Love Out Loud

“I love you.” Three words which, when said in sincerity cannot be heard too often; but only when actually demonstrated to be sincere and genuine. In too many relationships and situations, we forget to seek the best for the other, becoming too absorbed with ourselves. Then, how can those words be received with trust and believed?

It’s been a whirlwind of a two months, a bit surreal and yet all too present. I spent the month of August at home in Michigan, attempting to be present to my family and friends – and for the first two weeks I felt like I was in a dream state, searching for energy to function in such an ordered and organized society. Let me explain to you that this experience and life feels so removed from my life in the States that it takes days for me to realize that Haiti and the United States are actually on the same planet, let alone only a few hundred miles from each other. My body and mind were screaming for a chance to process this past year, and to discern whether and for how long I should continue to work here. The heaviness and sheer intensity of the last twelve months, coupled with my disbelief that a year actually passed so slowly and so quickly at the same time, caused me to pause and simply attempt to breathe once I got home. The modern conveniences of life in the States were a welcome gift, and yet the ever-present amazement at the overwhelming surplus of ridiculous “stuff” we Americans apparently “need” did cause slight nausea with occasional moments of dizziness as I re-entered the mall and supermarkets near my house. More than 300 types of cheese in one store? Fruit and vegetable spray – captioned “the soap you can eat,” even the menu at Starbucks (don’t get me wrong – I indulged in several fabulous Coconut Soy Mochas, thank you very much!), were causes for a step back and a deep breath. I did very much enjoy my delicious burger with goat cheese on my first day at home, and pretty much every meal I ate – the variety of foods and drinks is just plain stunning. And the shoes! I did not know that I loved shoes so much as when I had been away from the world of fashion for a year. I found myself looking longingly through my mother’s design magazines, wishing for walls to paint fabulous colors and for walks through the vintage stores to furnish a new place. These distractions served a two-fold purpose, I can look back now and realize.  I do cherish the freedom and stability of a life in the US, and when I am called to return there, I will have a wonderful time setting up house again and creating a cozy place to live and to welcome friends. But yet, I also know now what freedom is present in a world with very few possessions, where the emphasis is placed on not things and materials and the latest fancy phone or car, but on the moments spent with children and friends in relationship, moments which cannot possibly be bought or held in time by the amount of books or the most comfortable couch. 

Mangos! So messy and so delicious!

My awesome pupil Stevenson, who remembered all of his letters and numbers!

 It was wonderful to re-connect with friends and to hear their vocal support of my life and service. It is all too easy to forget that I am remembered and loved from thousands of miles away when I sit sweating in stifling heat and wonder if the internet is functional anywhere today, when my new roommate finds other work and the circle of volunteers grows smaller, when the same children are living in a hospital room labeled “Abandoned” for months at a time, when temporary tents are removed to make way for parking lots, when daily mass is most definitely a funeral for tiny bodies and the stench of death has permeated the entire chapel, when new security measures are present at the hospital due to escalating crime, when cholera spikes after Tropical Storm Isaac, when cancer patients cannot receive their medications due to delays in deliveries, when the groups of boys lie prostrate in front of the UN gates awaiting the soldiers’ leftover food, when hit with the total chaos of the Port-au-Prince airport upon arrival. To sit holding new babies only seen previously in photos, to be touched and listened to by hands and hearts that know me from outside this tiny island, was a massive blessing that I just wanted to somehow package up and bring back to Haiti with me. It is one thing to hear or read those three little words, but yet an entirely different experience to sit with those who say them and be tangibly loved, understood and pursued.

