Collision and Diversion

Christmas Eve, Ann Arbor

The view out my window today is much different than it was last Thursday – 90 degrees and blue, sunny skies have been replaced by grey haze and a rain-snow mix. Precisely, I would say, the type of weather that helped cement my decision to fly South! It is difficult to believe, sitting here recovering from the Christmas festivities involving friends and family, that the same sun which barely appears in Michigan these days, fills the landscape with heat and intense light just a few hours' plane ride away. The dust and sweat and clamor and life of Haiti do inhabit the same planet as the cold, bustling shopping centers and carefully planned neighborhoods in Ann Arbor.

The weeks before my visit home were spent focusing intensely on the tasks of the moment, my mind straining to remain present to the children and the duties at hand. I could not let my mind slip into the mode of preparation for home – it would be too easy to lose perspective. Living the life of a missionary, I feel that we all reach a point of saturation – the ability to absorb or take in any more of the experience becomes clouded or even impossible, and the need to be away from the intensity of Haiti presented itself at the beginning of December. So it became a great testing point for me, evaluating the readiness and knowledge of the nurses at the clinic, letting go and trusting their decision-making and clinical skills, and talking through what we have accomplished in the four months I have been with them. We had a staff meeting, at which I was able to list the massive tasks they have completed so far, and where we discussed the status of the clinic and our plans for the coming year. They continue to remain excited about how far we have come, and are fervent in their determination to continue improving their skills and knowledge. I am truly amazed at the blessing they have been to the children and to me, working so patiently and listening attentively to my ideas, laughing as I have learned their language and adjust to their cultural practices. (Black hair is not an option for me, I keep telling them. I think they will keep demanding that I give it a try! And I will also continue to decline their offer of enhancements to my posterior!) Yes, there are many days and moments we find ourselves frustrated with the differences we see in our practice and understanding. But they continue to compliment me in the midst of our discussions. What a joy to know that they now feel empowered and validated, and that they know their opinions and experience are respected!

A huge challenge was presented to us these last few weeks. A newly diagnosed Type 1 diabetic came to live at St. Louis on December 1^st. We had very little time to prepare for her arrival, and we scoured the few resources available to us to find medication and testing supplies for her. She was poorly managed during her months of hospitalization, and we scrambled to find additional resources for planning her care. The nurses have very little experience with diabetes, and to be burdened with this disease in Haiti is a massive blow. One of the American long-term volunteers calls it a terminal disease here. It became a goal of mine to have her well-controlled by the time of my departure, as I wanted her to be stable and for the nurses to gain an understanding of diabetes management before I would leave them! There were many sleepless nights for yours truly, during which my mind churned with questions and anxieties about how this fragile girl would be managed in a difficult enviroment. But, as usually seems to happen, huge amounts of grace and protection were our companions as we negotiated the weeks. An endocrinologist from Akron Children's Hospital became our expert resource, the right kind of insulin was located and purchased, a donated glucometer with matching test strips (a RARE find!!) to last through my return to the country was given, and we were able to establish protocols for her care. With the assistance of Peggy, our fabulous Haitian American volunteer teacher, I translated my first instructions from English to Creole, and was able to teach the nurses the basics of blood glucose management. The most difficult part of the entire adventure has been the fact that our patient is 12 years old and is very good at being her age! But there is great hope for her. She is adjusting to an entirely new way of life, with stability and discipline, consistency and truth in love. She is learning how to trust, a formidable task for a girl who was literally tossed from family to family as a child slave before a kind acquaintance finally brought her to the hospital for care. When I start to become frustrated or feel my patience dissipating, I take a breath and remember that many of the children in my care have faced traumas and abuses beyond description. I study their eyes and feel their heads buried into my waist as they hug me tightly. And I remember the struggle we all face – whether American, Haitian or global citizen – we all long to be loved. What a great honor it is to be able to demonstrate and give tangible access to love, for 200 of my little brothers and sisters, and in turn, I pray, effect even more lives in the process. Not to my gain, but to the glory of the God who has gifted us all with this chance. May we not let it pass us by.

In the midst of the cloudiness of December, as the impressiveness of the Haitian experience threatened to overwhelm me, I was graced with two wonderful visitors who brought refreshment and light at just the right time. Rachel and Erin, both former volunteers who survived the collapse of the hospital in Petionville during the earthquake, came to visit and work for several days. Rachel has almost completed her Physical Therapy training and spent time with the therapists at St. Luc Hospital. Erin is now in Medical School and tacked a trip to Haiti onto the end of a week serving in the Dominican Republic. Dani and I were encouraged by Rachel's energy, laughter, and excitement. Erin's visit came just as Dani left for the States and loneliness threatened to invade, so it was a great gift to spend time with other women my age who share my passion for this work. It is a huge encouragement to be with others who “get” the experience. With other volunteers, there is an unspoken understanding of the challenge and culture which is a massive comfort. It is just plain fun to share our experiences and learn from each other, hearing other perspectives and being reminded that we are not alone. I am blessed to have two new friends who are beacons of humor and hope.

The fam, Christmas Eve 2011

Since my arrival home, there has been very little “down time!” First task of the first day was a much-needed haircut! Then the parade of friendly visits began, and the hustle and bustle of Christmas was upon me. I was glad to arrive home when I did, missing the ridiculous commercialization and marketing season. (We turned on Christmas music in Haiti and had a Christmas movie marathon to remind ourselves that it was coming. We made snowflakes and hung Christmas lights, but it still doesn't hit you when the temperature is in the 90's and there is no snow to be found). I attended Christmas Eve mass with the new English words, my sisters joined the choir for the evening, we had mimosas and mom's fabulous Christmas quiche, and we played Killer Uno with the cousins. I have ventured out to the stores twice so far, both times returning home overheated and near-panic stricken at the sheer amount of STUFF we have – and have seen many friends. It is hard not to compartmentalize my life just a bit, because the world of Haiti seems so far away from my parents' comfortable living room, and it is easy to just hop in the car and go grab take-out or meet friends for drinks at the restaurant down the street. I struggle to sleep in my own comfortable bed with layers of warm blankets, because the room is so quiet! A hot shower in the morning is standard procedure, and grabbing clean laundry from the dryer is done without a thought. Large, multi-room houses with indoor plumbing populate quiet, residential streets, and the highways an busy roads are governed by clearly marked lanes and strictly-enforced regulations. Wearing socks and shoes/boots is trying and uncomfortable. Having ready-made food and a huge refrigerator accessible, and knowing that whatever is on the menu at the restaurant is most definitely available, are things too easily taken for granted. It seems that too quickly I will be back in a world where all of this is foreign, where a car is a massive luxury, where every day's mass is a funeral, where dessert is not a regular part of the meal, where one can never presume that water from the tap is safe to drink, where a hair dryer is completely unnecessary, where Starbucks and McDonald's do not exist, where electricity is likely to be had for only a few hours a day, where television does not rule the schedule, where one-on-one conversation is the regular mode of communication, where people are more important than things, where a cold glass of water is treasured by its recipient for hours. Somehow these two worlds are part of the same one. Somehow it is possible to exist in both.

Beautiful People

Beautiful, as defined by www.dictionary.com:

“Having qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about; delighting the senses or mind. Excellent of its kind. Wonderful.”

I just missed seeing Kim Kardashian today. Yes, seriously. The reality star and a group of other Hollywood-considered "beautiful people" were at our volunteer tents this morning, about to embark on their whirlwind tour of the projects of Artists for Peace and Justice. APJ was started by Paul Haggis, famous for writing and directing Crash, among other accomplishments. The organization has funded and built a school which is currently located right next to the Angels of Light program and is run by St. Luc. (St. Luc is another organization directed by Fr. Rick here in Haiti). APJ has worked closely with Fr. Rick, and Paul was here last month with a contingent of Canadian celebrities to officially open the school. I was impressed to see that a Hollywood personality has returned to Haiti and demonstrates a commitment to the country. More on this later. It is a crazy collision of worlds, to see someone whose name is credited with moving the movie industry, just sitting in the tent where I eat every day, friendly and “normal.”

