Sunday, 14 December 2014

  
"Oh my God, are we going to hit them?!"

In the split second my eyes snapped forward and saw the white car rushing up to meet us, the piercing squeal of skidding tires filled me with instantaneous panic.  A moment later, I heard shattering glass and my head slammed into the seat in front of me.  Then, silence.

  

Less than an hour earlier, sitting in a lounge chair with my toes curling in the sand, I had been thinking about how grateful I was for this day at the beach, surrounded by my friends.  As I listened to the waves crashing on the shore and watched the sun slowly sinking in the sky, it occurred to me that it had been hours since I had thought about work, or our safety, or death, or any of the other things that I worry about here.  We had swam, and joked, and jumped on the floating trampoline, and shoved each other into the water, and I had laughed harder than I had laughed for longer than I could remember.  I felt like a kid.  I knew we had to go back to work tomorrow, but I was happy to have a day out of Tabarre, away from the dust and the walls and the chaos and the sadness.  I was happy just to be here, with people that I had grown to love in the past few months.

Although it’s true everywhere that the line between life and death is thin, in Haiti, for some reason it often seems even more tenuous.  We were fortunate that day.  The aftermath of the crash could have been much more serious; somebody could have been critically injured, or worse.  But we all walked away, and the accident gave me the opportunity to once again be grateful for everything we have here, and to remember why I wanted to come here in the first place.  The frustration and fatigue I had been feeling for the past few weeks suddenly seemed insignificant.  There will always be challenges in life, no matter where in the world you live; one of the biggest challenges is simply to remain aware of all that you’ve been given.  To have the ability to work hard at things that matter to you and to love people unconditionally—if you are still able to do these things, you are living well.            

Thursday, 27 November 2014

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest. -Elie Wiesel

This month has brought a huge number of visiting teams to the villa where we live, which has been both rewarding and challenging.  It’s always interesting to meet new people and to hear about the great work they’re doing here, but it can also be exhausting to have a constant parade of strangers coming in and out and to keep having the same conversations over and over (and over) again.  In general, though, it has been a good opportunity to reflect on the many things I’ve learned in Haiti and to refocus on my long-term goals for my time here.

Having short-term visitors working in the hospital has been especially eye-opening.  Some of the short-term visitors have displayed a dismaying lack of sensitivity—visiting nurses have come to our NICU to see the unit and to “help,” which is both well-meaning and completely inappropriate.  No nurse would ever think of entering an ICU in the United States without prior authorization, much less expect to work with patients there.  I have witnessed nurses walk onto our unit, ignore the staff (because they haven’t learned any Creole), and start touching our babies (without permission, without scrubbing, and without bothering to wash their hands between patients).  While it’s true that Haiti is a poor country and many foreigners come here to volunteer and offer aid, this does not mean that standard rules of conduct are obsolete.  Other visitors have made much more of an effort to engage with the staff and speak the language, which is a great start, but I still feel like there is a lack of understanding in their judgments of our NICU—these people have not taken (or had) the opportunity to begin to comprehend the culture and the life here.  It’s easy for outsiders to come in and point out all of the problems on our unit, but the issues that I have seen—lack of resources, staff shortages, poor and uneducated parents—are endemic to Haiti, and not ones that can be effortlessly solved in two weeks or one month.  Every time I hear the statement, “They just don’t care,” I cringe.  While I am aware that there are many nursing practices here that could be improved, I have also worked shifts alongside the nurses here and can honestly say I have never worked harder in my life.  No matter how much you care, it is physically impossible for one person to provide good nursing care to five or six critically ill babies all alone.  

However, I have also been grateful to have these visitors—it has made me realize how much I’ve learned about Haiti thus far, how many wonderful friends I’ve made here, and how much my Creole has improved in the past four months.  In addition, having new people on the unit has forced me to think again about why I am here and how to keep making progress.  I am looking forward to the rest of the year and to the many rewards and challenges yet to come. 

Sunday, 2 November 2014

The smell of incense wafted in and out on a gentle breeze, and I marveled at the sense of calm and peace surrounding us.  The beauty of the setting was arresting:  the sun sank slowly behind the mountains in the background while rolling green fields stretched in front of us as far as the eye could see and roosters crowed in the distance...how could this be a mass grave site?  It was Titanyen, an area that was first chosen as a burial ground for victims of the earthquake; we continue to bring bodies there from the morgue at the General Hospital now.  We were there to celebrate All Souls' Day, and it was hard to reconcile the serene images before me with the knowledge of the immense suffering that I knew was buried only a few feet below us.  However, as I watched the group--volunteers, nuns, Haitians that had seen us arrive and had walked over to join us--trail Father Enzo around the graves, their singing jubilant, the meaning of the day was apparent.  We were there not to mourn our losses, but to celebrate all that we have been given.  It was haunting to be there, but it was also a privilege; I could think of no other place more appropriate to honor the lives of those who have gone before us.  

