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.