This morning, as I slowly woke up after an extremely draining 11-day stretch at work, my roommate Dani came running into the house telling me excitedly that a number of “beautiful men are outside!” I hurriedly dressed and washed up, feeling even less attractive knowing what I was apparently walking into, then listened to her footsteps rushing back into the house, as she started trembling and said, “Forget the men – Kim Kardashian is out there! She is about to go use our porta-potty bathroom!” As we looked in disbelief at the People magazine with her on the cover, we talked of the strange intersection of such an elite and superficial world with the reality of Haiti. Unfortunately, by the time I walked out to the volunteer area, the group was long-gone and I was left to wonder if it had really happened.

I have lamented of late that since Haiti is hardly in the current headlines now, those who are not living the life here are easily swayed by the media and are engrossed in the newest subject. Initial excitement and pledges are deserted, and the lack of evidence of big change is off-putting to the culture of immediate gratification from which we come. We were visited by Friends of the Orphans employees last week, and in an impromptu interview I had the chance to describe the changes I have seen, the opportunities that are being offered to so many children (800 at current count, through the Angels of Light Program) and the countless lives that these outreaches will affect. And, economies and challenges being as they are, the question of funding and the long-term existence of programs like this comes up often in conversation and planning. Sadly, bringing about significant change after 200 years of corruption and bloodshed will not happen overnight. I am happy to report that in the year and a half between my visits to Haiti, I was amazed upon my return at the amount of reconstruction and development that has occurred. The sheer number of programs and outreaches commenced at NPH and its sister organizations is just one example. I wish that the reports transmitted from here would reach the airwaves in the States. Instead of chaos and violence, I would love to see the cause of change and hope broadcast.

As I sat with the children last Saturday, during Fet Paran, (the visitors' day at FWAL), I thought about how truly beautiful they are. It has struck me many times that the joy emanating from faces I see cause the lights of Hollywood and the huge movie premieres to pale in comparison. The spectrum of emotions I witness and experience each day are beyond the ability of any director or cast to capture. Because they are real. The tears that descend the face of our newest resident, orphaned and just two days out of the hospital where she has lived for the past several months – these are evidence of pain no camera can possibly convey. The change which enters her face at the gentle caress of the nurse who holds her tightly – and the continued swelling of her eyes as they fill again and again. The permanent grasp of my hands by the children with no one to visit them – the stroking of my arms and the placing of my hands over their shoulders. The stirring of my heart as I sit with them and have the privilege of being their family for the few months I am here – the love I feel when I am asked for by name, when I am trusted by these precious souls and pulled back to the table to sit for just a few more minutes. The laughter that erupts as the girls see me mouthing the same words they sing to Justin Beiber's anthem. The smile that refuses to leave a little face, even as the tears threaten to return. The children look past my eyes and seem to read my thoughts, and we sit just holding each other with no words needed. I am so honored to experience this radiance. This is true beauty.

The superficial world of American media and the actors who attach themselves to the cause of the hour, the gossip magazines and sites dedicated to drowning the public in the pool of unnecessary information – these are not real. The men who travel to the general hospital morgue every week, sort through the pile of bodies and offer a final act of service by burying them with dignified ceremony. My roommate Dani, who manages a massive warehouse of donations and purchases, organizing materials day in and day out, and who generously reaches out to the abandoned children every evening. Madame Rose, who enthusiastically directs 200 youngsters as they attend our Kindergarten program and greets me with gusto every morning. Sr. Judy, who has been here in Haiti for nearly 10 years and serves the poorest of the poor with a firm but compassionate hand. Fr. Rick, who works tirelessly (seriously – I don't know when the guy sleeps) and has a huge heart for those with no hope. The intense planning Joanne has undertaken, to ensure that Christmas will be festive for the 183 children in her charge.The former residents of the NPH orphanages, who have returned to live with, mentor and nurture their younger brothers and sisters, speaking from experience which no others can possibly understand. The artists who see through the fog of their elite world and travel to the culture where we all stand equally. The children who ask when I will return to be with them, who thank me with responses like, “God bless you, Brigitte.” The little toddlers who run to me and try to pronounce my name so carefully. The bright eyes that sear through artificiality and beg for honesty. The boys and girls who place their heads under my hands and hold my waist. The sound of the newborn babies as they emerge into the world from the shelter of their mothers' wombs. The sound of my name as I am recognized. These are real. These are tangible. These impressions last. Lives are changed. These are beautiful.

A Different Birthday

 

I officially hit my “mid”- decade birthday on Wednesday. Even though it does not have the “butterflies in my tummy” feeling of my early years, I still look amazed at my computer or phone or calendar when it actually states the date. I laughed when Facebook so helpfully told me, “today is your birthday.” As if I would forget. This was a different experience than in any of my past years. In Haiti, births and deaths are not recorded. Even the birth certificates we have for a few of the children in our charge have dates on them that may or may not be accurate. A date is chosen, and the children rarely know their ages, let alone their birthdates. So it was strange to experience the difference here. It was a normal workday, but I dressed up a bit and wore my hair down. Imagine the reaction I got – the driver stopping in the middle of the road and yelling his compliments out the window of the truck, the nurses and doctor raving about my appearance. The nurses telling me not to work, but to just sit and relax. Sitting with the children eating their mid-morning extra meal, helping the little ones handle the big spoon and hearing little Samstern say, “Bridget, I love you a lot!” as we sat together. What better gift than this? The pangs of missing home and friends have been searing through my heart. But before bed Tuesday night, I read from a book written by a missionary much younger than me, and was able to identify with every word on the page. It is a contradiction, this life. The agony and dirt and poverty and squalor, the joy and love and relationships and simplicity. Moments hit that I want to disappear, to catch the plane flying overhead, to retreat and sit and babble and process and digest and think away from the intensity of this life. But yet I know I am exactly where I should be, living and loving and serving and learning and teaching and listening and absorbing more than I ever thought possible.

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook. I still consider it a kind of alternate reality, and find it a bit disturbing when people must make things “Facebook official.” I was grateful to receive the many Happy Birthday messages, but still missed the personal interactions of the day. I have realized that for me, my birthday is much more about hearing from those important to me, knowing that I am remembered and loved. No big material gifts were given to me this year, but the entire population of St. Louis sang to me in Creole and Spanish. My supervisor gave me a piece of painted Haitian art. My roommate gave me a great coffee mug and some silly slippers. We went to dinner at a nice restaurant, where I am now known as the one who must have at least three dinner choices, because choice #1 (and #2 and maybe even #3) will not be available that evening. I missed speaking with my American friends and will relish the chance to relax and speak freely when it is given. But the gift of this experience, of over 200 new friends, of re-learning total dependence of God for the completion of each day, of sitting and talking and holding the abandoned babies,watching them explore the grass and admiring my roommate for her dedication to them, of watching Fr. Rick as he annoints a body so reverently, of observing the lines of new mothers and beautiful babies coming for their newborn check-ups, of the little girl from the school program as she races toward me on the street and runs into my arms, chanting my name. My heart grows ever deeper, and the gift of such depth is a painful yet beautiful mystery in which I am honored to participate.