Saturday, 25 October 2014

The quiet hum of the nuns' prayers seemed almost surreal in juxtaposition with the chaos outside the van.  The pavement was barely visible beneath the teeming mass of people in the market, so the van was forced to slow to a crawl; we beeped and crept forward as the crowd reluctantly moved themselves and their wares out of our path.  It was barely past eight in the morning, but it was already sweltering in the sun and we were close enough to the passersby that I could see the beads of sweat rolling down their faces.  I saw everything from fruit and meat to disposable diapers for sale, but I had to wonder who had money to buy these things and how much anybody might make after a long day of work here. "This is the real Haiti," my friend, Sister Judy, said in my ear.  She had brought me along to work with her in the clinic run by the Missionaries of Charity on the edge of Cite Soleil, and already I could tell that this day would be nothing like working in the NICU at St. Damien.

When we arrived at the clinic, we were compelled to literally step over bodies to enter the building.  I said, "Bonjou," to as many people as I could, patted some of the children, and silently asked myself what on earth we were going to do with this many people.  Sister Judy told me that the nuns sometimes see 400 patients in one morning, and this is despite the fact that none of the sisters other than Judy (who is a nurse) have any medical training.  They've learned how to treat patients over the years simply through experience, and they do the best they can with what they have.  I followed them as they began to unpack buckets and boxes of medications and line them up on the table with practiced efficiency.  The medications are donated and many are expired, but they're better than nothing.  I noticed a recycled milk jug full of some sort of dirty-looking, yellowish cream on one end the table and asked Sister Judy what it was.  She told me that it was a mixture of antifungal, antibiotic, and anti-inflammatory creams--slapping some of that on a skin infection (which are common) would cover most of the bases.  I was slightly aghast, but I think I just said, "Oh."  There were no fans; within five minutes, we were all soaked with sweat.  There was one bowl of water and one towel with which we could wash our hands, although I don't remember seeing any soap and it seemed somewhat futile anyway.

Once the supplies were set up, Judy and I walked into the crowd to pick out patients.  Some of them she knew we couldn't help, like the many emaciated, sickly-looking children who were simply malnourished--she would admonish the mothers for not feeding them appropriately and then direct them to the malnourishment clinic, where they can receive nutritional supplementation.  Others, she would bypass for different reasons ("I never see the mothers if they tell me about their own problems before their child's").  After a few patients were lined up, we would start to take histories.  Some problems were obvious and easily treatable (ringworm, anemia, respiratory infection).  But with almost every patient, there was a list of ailments--an initial complaint ("I have high blood pressure,") would be discussed, and then as the conversation seemed to be winding down, the patient would add, "But my knee hurts too," and then later, "My stomach keeps me awake at night," and on and on.  I personally was baffled by these exchanges and asked Sister Judy how she ever knows what's really wrong--to me, it seemed like all the patients just wanted medicine for something; they didn't necessarily seem that concerned about what that something was.  Fortunately, Judy has twelve years' experience living and working in Haiti and is direct and no-nonsense, so she understands the culture much better than I do and is able to dispense advice and medicine quickly and send the patients on their way. 

Miraculously, by close to noon, the crowd was thinning.  Every single patient was seen, and I marveled at the sisters' capacity and tirelessness.  The thought that I kept returning to, though, was how unshocking the clinic was to me.  I have been in Haiti only three months, but already I am used to seeing crippling poverty, unimaginable suffering, and dire lack of resources.  In some ways, this is good--I am still able to function in the face of atrocious misery and sorrow.  But in other ways, it makes me worried--how can you continue to truly appreciate the magnitude of the crises in front of you when they are omnipresent?

 

 

Saturday, 11 October 2014

Another fun day with the kids at FWAL yesterday...they're all so cuddly :)

Sunday, 12 October 2014

I really can't believe it's already been three months...WOW! :)

Things are going well in the NICU!  I am so grateful that the staff has welcomed me so warmly and I feel like I am finally familiar with the routine and speaking Kreyol well enough that I generally understand what is going on and no longer have to ask for every single thing to be repeated...ha.  Part of the reason I wanted to stay here for a year is that I remembered that when I was leaving France after four months, I was just starting to speak and understand well...hopefully once I can speak well here, I will have the opportunity to work more effectively.  I love the NICU staff and have so much respect for them--they are used to working with much heavier patient loads and with many fewer resources than we do in the states.  Although I was brought here to train the nurses, some of their clinical skills (starting IVs, for example) are much better than mine because they are used to doing everything alone, all the time.  It's incredibly difficult to think about the big picture when you have eight babies (and eight mothers) to care for.

