During an Ebola epidemic, there was a nurse who took care of the sick and dying. Ebola kills 9 out of every 10 people infected. Infection is almost too easy, with a very messy onset: one dies with innards juiced and leaking out of every orifice in pus and blood.
The nurse could have left while she was still healthy. Yet, having had Ebola up to her knees and elbows, she thought how unlikely that she might not already be infected, and merely was in the incubation period of the disease. Hence she decided to spend what is left of her time on Earth in service. She held the dying, cleaned and buried their remains, did her job. She served until the last villager died and was buried.
Then she prepared for her own death. She set clean covers for her bed, put on her cleanest outfit and laid down in waiting.
It just didn't come. She laid there for days, and Ebola just ignored her.
I'm sure that the nurse had her precautions against the disease. But what are the chances that she could be the only one to survive when the entire village caught the disease?
I hold on to this story when I have to touch anyone skin to skin and take in as much of their pain until it hurts me. I hold on to this story when I concentrate all my intentions in wishing a loved one better in everything.
That disease chooses it targets. And when the time comes, no back up plan or immunisation shot can keep it at bay. Whereas when it is not time yet, no matter how deep you delve in Ebola county, no matter how bloody you retch after a massage, ain't nothing will kill ya.
Because, as the old war veterans used to say, every bullet is made with its target's name on it, as every germ has its designated host. And, as much precautions as we can take, it is only against our own feelings and thoughts that we have the better chance to win at a fight.