The two weeks since my return have been equally as surreal as my visit home. After only a few minutes in-country, it is hard to remember that I spent a month Stateside. The visits with friends, the weddings, the fundraising parties, seem years away already. Part of my dread in returning was that re-entry is like a blow to the chest – it hits hard from the outset, with the harsh sun and the blatant poverty, with the emotions and fatigue of my fellow volunteers, with the desperation which we work to empower our brothers and sisters to overcome. However, the endless stream of massive hugs and kisses and questions heaped onto me by the children who are overjoyed that I kept my promise to come back, serve to ease the sting a bit. Erline’s huge smile as she envelops my legs in her arms. Little Stanley’s constant presence every moment I am at St. Louis. The well-meaning staff which tells me I have come back fatter. The delicious corn meal with bean sauce that is served for lunch. The hospital staff as they stop me and tell me it is so good to see me again, that I am remembered by them, and as they ask after my family and if I had a good vacation. The concerned and gentle reprimands of more seasoned volunteers who tell me change is inevitable and to not be afraid: these are all serve as remedies as well. And as I sit in my house after a massive deep-cleaning of my roommate’s now empty room and unpack the groceries from a Sunday supermarket trip, where goat cheese (mmm!!) and filters for my new coffee maker were successfully found, as were bananas and yogurt and sweets for the kids, and I listen to the fantastic mix of current American music hits so lovingly put together for me, I am amazed that only a few days have gone by since my arrival.

Within the next few weeks, we will be moving to new volunteer houses, about ½ mile away from the hospital, and which are yet to receive electricity and running water. The tents that stood for nearly three years to house short-term volunteers have been taken down. My current house will soon be turned into additional hospital space for the overflow of chronic patients. I am now splitting my time equally between the Angels of Light Program and the Oncology unit at St. Damien, working with an awesome team of doctors and nurses, and dangerously at risk of falling in love with a whole new group of little heroes. I absolutely love being back in the hospital and am being inundated with new observations and thoughts as we begin coordinating a Palliative Care program and I sort through the differing cultures of the American setting and the Haitian patient and family. One of the things I have always loved about the developing world is that it is nuts and bolts – the basics at work, with limited resources but unlimited chances for relationship and critical thinking. This culture tests even the best assessment skills and challenges the provider to seek thorough answers with minimal information. There is no quick computerized result here, no available x-ray posted within minutes of its completion. If narcotic pain medications have been donated, there is a chance to control severe pain; otherwise it is the basics and the comfort of a mother’s or caregiver’s touch which must suffice. The staff here is stalwart, strong and amazingly resourceful, creative and enthusiastic but firm and determined. The kids have strength that puts mine to shame, smiling through unimaginable pain and enduring the daily blood draws and chemotherapy effects with minimal tears. They come from all over the country, having been referred from place to place before finally learning that there is a cancer treatment facility in Haiti. 

Do not mess with a boy and his beach ball.

Jessica and Sabine

 The FWAL nurses and I will soon moving into a much larger clinic space at St. Louis, with more autonomy and space to use. Oh – a quick aside – the three of them did a superb job of running the place in my absence, which was not a surprise to me but was still very gratifying to see on my return. They are anxious to learn more from me, and I am channeling my inner educator as I plan seminars for the nurses, staff and kids. My amazing pupil Stevenson remembered ALL of his letters and numbers and wrote them out beautifully for me at my first request, bringing me to tears. The kids ask me over and over again how I left and came back, unable to conceive that I took two planes to go home and that the US is such a large country that I did not see any of the American volunteers that have visited before. They sit with me and stroke my arms and legs, loving me out loud. Stanley has started singing, “All the children love Brigitte, and Brigitte loves all the children.” I pray that both he and I will know this to be true every day.