Maxuel

 

He is a tall, thin, gangly boy, all arms and legs, easily distracted and clumsy. His legs dance as he stands in line for school. He loves to yell and laugh, but when upset or confused, he retreats within himself and becomes dissociated, entering a separate world where he stares at untold memories. He has a massive smile which shows all of the painful cavities in his mouth. When his eyes meet mine each day, he leaps toward me and runs to embrace me, calling my name, burying his head into my chest when we meet. He holds tightly to me as I caress his head and ask about his day, then ever-so-sweetly asks for a glass of cold water after stumbling through his answers to my questions. His thoughts come too quickly for his words to express. After he finishes his drink, he takes my hand and we sit together outside watching the other children as they spend their precious few minutes between class and chores, chasing each other through the courtyard and attacking any round object they find. Soccer can be played with empty soft drink bottles, half-flat destroyed rubber balls, tennis balls, so long as they are able to be kicked and are lightweight. He yelps as his friends rush by, enthusiastically cheering the action. Yet, at the splitting of a second, his face changes and his eyes grow dark, telling of trauma he cannot voice. He starts to whine and cry quietly if the sounds of the game increase too quickly, if a mob scene develops or if there is a sudden loud noise. He shrinks into my chest as I hold him, wrapping my arms around his small frame and holding them there. He tucks his head under my chin as he endures the pain of sorting through his emotions. He is unable to speak, but looks away as I hold him tightly, and slowly relaxes into me, finding my hands with his. We sit together, my mind filling with questions that will never be answered, as I wonder at the resilience of such a little boy in the face of terrors which I will never know. He starts to return to the present as he looks up at me and intertwines his fingers with mine, tracing my veins and studying the palms of my hands, still quiet but smiling just the tiniest bit as I tickle his underarms and neck. We stand together and he requests another glass of water, relishing every sip. When I take my backpack and start to say goodbye, his face falls again and he grabs my hand, motioning back to the bench where we sat for so many minutes. So we sit again as I tell him I will return tomorrow, praying that this will reassure him enough to keep him from crying. His thirst for love is excruciating, and he reluctantly leaves me to begin his daily chores and dinner preparations. As I walk out the gate, there is once again a hand in mine as he runs back to me for a final hug before retreating into the evening.

This Life

I sit here two days after returning from a wonderful weekend away, where attempts to relax were unsuccessful. My roommate Dani and I booked a lovely room at a hotel in Petionville, the nice part of town. We slept on real mattresses, ate fancy food (goat cheese salad!), walked all around the city, and watched TV for the first time in months. Strange how I don't really miss television, although I thought I might crave my HGTV home decorating episodes and Friends reruns. News clips on CNN were overwhelming – this world is so different than that of the States, and the problems addressed on American media are on a completely different scale than that which I live each day. Despite my best attempts, my mind continued to whirl and kept me up many hours during the night. It is hard to truly rest when the poverty is still so blatantly in my face, and the remnants of a tent city are directly across from my hotel. It was fascinating to walk through the busy marketplaces, packed with people moving in every direction, skimming the edges of cars as they appear suddenly in our path. We walked miles through town to the site of the former NPFS hospital which collapsed during the earthquake. The sign still hangs there, and plans are being finalized for a memorial at the site. It is a sober place, full of emotion and still aching from the loss of lives. A massive hotel is being built behind it, which is a bizarre sign of the excessive wealth of the few, standing in such contrast to the poverty. (Note: Very few lucrative businesses are actually owned by Haitians). 

An original house in Petionville, built by the French. Hauntingly gorgeous.

Mountains of houses in Petionville

One sign of progress was the disassembly of one of the many tent camps that have been a mainstay of life for so many after the earthquake. The president has embarked on a 16/6 project – out of 6 camps, people are being relocated into 16 neighborhoods. The attempt is being made to return families to their former neighborhoods if at all possible. Each family is being given a small sum of money (equivalent to $500 US) as they are being relocated. The first camp to be taken down was directly across from our hotel, at Place St. Pierre, in Petionville. It was encouraging to see the green grass and the restoration of one of the fountains.

So much life happens each day that I have difficulty expressing it all. I accompanied Sr. Judy to Cite Soleil again last Saturday, working with the Missionaries of Charity who hold a medical clinic each week. As we drove through the main market street, people barely moved their wares for us, and the car scraped up against baskets of oranges and pyramids of mysterious medications. We turned into the church complex and once again, Sr. Judy said, “Welcome to Calcutta – Haiti is in many ways the new India. Haiti is now where India was when Mother Teresa first founded her order.” Many of the sisters ask to return to or stay in Haiti once they have been placed here. This is the heart of their vocation – to serve the poorest of the poor. As we saw the crowds of children and mothers assembled in the narrow entrance, I was speechless and wanted to embrace each of them as they waited. These are the true suffering poor, living in squalor and surviving by the grace of God. We again had a quick scripture reading and a lesson – I wondered what the patients were thinking as they heard the parable of the rich man and the poor man. And then we started seeing as many little ones as we could. Sr. Judy is determined that I will start seeing patients on my own before long, but I chose once again to work with her and learn from her. We saw children and adults with horrific skin conditions, a baby who was terribly malnourished and had been abandoned, and a girl with nephrotic syndrome who was severely ill and needed immediate hospitalization. As I gave instructions to the mothers, the fear and anxiety was evident in their eyes. We have the mothers repeat the medication instructions many times, and then we say a prayer as they walk out the door, that they remember correctly. The medication is a crucial element in the healing process, but so is a safe environment. Yet we send the children back to a life where survival is moment-to-moment. The faith of the mothers is strong, and they are literally dependent on God in order to live until the next day, sharing their scant food and giving the last of their breast milk to their babies. I watched the Sisters as they listened to their starving patients, as they gently but firmly spoke with them and demonstrated honesty while calling them on, teaching responsibility and encouraging them toward continued faith.

Cite Soleil

Cite Soleil

 Much of the last week has been an observational exercise for me. As I have worked with the nurses and the doctor, we have been able to establish basic procedures for the day, gain a cultural understanding and converse about our mutual care for the children. Now, I feel like the rubber must meet the road and the real work begins, the challenge of education and the improvement of critical thinking skills. It is not a surprise to me that the practices I encounter are many decades behind the current expectations in the States. I stand in total admiration for the extent to which resources are used, and the creative ways that the nurses have been working with limited supervision and instruction. I am learning that their knowledge of pharmacology is extremely limited, and that they are afraid to defend their position when a child's status or plan of care is questioned. The doctor is very personable and interacts well with the children, but she presents her own set of challenges, in practice and in communication. My list of topics for inservices is getting longer by the day, and I know now that the majority of my time from here on out will be spent teaching. As a plan comes together, another crisis develops, which is a known element of life here. As I anticipated the commencement of some new education this week, malaria reared its ugly head again and we cared for three boys with dangerously high fevers. As miserable as they are, fighting a horrid illness and its manifestations through fever, nausea, vomiting, head and body aches, they are stoic kids. They endure the endless trips to the cold showers, the cold towels from the freezer, the regimen of temperatures every 15 minutes, the vomiting up of their medications, the oven of a clinic in which to rest, the constant encouragement of fluid intake, and the eventual outcome of an IV due to dehydration. And when they are asked, “How are you?,” they respond, “I'm ok,” or “Pa pi mal.” (Literally, I'm no worse). 

Stanley, my sunshine, hard at work helping get ready for lunch

OK - everyone make a mad face!

