Just Listen

This post deals with suicide. If you need help, please call the national suicide hotline: 1-800-273-TALK [8255].

Note: All identifying details have been changed.

When she switched from Nepali to broken English, I knew it was because she didn’t want to be overheard. I’d been sitting on the dirt floor of her one-room house for four hours, doing a home visit. We’d discussed everything from which gods she worshipped every day to her favorite songs.

Before me was such a talented young girl, with the precious combination of ambition and selflessness. We had talked for at least an hour about her desire to be a nurse, to help those in rural communities who could not afford to travel to a big city to receive health care. Her eyes had sparkled when we talked about the healthcare system and the requirements to become a nurse (11th and 12th grade are done in a specialized nursing program, with no university education required). I had shared my plans for a first-aid training at the school in conjunction with the local army base and asked her to be a student leader that day.

“I’m getting married next month,” she whispered.

“Is he supportive of your dreams?” I asked. “Will he let you continue your schooling?” The way we had talked about her desire to become a nurse, the glow she had about her as she discussed her future, made that the first question I asked.

She didn’t know who her future husband was. Her father had apparently arranged everything but wouldn’t reveal the name or details of her fiancé. She would spend the weeks preceding the wedding guessing and analyzing every man she saw, wondering if she was walking by her fiancé.

After our visit, I saw very little of her. Her attendance at school dropped significantly, and when I went by her house, she was never there, because she was working in the field. I ran into her one other time, by chance, at the tap where we were both carrying drinking water back to our homes. I asked her if she had a minute to catch up. We sat down there talking for only a few minutes before a woman came rushing over and told her there was a medical emergency. The three of us took off running towards to the woman’s house, where an old woman was lying on the ground shaking.

In such a remote village, the closest person to a medical profession was a young girl with an interest in nursing. The house was crowded with people surrounding the old woman. I didn’t enter. Looking through the window, I watched as my student took over, calling out for a glass of water and examining the old woman. I watched the scene unfold through the window for twenty minutes. There was nothing I could do; I’m not a trained medical personnel; there was no cell service to call for emergency services (or really any emergency services to respond). I watched my student unroll a bed mat to sleep next to the old woman that night. I turned to leave; it was late and I had to walk home on a narrow path. It was the last I saw of her.

I hear she committed suicide a few weeks ago, around the time she found out who her husband was going to be, a few weeks before her wedding.

She, and most of the girls I work with, was a profoundly good listener. If given the opportunity, she would’ve made an incredible nurse and been able to help many people. I still can’t believe the inequalities in this world; that stars so bright are burning out so quickly.

If you need help, please call the national suicide hotline: 1-800-273-TALK [8255].