In this age of sweeping stereotypes and hatred-induced, prejudiced statements, with combative politics, violent attacks, and quickly drawn conclusions based on hearsay, I wonder sometimes if we have forgotten how to love. In the selection of scripture readings at one of the weddings I attended, Love was defined, and though I had heard the verses countless times before, they struck me more deeply as I heard them. Witnessing the poverty of the unloved stirs the spirit. I am afraid that in the Western, stimulation-overloaded world, love is becoming an afterthought. As I sat with my friends and family and laughed at shared experiences, as I attended the wake of a cherished daughter who chose to end her life because she believed she was unreachable, as I held friends in hugs not wanting to let go, as I watched new love grow and spoke with understanding souls, as I attempted to relate stories of Haiti in just a few minutes, as I let go just a bit and dared to puncture the calm façade that I somehow feel I must maintain, I had to choose to believe those words. But this is one of the most wonderful aspects of working with my Haitian children. They always hope, always persevere, always believe, and they bear the hardship of life while standing in determination and expectation that tomorrow will be better. They love out loud, actively chasing after life and vocally expressing their feelings. That is how I experience love here – in the woman who insisted on carrying my heavy box as we walked together, in the doctors who stand determined to care for their end-stage cancer patients as compassionately as possible, in the nurses who tell me they are noticing the good trends in our diabetic patient’s blood sugars, who rejoice when another one of our kids completes TB treatment, who excitedly ask me when I will start to teach them more and are equally as excited to share their time and workspace with me. It is in the little blind boy, previously terribly malnourished and timid, who now refuses to let go of my hands when I visit him and laughs when I tell him he is handsome and healthy. He strokes his new stuffed dalmation puppy and asks if I will come back tomorrow. It is in the little girl who bravely circles the hospital floor twice, with her arms grasping my waist, and tells me it doesn’t hurt. And it is my new challenge to myself – to love out loud, to drown out the noise of anger, misjudgment and impatience, to check myself when a negative comment is about to escape my lips. Perhaps if we consciously choose to actively and genuinely love, patiently, kindly, gently, wishing for good, compassionately and hopefully, we will live and demonstrate to this world that love can be louder than hate, even defeating the darkness altogether.

The Definition of a Hero

This morning, I excitedly walked to the new Kay Ste. Anne. I relish the fact that it is now just a 10-minute walk from St. Louis, and the best part of my recent mornings has been sitting and talking with the littlest members of the Angels of Light program. However, this morning there was a tinge of sadness mixed with my anticipation. I am about to travel Stateside for the month of August, and as ready as I am for a bit of a breather, I am also saddened that I will miss my babies for so many weeks. Crazy, is it not, that I could be in love with so many little ones – 184, to be exact! The laughter of little Erline as she sees me and the flap of her sandals as she runs down the corridor to wrap her arms around my legs – I do not know that there is a better sound or balm for my heart. The pack of little bodies that descends on me, eagerly tearing into my hair, commenting on its length and volume, arguing about who gets to braid it this time. Their hysterical shrieks as little hands pinch my nose and marvel at the change in my voice. Their sweet concerned expressions as I tell them that I am going away for a little while, their only question being whether I will come back, their smiles when I answer positively. The sticky, mango-laden hands and faces that I kiss goodbye at the end of the morning.

My little girl and me

 I have been reflecting on this year – yes, it’s a year – that I have lived this life, walking the dust-thickened streets, learning a new and evolving language, looking into the eyes of a broken people who cry for recognition, hearing stories of unimaginable courage and recovery from circumstances beyond definition. I spend my restless nights praying that in my imperfection, weakness and humanness I have somehow demonstrated a tiny glimpse of the perfect Love which called me here. I have been blessed to love dozens of children and be infected with the contagious joy that is an inevitable product of any time spent with them. I have learned grace and humor and gentleness as I have sat in awe of three extraordinary nurses who juggle the exhausting task of caring for 800 children. I have challenged their thinking, and they have countered with assertive questions and willingness to accommodate new approaches and interventions. They are tireless and courageous heroines.

I have been impacted by a series of pint-sized heroes as well. For a month, Ronald endured the daily irrigation and debridement of his infected legs, dutifully coming to the clinic and smiling despite the pain, strictly following his medication regimen and carrying the responsibility on his eleven-year-old shoulders. Mama, a thirteen-year-old with a past completely devoid of love, is passionately fighting a life-threatening disease, and every day she challenges herself to believe that she is worth that fight. Four-year-old Valson, abandoned in the cholera hospital and with neurological damage from a birth-trauma injury, hates to sit still. When I take his hands and he rises to stand, his smile is surreal. His mouth opens wide and he laughs as we walk together. Rosenie, five, holds tightly to my arm as she watches my every move. She yearns to be touched and held and wants my undivided attention. She mimics me but instantly drops the act to help me carry supplies as we organize the medical depot. Stanley, my six-year-old dose of human sunshine, is literally the happiest kid in the world. Just looking at him draws laughter, and he gently helps Stevenson navigate his way through a soccer game. They camp out in the clinic, breaking into Michael Jackson-esque dance moves and singing to the Christian songs on the radio. Seven-year-old Ubenson, attending the summer program, now makes daily visits to me, playfully demanding a vitamin and telling me how he saved the little packet of saltine crackers from yesterday. He begs on the street every afternoon after school, sitting outside the UN gates and eating the scraps from the food vendors. It is the only meal he will get today. We sit and talk, and he smiles hugely when I offer him a glass of cold water. “I want to live here with you,” he says. My heart breaks. 