Dani and the girls

My favorite time of day is now most definitely 3:30 pm. Why the odd time, you ask? This is the time when the kids are released from their study hall and I am finally able to spend time with them. They are in school by 8:00 each morning when I arrive. I get to visit with a few of them as they eat their extra meal during their mid-morning break, but it is a rushed sprint as all of them descend quickly, consume their extra calories and then run back to class. I do love our brief interactions around the table, and the few minutes I get with the little ones from Ste. Anne who eat as well, but time is too short and much of it is spent monitoring the chaos which is 50 children in one place. So, at 3:30 pm, as the kids round the corner of the courtyard and dash to their rooms to throw backpacks on beds, I step out of the clinic and am stopped by several pairs of arms around my legs and waist. Their hugs are one of the best parts of life here – they grasp with their whole bodies, then grab my hands and play with my fingers, tracing my veins again, touching my fingernails and running their fingers through my wind-tossed hair. The girls walk by and greet me with kisses, sweetly calling my name and smiling with relief that they can be kids again for a little while before chores and dinner are commenced. We play hand games, they ask me for cold water and candy, and I grate the nerves of the nurses as I empty our stash of water from the freezer. This is home to me, these children who love me and trust me and embrace me with joy and excitement. They beg me to sit with them as they practice their broken Spanish and English. They challenge me with new Creole words and I call on the nurses to help interpret what I don't understand. They show me their progress in school and I drill them on their letters and pronunciation. They study me with their eyes and listen as I talk and ask them about their days. They dodge me as they are absorbed into their daily soccer scrimmage, scouring the cement for the ball as they play outside their containers, with goals marked by the remnants of bricks. They run to the showers and douse themselves in water for a few seconds, quickly re-dressing and running back so as not to miss any time with me. The pangs of loneliness are ever so close, nipping at my heart as I yearn for the companionship of friends from my former life, desperate to share this experience in a tangible way, and as I wonder if I can ever merit such a moments as these. But in the arms and eyes and faces and smiles of “my” children, the loneliness is held at bay.

The Grace of the Present

Blogging is a challenging task for me – I must thank all of you who have conveyed such encouragement of my writing, and I have often thought that I express myself better in writing than in spoken word. But the monumental task of communicating the thousands of moments in a series of days within just a few paragraphs is becoming more difficult, and by the length of many of my posts, you can easily see that I fail at it! There are moments, or hours, which hold me hostage as I wonder how I can ever capture this experience and write about it, because it is so unique. I found myself near tears this morning because I just wanted to share these moments with someone in person, to allow a glimpse into this life beyond the written page and the pictures. Living this experience alone is both a gift and a challenge, stretching me in every possible way. I pray that I am diligent and apt for the task each day.

The week began quietly, with yours truly indulging in the joys of two long-awaited care packages, one full of protein bars and fruit leather, the other containing such feminine essentials as several shades of nail polish, remover and cotton balls, and most importantly, dark chocolate-covered espresso beans. Evening mass on Sunday, a few episodes of Modern Family, to which I was introduced by Dani, and preparation for the new stretch of days. I am a firm believer that we are given the grace to sustain us for today's moments, and that when tomorrow arrives, the grace for tomorrow will arrive with it. I have had to consciously choose to believe that in recent weeks, but the gift of living in the present moment has been a huge amount of grace in itself. I am a planner, so the wheels are constantly turning in my head, but when working with children, in a culture that changes moment-to-moment, it is hard to find any productiveness in worrying about how life will be months from now. So I have tried to remain present to each moment as I walk into the FWAL complex, praying for the grace to embrace whatever I am greeted with as the day progresses. 

After 10 weeks of wearing scrubs and a t-shirt to the clinic every day, I was challenged by one of the nurses to wear a skirt. The exact conversation was, Nurse: “Brigitte, you wear pants every day. Do you not like skirts? Do you have any skirts?” Me:“Yes, I have skirts! I like skirts! But it is so dusty every day and I get so dirty that I wear pants.” Nurse:“Well, you have to wear a skirt on Monday. You need to wear a skirt on Monday.” So, needless to say, the reaction to my arrival in a skirt on Monday was absolutely priceless. I got compliments from everyone, from the nurses to the maintenance staff, to the drivers, to the doctor, to the madames and mettres who work with the kids, to the kids themselves! I was a bit taken aback, because though I appreciated the compliments, I wondered what the heck they were thinking for the first two-plus months I was here! I decided to prolong the experience, and received the exact same response on Tuesday as Monday. (Wearing a different skirt, for the record). Then when the inevitable happened, and I returned to wearing scrub pants, one of the drivers was quick to point out to me, “Brigitte, you are not beautiful today, because you are not wearing a skirt.” The guy is not known for his tact.

I am constantly reminded of the immense poverty here. However, living in the midst of it on a daily basis, I am afraid of adopting a “routine,” or almost numbed attitude about it, shrugging off the beggars on the street or yet another picture of a tent-dwelling family. The problem is so overwhelming that perhaps it seems easier to look past it or click to another website. But this is real life, with no escape for those living it. Poverty has many faces, and when I look into the eyes of the worker at the school who was widowed four years ago, is trying to provide for her nine children, and has forgone breakfast every day for countless days, and is vomiting bile in the courtyard, I see suffering. She trudges back and forth, dozens of times each day, carrying heavy water jugs on her head and delivering safe drinking water for the 200 kindergartners. Wearing her best clothes, sweating in the seething heat, she collapsed on the stones as her stomach retched with hunger. She refused food but allowed me to give her a drink of cold water as she sat in the shade. She would not sit for long, and was up again working within minutes. She returned to the clinic door Monday morning, and talked of the anxiety she feels, her inability to sleep at night out of concern for her children and continued grief over her husband's death, and the pain in her abdomen from hunger. What can I do in this moment, when I know this is one of countless stories here, and that the suffering is beyond comprehension for so many? I can look her in the eye, I can listen, I can validate her feelings, and I can encourage her to continue being the beautiful mother that she is. I can allow her to speak, I can offer her cold water, I can give her medication for the acid in her stomach, and I can pray. I cannot rescue her from her current situation, but I can stand next to her and share in her pain for a few life-giving moments.

Wednesday the country of Haiti celebrated the “Day of the Dead,” known in English-speaking countries as All Souls' Day. This is the day in the Catholic church that is dedicated to prayer for the souls who may not have made it to Heaven yet, and is spent in intercession for God's mercy on their souls, that they may be reunited with Him. The “Day of the Dead” is a term used much more for the voodoo culture here, as people here ask the Loa who guards the gate of the spirit-world to allow their relatives and ancestors into it. This date has had added significance since the earthquake. The preparation of the body and the funeral for the deceased has tremendous weight to it here, and there are specific customs associated with the preparation and burial of the dead. When thousands of bodies were collected and buried in mass graves, there was no time to complete these customs, and there was no way to know where the body of a loved one now rested. So there is an unsettled feeling to the day. 

One of the Missionaries of Charity, praying at the graves at Titanyen

The sky over Titanyen

Fr. Rick has marked some of the graves with crosses

The mass graves from the earthquake and cholera are close by

NPH has made a tradition of having a special mass for the dead on All Souls' Day, and in the mid-afternoon, a large group of us drove out to Titanyen, the current mass burial ground used by the government, where the mass graves from the earthquake and the cholera outbreak are located. Fr. Rick and several staff make the journey to this land every week, collecting the unclaimed bodies from the general hospital and giving them a Christian burial. It is an experience in which all volunteers are invited to participate at least once throughout our service, a crucial lesson in honoring the body in all stages of life, and even in death. The land at Titanyen is an exquisite final resting place – rolling hills and soft breezes greeted us as we arrived. Crosses mark some of the NPH graves, mounds of freshly-moved stones and soil cover the newest ones. The Sisters of Charity joined us as we sang and prayed and celebrated God's own sacrifice for us, His understanding of our grief, and the mercy with which he loves. The sky was breathtaking, and a rainbow appeared as communion was prepared and distributed. It was a unique paradox – the violence and horror of sudden death and disposal, met with peace, the beauty of nature and a contingent of Haitians and foreigners alike who are determined to live with joy.

