didn’t take long before I felt a wasp sting me on my head, then on my arms, then on my legs, and they kept coming. I ran off the tree, and Dad quickly got out of the water.
We walked quickly back up the path toward the main road, pulling stingers out of my head and arms. Wasps were caught in my long hair and under my shirt. I took my shirt off to get them out. We probably pulled out 20 stingers. We kept walking fast back to the cabin. As we were walking on the main road my arm started turning a strange pale white. This didn’t look good…
As told by Eudene:
I was busy preparing breakfast. Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted when I heard someone stumbling onto the verandah and calling in an alarming voice, “Mom, I’ve been stung by wasps.” It was Ruth.
I helped her into the house and onto her bed. At that moment I didn’t know how serious it was, but was concerned. She lay on her bed for a few minutes, and then went to the bathroom. Soon I heard a thump. I ran to find her passed out on the floor. Now my concern turned to alarm.
We carried her to her bed, and as she woke up, she said, “I just had a terrible dream that I was stung by a bunch of wasps…” She saw our faces, and our look of alarm, and said, “Oh…it wasn’t a dream, it really happened!”
By this time Levi had arrived. I sent him scurrying to get Sarah. She too was a nurse, and might have some wisdom to help me. She came right over.
“What does one do for something like this?” I asked her. She had never faced an emergency like their either, but she did have Merck’s Physicians Manual at the cottage.
We could take her nowhere. Even if we’d had a car, a bridge was out between us and the closest medical dispensary 35 miles away. There was no doctor within 150 miles.
Merck’s Manual said to give enemas and force fluids to get the poison out of the blood stream. I used a kerosene syphoning hose (used to fill the kerosene fridge) for the enemas, and gave her warm water and tea to drink. She resisted my forcing fluids. Every teaspoon of fluid she took came back up. Finally Sarah got down to look her directly in the eyes, and said, “Luta, you have to drink this tea because we WANT you to throw up! This will help to bring the poison out of your system.” Then Ruth complied.
By this time Levi, Fremont, and Pastor Poporo from the local church at Madimape village were keeping vigil on the veranda. We told the neighbors. As soon as they heard it one of the Congolese offered to ride his rickety bike the 35 miles to the dispensary in hopes of getting there in time for the two-way radio broadcast at noon which the missionaries had every day with all the stations. Also at that time our doctor could be contacted. He left immediately going as fast as his rickety bike could bear. The Congolese were concerned for Ruth. “Just three weeks ago in a village up the road a little boy had the same thing happen to him,” they said. “He fell into the lake and drowned.”
After about an hour of forced feeing and vomiting, Ruth’s face became very pale. It was so pale I couldn’t tell where her lips stopped and her skin began. Her pulse slowed down to a very slow beat. I was so desperate that I tried finding her pulse on the other side of her arm, and Ruth said weakly, “That’s the wrong side…” Then I stepped out onto the veranda and told the men, “You’d better start praying. This is serious. I can hardly find any pulse.”
When I went back into the house Sarah asked me to sit down a minute. She prayed with me. I went into the sick room a little bit, then I stepped out onto the side veranda. I stood there looking up above the tree tops at the sky. “Lord,” I prayed, “I love my daughter, but she is your child. If you want her more than I do, she is yours to do as you please. But please give me the grace to bear whatever you ask of me.
The very weak slow pulse lasted maybe 20 minutes. It seemed like hours. After three hours of vomiting and forcing fluids, she stopped vomiting and sleep came from exhaustion. The Congolese kept coming to the door asking about her.
About 2:00 p.m. we heard a motorcycle coming up the long lane. It was a young man from the mission station coming with some medicine. The man on the bike had gotten there with the message before broadcast; the doctor prescribed medicine, but said, “By now the emergency is over. She’s either better now, or didn’t make it.” People at all the stations heard the emergency broadcast and were praying for her.
As told by Ruth:
While I was in the midst of the crisis, I felt a tremendous sense of peace. I said to myself, “If this is how it feels to die, I’m ready to die. This doesn’t feel so bad…” Years later I read an account of someone who came near to death after a poisonous snake bite. He described feeling a numb almost euphoria and no fear of death. His description was very similar to how I felt at that time.
In 2012 I visited Congo, and met dear Pastor Poporo once again. I introduced him to my husband as the pastor from Madimape who sat on the front porch of our cabin and prayed with my father to save my life those 40 years ago.