Ruth-Love, Rose-Berline, Aquila and Djenni loving their new bedroom!

 I was privileged to spend this year with an amazing and generous roommate, my friend Dani. She came to Haiti with a determination and willingness to do whatever needed to be done. And she conquered – embracing her duties and organizing a literal mountain of donations and supplies. She befriended and honored her coworkers, encouraging them and challenging them to rise to responsibilities she knew they could fulfill successfully. She spent nearly every evening with the hospitalized children abandoned by their families, laughing with them, teaching the toddlers to walk, seeing the trauma behind their eyes and comforting them with steadfastness and gentleness. She was a patient and understanding confidante, who graciously broadened my cinematic horizons and always had a song to fit the mood of the moment. She has just returned to the States to join the ranks of the best nurses I know. She has changed the world and will continue to do so.

Dani and Marvens

After reading the previous paragraphs, you may be realizing that my journey here in Haiti is not over – The month of August will be spent doing substantial fundraising, attending weddings, being with some of my dearest friends and attempting to adjust to American life.  I will then return to serve the children, having tentatively committed to volunteer for an additional year. I say tentatively because, as Haitians well know, Si Dye vle (if God wills) is the mantra at the end of every day. There is still much work to be done, and for the time being, my heart remains here. I am excited to spend this next year empowering my nurses with education and support. I also hope to assist in starting a Palliative Care program at St. Damien hospital.

When I arrived in Port-au-Prince a year ago, I did so with the knowledge that I truly did not know what would happen when that year was over – although certain friends will tell you they predicted that one year would not be enough. I ask them to hold their “I told you so’s,” as every day is a series of emotional and physical experiences that would tire the most agile and fit of humans. Hope must be a permanent fixture in the heart and mind of any visitor here, as the blatant poverty and chaos are easy distractions from the steady, sometimes muffled drumbeat of progress. It moves perhaps at a slower pace than we instant-gratification conditioned Westerners might think necessary, but it is progress nonetheless. And when it seems that hope is lost for the moment, or that good will not win out over evil, the remedy is simple: a quick walk to St. Louis or Ste. Anne, and a glance at any one of hundreds of joy-filled faces. Their eyes reflect their determined hearts.

Heavy against the darkness the joyful dancing steps of the children, who embrace even the newest stranger with accepting arms too small to contain their excitement. The Light which will not be overcome has been set ablaze and presented to them, and they chase after it and stand in its warmth. Its radiance is infectious, softening my heart and opening my hands as little fingers intertwine around mine, pulling me forward.

The Haiti you Don't See

A dear friend sent me a few songs via iTunes, one of which struck me particularly. As I searched the artist and read about the song on her website, I was fascinated by the impetus behind it – it was written as a prayer to God, that He wrap His arms around the world and protect the little ones who are trapped in the horrible web of human slavery. Be it to the sex trade, to poverty, to ignorance, to abuse, to greed, to history, to the silly 8-track tapes full of lies which often find their way back into our conscience, we are all impacted by slavery of some kind. I have no intent of belittling the true, disgusting and very real issue of humans trapped in slavery to other humans – it is a part of the culture here in Haiti, the children who are sold or given into a life of forced service of every imaginable kind. But at the same time, the daily battle I know that I fight against the lies implanted in my mind by my own history, the fear of becoming numb to the desperate voices and scenes that pass my ears and eyes, the truth of that statement that those ignorant of their own history are doomed to repeat it – all of these are forms of slavery as well.