As I entered the clinic yesterday morning, the nurses smiled at me. I greeted them, and then they watched as I stood and listened to their conversation. They both turned to me, and one of them complimented me on my t-shirt. (Purple, thanks April!!) Then, one of them asked me, “Mis Brigitte, (Nurse Brigitte), do you like Haiti?” My response was a resounding “yes,” to which she then said, “We know. Haiti is making you more beautiful.” As I stumbled to reply to her with my gratitude, I added yet another intention to my prayer list. Lord, please give me the grace to aspire to deserve this compliment!

Fabienne, a recipient of our Nutrition Program

50 kids now get an extra, high-calorie, high-protein meal loaded with vitamins

 and minerals!

Something in the Water...

Adrenaline is a pretty awesome hormone. It kicks in with just enough of itself to carry me through the long work stretches, and it seems to know the exact moment to cease surging through my body. The only challenge with this scenario is that it takes me three days to recover back to a sort of chemical homeostasis. I only slightly exaggerate – today I am feeling almost back to myself, but I physically felt the disappearance of energy this past Friday morning. I woke up grateful for a weekend off, promptly got a call from one of our nurses who was with a little Ste. Anne kiddo at the hospital, went to be with them for the duration of their doctors' visit, came back and Skyped with friends for a brief while, feeling perfectly normal. Seconds after the phone call was over I suddenly wondered if I could even make it to my bed from the couch without collapsing from exhaustion. The body knows when the limit has been reached!

My working weekend consisted of our usual visit to the baby house on Saturday (the doctor has hours at St. Louis two afternoons a week, and visits Ste. Anne every Saturday) and updating vaccination records to include the most recent campaign. Sunday has turned into more of a planning day – I went to St. Louis in the morning and encountered five boys with high fevers, three positive for malaria, and four of the five from the same house. Pesky hungry mosquito! We have treatment for malaria, but the misery of suffering a fever of around 104 degrees is amplified by the heat in the containers. Add to that nausea and a headache, and these guys were suffering quite a bit! One of the temporary solutions subscribed to by the nurses here is to send kids to the cold showers as often as needed. It is a very short-term fix, but the kids come back a bit cooler. Tylenol and Ibuprofen only work so well in the presence of a malaria flare-up, but those are given as well. After a little bit of soup, a somewhat peaceful sleep arrived for the patients, and I continued delving into ideas for education sessions for staff and kids. There are many topics to choose from, but hand hygiene and basic first-aid are two that are foremost in my mind. A wonderful Sunday evening mass by candlelight ended the weekend with grace.

Monday morning the fevers were persistent, and the boys were exhausted from fighting illness. One little guy was concerning me, as his temperature continued to stay very high and he kept refusing food and water. The other guys were responsive, wanted their usual spaghetti instead of soup, and kept asking for water. Yay! Appetites on the rebound. At the end of the morning, another little girl came in with a headache. As I poured water for her, she looked in the cup for a long time, then handed it to me. Lo and behold, there was a little worm swimming away to his heart's content. After a gasp and a look into the container from which the water had come, there was yet more evidence that something was not right. A brief investigation and tracing of the water source revealed that for several days, water for the clinic and other “kays,” or houses, was being retrieved from an untreated spigot in the courtyard, instead of at the treated, filtered well located at the front of the property. The eternal challenge of good communication and the attention to directions continues to plague daily life, so staff was immediately informed (again) of the importance of obtaining water from the correct source. And my mind began racing as to what might be in the “bad” water. Parasites are endemic and dangerous, and the sudden increase in parasitic infections in the kids was now explained. Our concerns grew to include Typhoid, and then cholera, the ultimate enemy.

The directors and the doctor were quick to address the issue, and after a bit of research and chatting with Sr. Judy, the best of our resources for tropical medicine, we found that we had a plentiful supply of the right medications for Typhoid. Should cholera enter the picture, we are literally feet away from the cholera treatment center, St. Philomen.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, we watched our little group of boys grow by a few more – all from the same container, and were somewhat relieved to get another positive diagnosis of malaria confirmed for one of them. We decided to treat for both malaria and typhoid, just in case there was a typhoid presence in the water. It is an interesting experience to treat such a high fever here as opposed to the States. There is not the relief of air-conditioning, the ready availability of cold compresses, or the interest in the prompt administration of IV fluids for dehydration. (Note: we do have the fluids and equipment available to start IV's – but very rarely is that a step taken in the current clinic setting). We improvised with gauze and cold water from the refrigerator, sat the boys up for soup, kept encouraging water and oral rehydration salts, and located an additional fan. Panic and worry would get us nowhere – patience and faith was required. The Haitians are much better at this idea than we Americans. Move with deliberation, take the necessary steps to ensure the most comfort available, and then sit and allow ths illness to take its course. As of this weekend, to our relief, the kids and staff at FWAL have been protected from further water-borne illness.

The nurses continue to amaze me. They are trusting me more when I make suggestions to them, asking more questions about courses of treatment and medications, giving input more freely, and want to just be with me. They laugh and laugh, and I am grateful that our senses of humor seem to be similar in many ways. They love joking with me, and they love the look on my face when I attempt to eat a “pate,” or a fried, chicken-filled pastry, and I hit the “piklis,” or the spicy Haitian mixture of cabbage, carrots and spices. (I have a wimpy tongue with regards to tolerance of spiciness). They like sitting and just talking, are trying to convince me to stop such cosmetic practices as shaving legs and under-arms, and want me to dye my hair black! I have informed them that certain things will NOT happen, and I am thinking I have to bring back a photo of myself from “King and I” high-school musical days which clearly shows that I am not meant to have dark hair. They continue to express disbelief that I am not married and have no children, and gave me the Spanish Inquisition as to my list of essential attributes. “We will pray, but we will also start looking!” Yentas without borders...

I was thrilled to know that one of the nurses, Jelita, wanted my company on Friday morning at the hospital. One of our kids was ill and needed to be seen by a doctor promptly. We nurses have been discussing autonomy and our authority to decide treatment courses for the kids, and I was glad she had decided to seek treatment for the child immediately versus waiting for the FWAL doctor's availability. One of the gifts of working where I do is the accessibility of St. Damien clinics and the triage area which is open every morning. If any of our children requires attention on dates when our doctor is not present on-site, or if an acute condition develops which is beyond our ability to manage, the hospital is literally yards away from St. Louis, right outside my door, and just a short 10-minute drive from the baby house. I arrived at the exam room to be greeted by the little girl, who just wanted me to hold her and talk to her. We practiced words for the different animals that are posted outside the rooms, looked at the cross and Jesus, reviewed all the parts of the face, and just snuggled. Daphnee has undergone a transformation since her arrival a month ago. She was very scared and angry when she first joined Ste. Anne, would sob uncontrollably when anyone left the home or when she needed to leave school, screamed and bit and fought, and had a very sad disposition. I have had the chance to be with her on several different occasions, to sit next to her, to play and talk with her, and wave at her as she sits in class at school. I have seen the return of her huge, laughing grin. Now, she runs to me and wants to hold my hand, if not to be held on my lap! There are countless moments like these at FWAL, when I am able to witness the joy of a child who knows he/she is safe, loved and secure. 

Daphnee

 Jelita, Daphnee and I, talked and talked, and I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude and amazement at the graces present to me. We adults had an extensive conversation, and we understood each other the entire time. I was trusted by a Haitian nurse to be a source of support and a welcome presence for her, and I was trusted by another of the precious kiddos in my care. We saw the doctor, Jelita spoke appropriately and assertively with the doctor examining Daphnee, and she looked at me once the needed medications were prescribed. We have also been reviewing brand name versus generic ingredients of medications, a challenging concept here, as so many languages, names and spellings are involved. And, to her relief, I was able to help her realize that another several-hour wait at the pharmacy was not necessary, as we had all of the meds at our facility!

