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!