Haiti is a broken country. Haiti has been broken by years of regimes and foreign occupation which have, sadly, had similar endings. Then add a devastating earthquake and a cholera epidemic to the mix, and you have the makings of a terribly depressing story. But what never makes the headlines, especially two years after the disastrous events which brought images and stories to the forefront of the media and the world’s stage, is the freedom and the joy that is present in this culture, the happiness and redemption and healing that are happening. Scandal and horror stories sell; positive, quiet and gradual change not so much. Do a Google-search on Haiti and you will encounter images of riots, the earthquake and its aftermath, the garbage-flooded waters of Cite Soleil, the unrest of a desperate people. What you will not see are the photos and stories of new small businesses, the beginnings of sanitation projects, the grants given for agricultural education, the shrieks of joy and laughter of the children who receive their report cards and are thrilled to know they are admitted to the next year of classes at school. You will not see pictures of a brand-new home, just finished for the youngest members of the Angels of Light program, painted with bright colors and with massive space to run and play, a full beautiful kitchen and large bedrooms to accommodate up to 10 children. You will not learn of the fully-functioning hospital in the midst of the poorest neighborhood in the Western hemisphere, with a clinic and staff to treat the victims of cholera and poverty. You will not hear the determined cries of the newborns at the maternity unit in the best pediatric hospital in the country, nor will you witness the amazing transformation that occurs in the lives of the severely malnourished children who are served by the nutrition program. The abandoned children who know love through the dedication and daily visits of short-term visitors and long-term volunteers – these children will not be the next headline. But their smiles and uplifted arms as they take hold of the generous hearts which parade them around the hospital their determined steps damning the physical adversity which has threatened to stifle their opportunity, have a lasting impact on the few privileged people who take the time to meet them, changing the world and shattering stereotypes through the simplest encounters.

My heart is saddened by the ignorant comments and questions posed by those who, after a few days’ sojourn, believe they understand the people of this country and claim to fully know the feelings and emotions of a Haitian who has lived a life facing obstacles beyond an American’s imagination. Those who choose to visit other cultures while tightly gripping their own egos and insecurities, trying to justify ignorance or disdain by using stories of statistics and joining the “poverty tourism” bandwagon, with self-serving motives and intent to feign heroism while telling tales of chaos and posting exploitative images of a broken people – they are slaves. I have been humbled over and over again by the children who break my heart with the full impact of their hugs, who stand proudly in their kindergarten graduation caps and gowns, who fill the hollows of their metal dormitories with their yells of excitement at the arrival of new friends, who can be perfectly contented for a few minutes doing mathematics drills by adding and subtracting rocks, who use the stubs of pencils until they are absolutely decimated, who treasure the gift of a used matchbox car and score soccer goals using oversized Legos.

It is easy to observe the slavery that exists here, a people enslaved to years of repeated history, who are forced into a culture of dependency which has been promoted by organizations offering short-term solutions to long-term problems, who are trapped in economic poverty and living day-to-day, if God wills that tomorrow should come. It is easy to get caught up in the appearance and blatant effects of brokenness which are immediately observable. The challenge is to see past the presumed slavery of hearts and minds, and to work alongside the untiring citizens who refuse to be bonded by the captivity of material and educational poverty, to meet the earnest gaze of the children who smile infectiously and excitedly reach across the divide to touch your hands. They rise to meet each morning with its brutal heat and blanketing dust, and they march against the tide of the last two hundred years. They stand in solidarity with their friends, sharing the few resources they have. They sacrifice long hours searching for employment and selling wares on the street, so that their children can have a chance to break the cycle of history. They cherish each other and work at a slower pace, which can be frustrating to us, the American business-minded and frantic ones, but they are in a way more free than we are. They live life in the present, passionately and vibrantly. They treasure conversation and crave dignity. When asked, “How are you?,” their common response is, “I am very well, with God.” They face their tomorrows with a faith and resolve that puts mine to shame.

From babies hidden in the shadows

to the cities shining bright

There are captives weeping far from sight

For every doorway there’s a story

and some are holding back the cries

but there is One who hears us in the night

- Christy Nockels

Little Moments

Vaccination Campaign, round 3. That's Dani, my roommate and future nurse!