My first project is hypothermia, which seems like the epitome of irony considering how hot is it here...ha.  Nonetheless, it seems like our premature babies are always cold, which is detrimental for their growth.  We have fewer incubators and don't always have extra linens, so I am hoping that we can change some of our practices and increase our parent education to keep our temperatures more stable.  More to follow!

Sunday, 28 September 2014

I've written about many things that are sad or difficult in Haiti, but I have also experienced simplicity, joy, and beauty here that I have never felt anywhere else.  Today, on our day off, a group of us decided to visit Wynne Farm (wynnefarm.org), an impressive ecological preserve in the mountains in Kenscoff.  Hajo and Birgit, our German neighbors, had the idea, but our friends who grew up in the home in Kenscoff also knew of the farm and the proprietor, Jenny, from visiting when they were younger. 

We often complain about the heat and dust here, but in the mountains, it's another world...the air is cool and the views are breathtaking.  We saw acres of vegetables and flowers being grown on the grounds, and also entertained ourselves making flower crowns with the clippings in the compost piles.  Which was perfect, since in the three hours it took for us to hike to the top of the mountain, we secretly decided that it was a good day for Hajo and Birgit to have another wedding...bravo!  And it was a lovely ceremony...complete with a mountaintop picnic, singing, and dancing!  Despite--or perhaps because of--the absurdity of life here, we definitely know how to make ourselves laugh.  Yippee :)

with my friend, Gerald...we are excited for some fresh air!

first sight of the beautiful flora to come!

Claudy and Birgit on our hike

"This is Haiti," I overheard.

Silvia communing with the bunnies

I love this photo...the spirit of Birgit and Hajo captured :)

walking down the aisle

Friday, 19 September 2014

Silvia told me that earlier in the day, every few hours "Claude" would ask her what how long it would be until we got to Kenscoff.  When she and I were walking out of the hospital with him, she had to tell him three times to slow down so that we could keep up.  His excitement was palpable, and it was a happy ride out of the heat of Tabarre and up into the fresh air of the mountains.

 

Arriving to find a home of twenty running, shouting little boys was a rude awakening, however.  Overwhelmed by the disorder, he shrank back in apprehension and pressed himself into us as if trying to disappear.  When Silvia and I took him to the clinic to get his medications organized with the nurse, he fell apart completely and melted into my lap, crying in despair.  The next day, I could see the salt marks from his tears on my black skirt.  We tried our best to distract and console him, but it was no use--his shrieks when they finally peeled him away from us were heartwrenching.

 

Later that night when the younger boys were getting ready for bed, we went back to check on him.  He was calm, but still subdued.  When his caretaker told him that it was time to bathe and put on his pajamas, he stood motionless, small head hanging and frail shoulders hunched.  I was about to move to help him start undressing when I saw another little boy already in motion.  He knelt down in front of Claude and started patiently taking off his shoes.  When he got down to the socks, he folded each one neatly and placed it inside the shoe.  When Claude got back from the shower and stood shivering in front of his bed, a second little boy arrived with a towel and gently patted Claude dry.  He then helped Claude put on his new pajamas, taking care to button each button and to straighten Claude's collar when he was done.

I stood frozen, speechless and awestruck...it was hard for me to fathom how so much compassion and humility could fit inside such small bodies.  To me, this is a testament to the fact that this is a home where love is.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Today I felt the most pure joy I have yet felt in Haiti.

Today our small friend who was injured in the car accident was finally discharged from the hospital and received official word that he has a place waiting for him at the home in Kenscoff.  In his short life, he has already known so much suffering--neglect from his family, HIV, tuberculosis, a serious car accident, loss of sight in one eye--but now, he will go to a safe home surrounded by beauty in the mountains.  He will have plenty of food, consistent healthcare, and an education.  And he will have hundreds of friends and a family that loves and cares for him.  Knowing that he's going to Kenscoff, today was the first day I saw him smile.

This is why we do what we do.

view from the volunteer house at Kenscoff

Friday, 12 September 2014

There is no disguise that can for long conceal love where it exists

 or simulate it where it does not. 