I leave you with pictures from our chapel. The building was damaged in the earthquake – part of the stone wall behind the altar fell, and it was replaced by wooden buttresses and panels. This past month, an American artist came and painted a spectacular mural to cover the dark wood, and blended it in with the stonework in the rest of the chapel. The mural is a beautiful representation of the progress of the country and its children since the earthquake, and a great gift which lightens the chapel immensely. Just imagine being able to enter in the evening with candles lighting every window, piercing the darkness and welcoming the hungry.

graves of nuns who died in the earthquake

buttresses holding up the walls

The chapel is always open.

Ubi Caritas et Amor, Deus Ibi Est

In my recent posts, I fear that I am not conveying enough gratitude. It is easy for me, a deep thinker, to be too concerned about portraying the painful and challenging details of this life in attempts to capture the realities of it. Yes, I am living in a broken country, caring for many wounded and traumatized children and witnessing desperation and tragedy and suffering. But for as many moments that could give cause for despair, there are infinitely more reminders of hope and of a Creator that cares for His little children. We are not always conscious of or willing to see these, but they are present nonetheless.

The priest talked at mass today about suffering, and how in suffering is evidence of great love. And we sang the words in the title of this post – where charity and love are found, God is there. So in suffering, God is present. In each heartbreak, there is still hope. In each child's eyes, hope shines. In the joy of a terrific sense of humor, there is hope. A coworker who has been here for many years told me just yesterday that when we as foreigners are able to laugh with the people of Haiti, we have entered a new level of intimacy with them. And this morning, the nurses and I spent literally hours laughing together, gaining new understandings of each other and flying through the cultural barriers that still stood between us. As I gain a better grasp of Creole, I am continually encouraged by the staff members at FWAL, and even teased by one of our drivers, who challenges me to learn more, but who paid me a very kind compliment when he said, “We will miss you when you leave, because we know you came to serve us and serve the children.” And so I wish to share a few of the things for which I am grateful, and because of which I was given pause many times today, sitting in disbelief that I have been given the undeserved favor of this experience.

Stanley, a bright light in my life every day.

 We completed HIV and Hepatitis B testing on all of the children in the FWAL program last week. Out of 182 children, none of them are HIV positive, and only two are positive for Hepatitis B. Those two are currently asymptomatic. This is a great blessing and protection for our children, in a country where HIV and Hepatitis B transmission is elevated. There is hope.

I was privileged yesterday to witness the first steps of an amputee as he walked with his new prosthesis. A group of American surgical volunteers was in the area at the time, along with a small contingent of NPH volunteers and employees. He walked tentatively, then looked up at his audience as we clapped and chanted our approval. There is hope.

There were 21 abandoned children living in the hospital, several significantly disabled, but several healthy. They have been left by mothers for unknown reasons. The challenge of raising a child with disabilities is greatly multiplied here, and many impoverished parents simply cannot face the difficulty. (Several do, and those little ones are the grateful recipients of one of NPFS's ministries here, where they attend classes and physical therapy). One little guy, Yvens, whose mother died of AIDS and tuberculosis many months ago, was the smiliest little man, verbal and trying his utmost to meet the developmental milestones for his age. He was a buddy of Dani's, and she was dedicated to helping him learn to walk during her daily visits to the room. The children, once declared officially abandoned, wait and wait and wait for placement in a home or orphanage. Many programs, including ours, are filled to capacity, so this is a very long and difficult process. However, much to our surprise last weekend, Yvens was placed in a home and was finally able to leave the hospital! One less child living alone. There is hope.

I am blessed to serve with some extraordinary people. This past Tuesday, we held a goodbye party for my roommate Sr. Kathleen, a religious sister who has lived and worked here for the last 14 months. A vocational decision prompted her return to the States earlier than she anticipated, and it was an emotional several days as she packed up her Haitian life. Sr. Kathleen was a living example of God's heart for the children here. She is a clinical social worker, and she worked tirelessly with the children at Ste. Anne, coordinating activity groups, educating the staff, being a daily presence at the home and loving the kids with a gentle firmness. She was active in the school during the last year as well, bringing characters and a therapeutic eye to her work. Whenever I would ride with her to Ste. Anne, a chorus of voices would arise from the porch yelling her name as we arrived. Tuesday was a very special day, as the children she loved so much showed their love for her by singing special songs, dancing and admiring her with hugs and kisses. The staff honored her as well, sharing their hearts and gratitude for her mentorship. There was much to celebrate, as she has brought light and grace to Haiti, telling the children it's ok to cry and express emotions. (Emotional expression is frowned upon in this culture). She met regularly with a few children with significant histories, assisting them in embracing the challenges they have been given. She lives in hope.

Sr. Kathleen sitting with some of her beloved babies at her goodbye.

One of her perfect parting gifts for the kids - a new playhouse!

 I noticed ti Erline my first day here. I have talked of her many times. She lived for months with chronic watery diarrhea, in sadness, with significant malnutrition and fatigue. I have been praying for her and reaching out to her during each visit, hoping for answers, which as we know do not come quickly. In the past month, we have gotten small glimpses of happiness from her, and she has demonstrated increased energy and started laughing more! She loves the daily glass of Pediasure, and now refuses regular milk! (Uh oh...). She is sometimes still not so sure about me, but we spent a precious afternoon together at Sr. Kathleen's party. I showed her a picture of herself on my camera, and that was it! Smart little one that she is, she figured out how to look back at all of the previous pictures, and pointed at herself and me, then sighed happily as she viewed photos of her housemates. I wore my hair down, and she stroked and played with it. She shreiked in happiness as we sat watching the festivities. There is hope.

Precious ti Erline - the smiles come more quickly now!

The staff at St. Louis and Ste. Anne care deeply for the children in their charge. They sacrifice hugely, working 11-day shifts, living day and night with the kids, essentially raising them and being their accessible parental figures. The children are happy, active and engaged with life, and the quiet and challenged children are noticed just as well as the loud and well-adjusted ones. The madames and mettres have embraced me, with one of them asking if she could be my mother! (Don't worry, mom.) They patiently sit with me and talk as I ask questions with my incorrect words and grammar. They smile when I remember their names and remember the names of the children. (I'm determined to know all 182 names soon – I'm getting there!) I am continually amazed at the patience and tenderness I observe, and the enthusiastic energy which is present in the faces and words of the staff. Just today I ate for the first time at St. Louis instead of returning here to the hospital for lunch, and I am kicking myself for waiting so long! The beans and rice were absolutely delicious and spice-free. The cook anxiously asked if I am planning to eat on-site Monday - She loves to serve hope.

Four of the children at St. Louis were diagnosed with heart murmurs on their initial admission physicals. With no training in cardiac anomalies, the physicians here (and even visiting pediatric physicians) panic and refer for immediate follow-up. As I have learned in my few short months here, many children are on unnecessary heart medications due to poor diagnostic capabilities, lack of training and inaccurate echo readings. So I jumped at the opportunity for all of the St. Louis kids to be seen by a visiting American pediatric cardiologist and echo tech this week! All four of them were seen, and they are all completely normal! What a relief! And, perhaps equally as important, they behaved perfectly for the doctor and were very cooperative. There is hope.