Francheese, resting peacefully while awaiting baptism

Mama with her proud godparents! Her godfather is Kenson Kaas, Director of the Angels of Light program

Post-baptism snack

Goofy girls Wideline, Metecha, Celianne and Metechaya

Words have not come easily as of late – the excitement of the first several months has morphed into the routine of each day, the intensity of this world often overwhelming with its constant battles to find hope and facilitate progress. I find it more difficult to relate my thoughts and emotions. The sheer volume and magnitude of differences between this life and the life of the Western world present themselves in conversations with short-term volunteers, in brief visits with friends on a recent trip back home, in the plethora of modern conveniences available as soon as the plane lands in Miami, in the headlines which pop up on our computer screens each morning, in the dust-filled chaos that is my walk to work.

In the midst of the sobering moments like these, I relish in the little moments and small victories which make each day here such a wholesome experience. Some may have been mentioned in previous posts, but I find them worth mentioning again. They are priceless.

• Stevenson making the sign of the cross before attempting to write his name. Sitting with him as he talks through and studiously practices writing his numbers, all the way through 100:

“I can’t do it!”

“Don’t tell me you can’t do it, Stevenson. You CAN do it! You know!”

“Wait! I can do it!” ….“Look, Brigitte! I did it!”

• Being complimented on my Creole.

• Sharing a long, side-splitting laugh with my nurses.

• The gaggle of children standing in the doorway of the clinic each afternoon.

• Ti Erline reaching up for me, playing with my camera as she sits on my lap. She taps me lightly on the arm as she scrolls through the pictures, wanting me to see each one.

• Completing vaccinations for all 184 of the FWAL kids, fully immunizing them against Hepatitis B, Meningitis, Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Tetanus, Diptheria, Pertussis, and Polio.

• Finding Starbucks Java Chip Frappucino ice cream at the supermarket.

• The chorus of little voices chanting, “Brigitte! Brigitte!” as the bus pulls into the driveway of Ste. Anne.

• Watching newly-baptized Erline eat a slice of watermelon.

• Sitting with Mama as she starts to make sense of her diabetic symptoms.

• My daily 5-second check-in with Wangly: "Brigitte, are you good?" "Yes, Wangly, I'm good. Are you good?" "Yup! Bye!"

• Passing by the bus to Ste. Anne as the kindergartners are rounded up at midday, high-fiving them as they yell my name and pass their hands out the window.

• “Brigitte, I have a headache.”

“You need to drink a glass of water – many glasses of water. Your body needs water. It is very hot out here!”

“I can’t drink water. Water makes you fat!” 

• Reading “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day” in Creole, trying to explain to the kids that the picture doesn’t actually show the gum in Alexander’s hair. Stevenson begging me to re-read it to him until he can memorize the whole story.

• Drilling Miss Boisrond in her English exercises, helping her pronounce the parts of the body.

• Little hands running through my hair and stroking my arms, tracing the veins in my hands.

• Stanley checking on me after a bee sting: “Brigitte, does your back still hurt?” “No, thank you so much for asking! My back is all better.” “Oh good.” (Huge smile follows).

• Joking with the kids after my return from a trip: Me: “Did you miss me, or did you miss the candy I bring?” Mike, 6 years old, after a brief pause: “Umm, we missed you both!”

• Getting the phone call that the years’ supply of medications we have been awaiting since January has finally arrived!

• A cold shower at the end of a long, sweaty day.

•  The restaurant actually having my first choice on their menu available. (For the first several months I was here, it was a running joke – I would go through two or three rounds before my order could be completed!)

• The schoolchildren who enthusiastically call my name as we pass on the street, and the giggle that passes through their lips as I respond.

• Gouda cheese quesadillas and peanut M & M’s.

• A week in Mexico, refreshing my Spanish, remembering my first love of Latin American culture and finding solidarity with my compatriots from the other NPH homes.

• A thank-you note from Islandy, written painstakingly in French cursive.

• Staring at the newly-donated piano, trying to remember any of the songs etched into my head by years of lessons, as the boys beg me to play them something. (Sorry, mom! I could not remember how that Bach started ... I could remember the rest, just not the beginning!)

