New Zealand has its first Ebola scare. A returned healthcare worker is currently being tested to rule out Ebola. The patient has recently been in Sierra Leone as part of NZ’s response to the international response to nightmarish Virus.
With that in mind…
The day is over, and you are driving home from work listening to Life FM. You hear a blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a virus that has never been seen before. Three or four people are dead, and it’s kind of interesting, and they’re sending some doctors over there to investigate it. You don’t think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it’s not three people, 10,000 villagers died in the back hills of India, and it’s headline news that night.
Specialists are heading there from the disease centre because this disease strain has never been seen before. By Monday morning when you get up it’s not just India; it’s Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you’re hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it simply as “The Virus”. John Key has made some comment that he is hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is wondering, “How are we going to contain it?”
That’s when the Prime Minister of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe. He’s closing the borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen. And that’s why that night you are watching a bit of telly before going to bed. You watch dumbfounded as as a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: “There’s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the Virus”. It has come to Europe, and panic strikes. As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don’t know it. Then you have 3 days of unbelievable pain and then you die.
Britain closes its borders, but it’s too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North Hampton, and it’s Tuesday morning when John Key makes the following announcement: “Due to a national security risk, all flights in and out of New Zealand have been cancelled. If your loved ones are overseas, I’m sorry. They cannot come back until a cure can be found.”
Within four days our nation has been plunged into unbelievable fear. People are selling little masks for your face. People are talking about what would happen if it comes to New Zealand… everyone is praying.
It’s Wednesday night and you are at the church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the car park shouting, “It’s here! It’s come here! Two women are lying in Middlemore hospital dying from The Virus!”
Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country. People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, Whangarei… It’s as though it’s just sweeping in from all sides, and everyone is being infected.
And then, all of a sudden the news comes out. Against all odds Auckland’s top-biohazard specialists break The Virus genome code. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It’s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn’t been infected, and so, sure enough, all through Aotearoa, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: “Go to the nearest hospital and have your blood type taken. That’s all we ask of you. And when you hear the sirens go off in your neighbourhood, please make you’re way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals.”
Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they’ve got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and 4 year old son is with you, and the nurses take your blood type and they say, “Wait here in the car park and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home.”
You stand around scared with your neighbours, wondering what in the world is going on, and if this is the end of the world. Suddenly, a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He’s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, “Daddy, that’s me.”
Before you know it, they grab your boy. “Wait a minute, hold it!” And they say, “It’s okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn’t have the disease. We think he has got the right type.”
Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another – and say, “Thank you sir. Your son’s blood type is perfect. It’s clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine.”
As the word begins to spread all across that car park full of people, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the grey-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, “May we see you for a moment? We didn’t realise that the donor would be a minor and we need… we need you to sign a consent form.”
You begin to sign and then you see that the number of litres of blood to be taken is empty. “How… how much blood do you need from my son?”
And that is when the old doctor’s smile fades and he says, “We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren’t prepared. We need it all!”
“You don’t understand? We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We – we need it all – we need it all!”
“But can’t you give him a transfusion?”
“If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign please? Your son’s life will save billions!”
In numb silence you do. Then they say, “Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?”
Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where your son sits on a table saying, “Daddy? Mummy? What’s going on?”
Can you take his hands and say, “Son, your mummy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn’t just have to be. Do you understand that?”
And when that old doctor comes back in and says, “I’m sorry, we’ve – we’ve got to get started. People all over the world are dying.” Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, “Dad? Mom? Dad? I don’t want to die! Why are you leaving me? Why – why are you forsaking me?”
The next week, there is a ceremony to honour your son. Some people sleep through it. Some people don’t come because they go to the beach, or the rugby instead. And some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care. The day becomes an annual holiday, but your son’s death is obscured by 25% off sales and 2 for 1 deals.
Would you want to jump up and say, “MY SON DIED FOR YOU! DON’T YOU CARE?” Is that what you want to say? “MY SON DIED FOR YOU. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?”
Kiwified by Symon Drake from web-article (original author unknown)