I was able to meet and sit with a 10-year-old end-stage cardiac patient yesterday. She has spent two months in the ICU at St. Damien, and has not attended school for four years due to her heart problem. Tuesday evening's echo confirmed that there is no surgical intervention possible for her condition, and her disease has progressed to the point of significant compromise. She was clearly frightened yesterday, and as we sat and talked I thought of the interventions I would be doing were she in the States. But there is an acceptance of God's will here which I pray to have, and she and her mother sat peacefully, resting in the good moments and bravely attempting a walk around the hospital. She smiled as she talked about her favorite things and asked me to bring her notebooks for her brothers so they could attend school. In her physical weakness, she thought of others. There is definite sadness in this story, but there is still good to report. She has a mother who has been at her bedside the entirety of her hospital stay, and the visiting cardiologist determined that she does not benefit enough from the added oxygen to merit her staying in the hospital any longer. And, miraculously, a terminal care nurse has been found who will be able to visit her at home. So my sadness at the brevity of our time together pales in comparison to the gratitude I feel in knowing that she will be able to live her final days with her family. She will soon know the complete healing that only heaven can bring, resting in the hands of Hope.

These are Days

I have hit the two-month mark, a fact that is both easy and hard to grasp. In many ways, it seems as if time has been crawling by, as each moment is so full and there is so much to observe, process and translate as I live it. Yet, in other ways, each day passes quickly. Moments with the children are precious and genuine, and I am still adjusting to the change in routine that school brings. I now know the weekly menu by heart, and I have my basic schedule set. Laundry and the remedial tasks of this life are never thought of that way – I appreciate them just as I did in the States. Today, a “day off” after a whirlwind stretch to be detailed shortly, I found myself craving the therapy that a clean home brings, and could not relax until the bathroom and the floor were shining! My living situation is changing – I will be moving into a house with Dani tomorrow. I have relished my corner of the living room but am ecstatic to have a more permanent place, with a door that I can close, a space I can make my own.

Last Monday began “Project Immunize.” I had no notice of this little adventure, but it turned out to be a huge undertaking upon which I can look back and breathe a sigh of relief. NPFS has been looking for money with which to supplement the vaccines that the government of Haiti gives. There is a regular vaccination schedule set by the Ministry of Health, and the government provides regular vaccinations to the children of the country. These are limited, however, and can vary depending on what is available at the time of scheduled vaccination appointments. (Example: one month the DTP, or diptheria-tetanus-pertussis, vaccine may be available, the next month only the Td, or tetanus-diptheria, vaccine may be the only option). Another problem is that the government does not offer catch-up vaccines for any children. Enter our program and the orphanage in Kenscoff, where many children are admitted with an unknown vaccination history. So, as a responsible organization, we are obligated to provide each vaccine that the child should have had up to their current age. And this takes a great deal of money.

A donor family recently came forward to generously cover thousands of dollars in vaccines for the children of NPFS. This family tragically lost a child to a vaccination reaction, so their gift was felt deeply by all of us. I was told at the beginning of my year that this project would come eventually, but had not expected the suddenness of what happened next...The money for “Project I” came through last weekend, and Monday morning, I found myself in a tiny NPFS sedan with Jan, regional health coordinator, the driver and another gentleman, making the trek up the mountain to Petionville with a large cooler in the trunk. Upon our arrival at the company offices, the men at the counter immediately began chuckling at our cooler, stating that we did not have nearly enough space for what we had purchased. Our eyes widened, then a realization came to me...vaccinations do not come in multi-dose vials anymore – they come in single-dose vials! A nice box with a pre-filled syringe, vial with the vaccine in it and needles. And each box is individually packaged. And we had purchased enough vaccine to immunize 600 kids against several diseases. And we had a little tiny sedan with which to make an hour-plus drive with a HUGE box containing all of these vaccines. A box which would not fit into the car at any attempted angle. Thanks to Haitian resourcefulness, we found some twine at the corner of the property and tied the box into the trunk...and started down the mountain home. We condensed all of the vaccine as much as possible and stuffed it into three fridges in the basement of the hospital. And then the next day, we got the other half of the shipment...12 styrofoam coolers worth. Another afternoon of condensing and compacting, and we moved to the next step.

What I thought I would have weeks to plan, involving the clinic nurses and taking time to educate them about all of the vaccines, I now had three days to coordinate. But this is my kind of crisis, and the nurses were all about digging in and helping me. We talked through out ideas, we got the vaccine information in French and Creole, the nurses avidly read the info, and we came up with a game plan. The doctor was excited too, and teamwork at its finest was exemplified. Friday, we vaccinated the 32 babies against Hib, meningitis, MMR, and Hepatitis B. The hardest part of the whole afternoon was preparing the individual vaccines, and that fell to yours truly. As much as I would like to educate the nurses about their injection technique, they have one that works and I gladly relenquished “picky” duties in favor of facilitation and prep. The day went well, with lollipops for each kiddo after the pain, and a doctor and nurses with great senses of humor.

Yesterday, it was the big kids' turn. All 150 of them. All of the prayers I asked for were felt! There was so much peace present, and the kids actually skipped to me when their names were called! This, as my supervisor told me later last night, was a perfect example of a trusting relationship. We did the vaccines in a separate room, which is a major difference from how the Ministry of Health does them. They have long lines, where everyone can see the poor victim as he/she is poked and cries accordingly. Imagine being the kid at the back of the line, having to witness everyone before you! Oh, the agony! (I did witness this on one of my first days in Haiti...and vowed to change it). I was able to call each kid up, have them wait outside the room, explain to them why we were giving the pickys, and they looked at me and said it was ok. They willingly walked in, sat and were so brave – the little guys took it as a challenge to be macho! I was proud of every single kiddo – to be trusted and see the smiles after the few seconds of pain was heartwarming. Hugs and lollipops, and laughter and immunity. What a great combination.

In the midst of the vaccine project, we celebrated the dedication of St. Philomene, a wing of St. Luke hospital, on Sunday. Brief history: after the earthquake, St. Luke was opened out of necessity as an adult hospital. Then cholera hit, and yet another facility was opened emergently to accommodate the cholera patients. During the course of the last year, Fr. Rick and the St. Luke staff determined that it would be wise to have a standby wing that could be dedicated to care of a large number of people in the case of another disaster or medical outbreak. This is now St. Philomene. Cholera patients are still treated at St. Philomene, and there is a large space available for use should it be needed. An unfortunate reality of this country is that it is very likely that space will be filled soon. Sr. Philomena, from the Adrian Dominican Sisters (go Michigan!!), was present at the mass. She worked for NPH for fifteen years, caring for babies. The new hospital was dedicated in her honor. And yet, as Fr. Rick pointed out during his homily, the ground for the hospital was already christened by the playing of children, the dancing of little feet and the young singing voices which echoed here after the earthquake. Where the hospital now stands, children were initially cared for in the days after the quake when the FWAL program was started. Meals were given, spirits were lifted, joy permeated the chaos-filled air and young lives were transformed, even as some in the world-wide audience spoke of the presumed demise of the country.

I have been challenged in every way this past week. The raw emotion that fills me has at times been difficult to bear. The suffering present on faces begging outside the hospital and on the street is heart-wrenching. The intensity of the vaccination marathon exhausted every ounce of energy I had left. Sunday evening we had at least half a dozen tiny bodies lined up on one stretcher at mass, ten bodies total. Criticism and misunderstanding acompany many situations here, as a group of imperfect humans from many different cultures work together. Passion pervades the hearts of new and experienced volunteers alike, and anger is often justifiable. I hear of milestones from home – new life, engagements, deaths, job changes – and the pain of separation presents itself with each new notice. I yearn to be present to those I love, I fear being forgotten, I read news headlines and am puzzled at the vanity and shallowness of some realities. I wonder what would cross the minds of the majority of my fellow Americans were they to be transported here and see the resilience and strength of a people for whom a tax return or retirement account or health insurance is completely foreign, a people for whom 80% unemployment and perhaps one meal a day is the reality, where the goal is to survive until tomorrow. And I am grateful to re-learn every day a lesson which the poor have taught me for the past eleven years, and yet which never ceases to strike me in new ways. The less material distraction we have, the less obsession with self, the less ability to isolate behind computer or Smartphone or closed-door or supposed reality television show, the more we look at the people right in front of us and realize their importance. I will never tire of the little fingers running through my hair, the precious touches and the trust that I saw in the eyes I met yesterday, the loving hands that reach out during the Kiss of Peace at mass, the excited voices calling out my name, the smiles that rest on faces I greet each morning. I will forever cherish the voices of the laboring women outside my window, as new life makes its way into this world. This life is not meant to be lived in isolation or ingratitude or ignorance. It is meant to be lived in Relationships, in being present to others in the fleeting moments we are given with them. Opportunities to learn are constant; chances to lift spirits, to truly listen, to serve, to honor thoughts and actions, to put another person before ourselves, are countless. As many times as we are tempted to assume conclusions and judge others about whom we know a little, or even perhaps a lot, let us pause and examine our motives. And may we all strive to be present in the little moments we are so blessed to cherish. May they not pass us by unnoticed. That would be the ultimate tragedy.