• Being asked by Mama to be her godmother, finding out that I am also the godmother for another precious FWAL kiddo, Valson. Sitting on the floor during the baptism service while Valson wraps his arms around my neck and smiles hugely at me.

• Haitian 7Up

Fotos nan Lavi Ayisyen

I am in the midst of preparing a written entry, but in the meantime, here are some pictures displaying some of the reasons I am so compelled to be here.

Mosquito nets arrived at the beginning of this month! This is a huge blessing and accomplishment, as malaria has been a frequent visitor to FWAL. From left: Stevenson, Maxuel, Mike and Richardson

My pupil Stevenson and me, doing memory drills

Staelle, Thamara and Fabienne waiting patiently for their Easter presents

My name, written by Stevenson. (Brigitte is the French spelling, which I use here).

We had a baby! Francheese, 3 months old and named after a fabulous Italian Nurse Midwife volunteer, came to Ste. Anne last week. She is beautiful, healthy and growing well!

Antoine and Rose-Berline, Ste. Anne kiddos

My precious girl Erline. We sit together every time I am at Ste. Anne, and she immediately takes my hair down from my ponytail and runs her hands through it for hours on end. She is happy, so very gentle and compassionate.

Sweet patient at St. Damien, the best (and free) pediatric hospital in Haiti.

Fr. Rick, at morning mass, which is most often a funeral. He is committed to honoring the dead from the hospitals, giving them a dignified memorial and burial. "What they did not have in life we must give them in death - respect and peace."

A few of the precious little ones from the Abandoned Room - Lubin, Carly, Lourdy and Naika (peeking behind Lourdy).

Letters with Stevenson

It is easy to feel overwhelmed with the sheer magnitude of the problems of poverty. I have witnessed the undoing of many well-meaning individuals and organizations who have entered the fray of the developing world with wonderful, but short-sighted or self-centered intentions. I marvel that I have been here nearly one year, and that this life has become so normalized for me. The creature comforts of home still remind me of how I miss them. 

I am currently in Mexico, having had an overnight layover in Miami and running into Target for a few necessities – and no matter how much I try to prepare myself, it is a ceaseless amazement to me that there is such a plethora of items there. But thank goodness for one-stop shopping, a luxury that is not to be found in Haiti. Running errands with Joanne a few weeks ago, as we searched through the various NGO’s serving in Haiti hoping to find a supplier of mosquito nets, we did stop at the most well-stocked supermarket I had seen in my eight months’ assignment, but still we had to travel to at least three more stores to find esoteric items such as staplers and digital memory cards (which, after import taxes, ran at least double the price in the States).

In the midst of a stretch of months where many projects seem to be nearing their completion – well, I am glad you asked! Of course I am glad to share the accomplishments of my team with you – we have completed the admission lab work for all of our children, a huge feat in just a few short months; we have begun keeping regular monthly statistics via computer, we will be completing the third round of supplemental vaccinations next month, 38 of our children who tested positive on their Mantoux TB tests are now on prophylactic medication, we have done basic vision testing on nearly all of the kids, which will also be completed within the month, we finally have mosquito nets for everyone at the home!!!!! (Special thanks go to the NPH German office for their work in securing the donation), and we will be receiving a massive order of medications which should supply us for the next 12 months. (Again, thanks to the German offices for their generosity in covering the cost of these medications). As of this week, all of the children will have had a visit with the dentist - Dental services are offered at St. Damien hospital, free of charge, for which we are very grateful and blessed! We will also soon be moving to a bigger container, which will give us double the clinic space and also will allow a private sleeping space for the nurses, storage, and a more peaceful environment for our patients. 

Perhaps the most encouraging accomplishment was the completion of a nutrition program we implemented in October. We identified 58 children who were significantly underweight and under-height for their ages. Over the next five months, those children received a supplemental meal every day at 10:00 am, the time of their school break. We monitored heights and weights monthly. Some children were able to leave the program, while others were brought in due to weight loss. Just last week, we re-weighed everyone that has ever been in the program, and I am thrilled to report that over five months, we had a total of 65 children receive extra food. As of today, only 9 remain significantly underweight! That is a massive improvement, and was a huge encouragement to the nurses, the directors and myself, as 86% of the children drastically improved and are now back on the growth curve!

And now to the original purpose of this post – and the addition of “teacher” to my resume. As we were commencing with the vision tests of all the kiddos last month, Stevenson came to me and insisted that we had to check his eyes too. A part of me wanted to laugh, as he has a congenital defect which has been diagnosed here in Haiti as Ocular Muscle Atrophy. He is nearly blind and can distinguish some colors, but not all, and most certainly could not read or write. He was at the FWAL school for many months, but understandably was inattentive in class and was deemed a poor student. A side challenge of the educational system here in Haiti is that there is no individual attention given, and instruction is given via memorization the majority of time. After we obtained an appointment with an ophthalmologist and were given the diagnosis mentioned above, it was decided that we would send Stevenson to a school for the blind, starting in January. 

Stevenson (Left) and a friend at Kay St,. Louis

 Stevenson is a wonderfully sweet and attentive child, desperate for attention and often acting out because he is so frustrated with the inability to apply himself to constructive activities. He loves to learn, and was able to dance the Cupid Shuffle with me after only a few lessons! He still asks to dance, and reminds me when I have not brought my music for many weeks. As times, I will admit, his constant presence at my side and his violent actions to keep my attention were an annoyance to me, but at the same time, I wondered how this intelligent little guy might be able to learn.

After he started school, I asked him daily what he had learned. He continuously said, “Nothing,” and “they don’t talk there.” He was still bored, frustrated, anxious and easily irritated. For the next two months, his answers remained the same, and he could not tell me anything he had learned. Was he reading Braille? Could he see enough to read or write? I knew nothing. I was frustrated for him, as it seemed that the venture into special education was proving fruitless. 

So, the day of the vision test, to humor Stevenson, I decided to go ahead and test his vision with the basic picture eye chart. To my surprise, he could see the largest line – the equivalent of 20/100 vision, with his right eye! Sadly his left eye could not distinguish the pictures. But after seeing that he could recognize the largest items on the chart, I started thinking – if he can see large pictures, why not large letters? I asked Stevenson, “Do you want to learn how to write?” And you can guess his response! So commenced my latest project. I created large letters, colored with bright colors in permanent marker, on pieces of construction paper. We started at the beginning of the alphabet, and covered one to two letters per day, learning both the capital and lowercase letters. I had to double check many times how to write the lowercase, as here in Haiti cursive writing is still taught as the primary form. This makes me happy, as my friends and anyone who has received anything in written form from me will testify. I still love writing in cursive! And will keep up the protest, as our crazy modern age slowly picks away at penmanship skills. The change in little Stevenson was amazing to observe – he was excited, and happy, and embraced the challenge. It has been difficult for him at times, as he still cannot see well once he has written something on paper – he is doing most of his writing by feel and repetition. But the smile on his face when he was able to start writing people’s names was fabulous. He sings to the letters, laughs at me when I ask how to write a certain letter in Creole versus English, remembers incredibly well when we have our daily quizzes, and can recognize every letter. “Show me the other one,” he says when he cannot quite remember.  The other nurses and even a few of the other children have participated too, patiently waiting while he concentrates and writes each letter. Once the children see how excited Stevenson is, their interest compounds!

 I was close to tears when he wrote my name over and over, trying to get it perfect. He runs up to me every afternoon when I arrive, asking which letters we will practice today, and now that we have gotten to the end of the alphabet, he is anxious to learn his numbers. I am now determined to search for a better diagnosis, so that I know if we have considered every possible option for him. Thankfully, a CT scanner is functional at a neighboring hospital. But it is an absolute highlight of each of my recent days at FWAL, to see him changing and becoming a studious boy, hopeful and optimistic about his improving future. This is why I am here. Each day, more reasons are revealed to me. When I become doubtful or lonely, I can go find a little visually challenged boy and ask him to write his name. And now, after years of waiting, he can.