School's In

The weather has radically changed this past two days – it's a “cool front” of sorts, with high winds and temperatures in the 80's, a drastic difference from our regular blanket of high heat and humidity. Very refreshing, the air and the breeze!

The kids survived their first week of school. I admire them for their diligence and attention to class in a very challenging situation. They, of course, are used to the noise and distractions and the outdoor classrooms. When the FWAL program was started, this is how they attended school – tents were set up all over the property and they sat on benches together, looking collectively at a large white pad of paper or at a chalkboard propped up by sandbags. The school on the property is almost finished, and as classrooms are completed, the students will move into them, starting with the oldest classes. But for now, it is the old system. About 600 children from outside the residence also come and attend school here, so it is a big crowd. And the adorable kindergartners, as young as three years old, sit in different groups around the courtyard within the St. Louis home itself. Everything is taught in French, and they are learning counting songs, greeting songs, drawing, a different version of the Hokey-Pokey – and they are just precious! I have walked around and snapped pictures, trying to be discreet. But there is just no way a tall “blan” with a camera is ever discreet with these kids. They stare, laugh, run up to me and just touch my arm or hand, then run away squealing. So my pictures are a mixture of smiles and blank, awed stares. It is easy to forget that most of these these kids don't know me as being here for the past two months! They are not used to me. The teachers, or professors, are amazing. The order they keep with 200 little ones is astounding. We get occasional little stragglers who wander into the clinic, needing a better look at me, or who simply don't want to sit any longer, and we have to coax them back to class. But otherwise, the environment is pretty calm and organized!

The afternoon is playtime for the younger kids at St. Louis, study time for the older kids. It's a strange thing not to see them so much in the morning, as school starts for them at 7 am. I miss the morning greetings – I had gotten used to bear hugs and handshakes every morning, and the “Bonjou Brigitte!” said in little voices as I entered the clinic. I miss it! But these mornings will become a great work time for us  – there are vaccination days and inservices to plan, ideas to exchange, chances to really sit and talk with my Haitian colleagues and gain an understanding of what is important to them, and many things for me to learn from them! I want them to feel included in all of the planning and improvements we are making, and I believe that is the only way to induce true change – people must feel validated, important, and that there is a mutual commitment to long-term relationship before any sort of change is suggested. In countless failed attempts, the approach of NGO's and mission groups has been, change first, then responsibility, then relationship, then trust. How is this productive? The approach must be trust, relationship, then responsibility, then change. How will anyone trust someone who comes in, tells them that what they are doing is wrong, and insists that sweeping changes occur before anything else can be done? (And then leaves?)

An absolute highlight of my week this week was working with the nurses. One nurse with no computer experience before I came, now insists on helping me with everything computer-related. (So wonderful!!) I was near tears when she sat with the other nurse with no previous experience, and taught her how to enter information on the Excel spreadsheet we had created. (She taught her correctly!) They were both excited, and told me how easy it was! (I don't even like Excel that much!) Another conversation was had about the color of my hair. I would call it a dark blond – they don't have a word for “blond” in Creole – so they asked me, “what color is your hair?” I asked them, “what color do you think it is?” They pointed to a cardboard box! I exclaimed, “You think I have box-colored hair?” They laughed hysterically, then responded, “No, no! Just that color!” So, naturally, I asked, “What color is the box, then?” They were gracious and called it, cafe-au-lait. (Coffee with milk.) I commented on how this was a drastic improvement over “box-hair,” and begged them to please not tell the kids, otherwise that would be my nickname for the year! They still greet me in the morning now with, “Bonjou cheveux boite!” (Good morning, box-hair!) But they promise not to say it in front of the kids. Don't know how long that promise will be kept...

The nurses and kids have been asking for pictures of my family and friends. Because of the generous gift of a dear friend, I brought many pictures with me. (My old computer died a few weeks before I came to Haiti, and took all of my pictures and media files with it). At first, most of my audience did not recognize me in the pictures. Then, when I pointed myself out, they stated, “Is that really you? You are beautiful!” This was a little disconcerting, as I accepted the compliment but also wondered, what the heck do I look like every day here? I know – sweaty, red-faced, without any make-up, with all of my flaws visible and crazy frizzy hair. It is certainly humbling to get dirty so quickly, offer myself as an unmasked and exposed servant, and accept that physically I will look different doing this work. The kids are always fascinated by my many freckles and love to trace my veins. I explained that when I am in the sun, I get more and more freckles, and this amazed them. They question the hair on my arms, and before they saw my pictures, they asked if my family was the same color as me. (Never to worry, family and friends! They were completely complimentary!) One of the kids asked me my age, and he guessed that I was 19 years old! I don't think I will get that guess in the States, folks. It is a strange thing to think about age here. Where so many births and deaths are not recorded, many children do not know their exact birthday or even how old they are. So true age is very rarely known among the poor.

I am happy to report that all of the kids at Ste. Anne (and the staff) are finally getting parasite medication. This may not seem terribly exciting to you, but after a seven-week adventure, it is a thrill to me! We are planning an inservice for the staff and one aimed at teaching the kids too. Parasites are endemic here, so the medication is only a temporary fix. Hand-washing, food preparation basics, teaching and massive reinforcement regarding cleanliness will be recurring themes for the year. Ti Erline is smiling and laughing more – we had a precious morning last weekend, as we talked and sang and played, and yesterday morning we sat together and laughed a little bit more. She is improving on the Pediasure plan, and she was also positive for parasitic infection. So with medication, continued calories and a lot of love, I am very hopeful for her. She has a gentle touch and moves deliberately and thoughtfully – and she has a wonderful belly laugh! I want to hear many more!

I love my little entourage of boys at St. Louis. The walk to the clinic passes two houses of boys, ages 5 through 8 or 9 years old. They stop in their tracks when I approach, even in the midst of a soccer game, and run to me with hugs, high-fives and greetings. Just a quick hand squeeze is enough for some, others want to hold onto me for a while longer. The smiles are radiant, warm and welcoming. A few of them request a photo every time they see me – one of them now wants a picture of me to put by his bed! Several times throughout the day, and now delayed a bit due to school, they run to the door of the clinic and just say my name just to see me look up, and smile. They ask for a glass of “d'lo glase,” or cold water, from the fridge, because they know I will give it to them. Cold water is a pretty special thing here – even one of the nurses believes that medication given with cold water has no effect! It is a rare thing to have a glass of nice, refreshing cold water. Cold storage of anything here is unheard of in the slums and the poor neighborhoods. Ice? Forget it! Think about that one as you turn on the kitchen sink, grab your Brita filter out of your refrigerators, or as you enjoy your morning glass of milk or your afternoon Diet Coke, and be grateful.