-Francois, duc de La Rochefoucauld

Today we went over to the Father Wasson Angels of Light (FWAL) home to hang out with the kids and I met my goddaughter for the first time.  Love at first sight.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

I was sitting in the kitchen after lunch with my friends Claudy and Taino when frantic shouts started blaring from the two-way radio that the chauffeurs use.  I didn't realize what was being said, but Claudy froze and then leaped up with a horrified look on his face and started running to his van, yelling that there had been an accident.  A driver had lost control of his car and hit one of the vans used to transport the volunteers around the different NPH properties.  At the time of the accident, another friend was in the van riding back to the hospital with a little boy that she had been taking to get some tests for treatment of his HIV.  When I saw the van, the three dents in the windshield where their heads had broken the glass were clearly visible.  We later learned that the driver of the other vehicle was distraught because one of his children is critically ill and he was desperately searching the city for the right medication.  I feel like only in Haiti would these two vehicles collide.  

 

When I got to the hospital a short while later, I found my friend soaked in blood with her head swathed in bandages--the laceration on her forehead was severe enough that she needed plastic surgery.  The little boy also had cuts all over his face, but they were mostly superficial.  I didn't hesitate when I was asked to go with them up to the clinic in Petionville and climbed in the back of the ambulance after they pushed my friend's stretcher in.  There was no room for another stretcher, so they simply handed the little boy into the back of the rig and he laid on the bench with his head in my lap.  I didn't even have time to ask him his name until we got to the clinic.  Riding in an ambulance is never fun, but riding in one on rocky, rutted, unpaved roads through heavy traffic that follows no discernible traffic laws was pretty much the worst transport I could imagine for two people who probably already had horrendous headaches.  I did my best to hold the little boy still with one arm and to try to keep the stretcher from moving and smashing into my shins with the other.  

At the clinic, everything went fine.  My friend was mostly upset that she hadn't had the little boy wearing his seat belt (which, unfortunately, is not at all unusual in Haiti).  She had been working for three months to get him accepted into the home in Kenscoff because his mother is not able to give him the care he needs and the paperwork had finally come through earlier in the day.  But now this.  It seems like in Haiti, so often it's two steps forward, one step back.  I felt terribly for him because I kept thinking how scared he must have been--he was so small, and my friend was stretched out on the bed next to him, injured and bloody; the sole person he had was me, who he had met an hour earlier.  But he never cried or complained.  The only thing he did was take my hand, slowly pull me down onto the bed with him, and wrap my arm around his little shoulders like a blanket.  I held him until we had to leave, four hours later.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Yesterday was my first day working alone as a staff nurse and I survived!  It went well.  I was nervous to be on my own because aside from still adjusting to the unit and the language(s), patient loads here are much heavier than in the United States.  When I got to the hospital in the morning, I learned that I'd be working in "the box," which is the glass-walled partition where the smallest, most critical babies live.  I had five patients.  In the states, I would have had two.  I was fortunate that none of them were very sick and that I didn't have any major obstacles during the day. 

A few weeks ago, I met a man who works at the US Embassy here and his daughter, who were at mass at St. Damien one day.  His daughter, who is in college and has grown up traveling and living abroad her entire life, commented that Haiti was by far the hardest place she'd ever seen.  Then she added, "I just keep thinking that we won the genetic lottery."  I have returned to her comment more times than I can count.  Since living in Haiti, I have reflected over and over on how hard people work here.  I was nervous about making it through one single day alone in the NICU, but the other nurses here routinely work four 12-hour shifts back-to-back, two days and then two nights.  Most people work six days a week.  One of my friends works six days a week at two different jobs.  It's not unusual for the chauffeurs to work 16-hour days if the villa is busy.  And compensation for this workload can be in the neighborhood of $190 per month.  One friend has dreamed of being an engineer for ten years, but can't afford to pay for school.  Another, who is a doctor, would like to put his brother through school, but he has a year of service and a surgical residency ahead of him before he can even think about earning any money.  People here work so hard, for so little, and why?  Simply because they were born in this fractured, poverty-riddled country where opportunity and advantage are scarce.  Genetic lottery.     

 

Monday, 25 August 2014

Today the head nurse said she needed to talk to me and I instantly panicked--did I miss something (I have no problem reading French, but I can NOT read some of the doctors' handwriting!)?  Did I do something wrong?  Am I not working hard enough?  But what she actually wanted to ask me was if I would be willing to work full-time on the floor in the month of September to cover one of the nurses that's on maternity leave.  I was originally brought here to train the staff, but the majority of the issues I have witnessed thus far are due to lack of resources--I'm sure that with more discussion and collaboration there are many ways we can improve the unit, but in the meantime, I'm grateful for the opportunity to work as a peer with the other nurses and to continue to develop relationships.  I was both excited and nervous at the request--excited because they think my Creole is sufficient to be on my own after only six weeks(!), and nervous because the patient loads here are much heavier than what I'm used to in the states and I have to speak Creole and chart in French.  Then again, maybe it wasn't really a request, since my name was already on the schedule...ha!  I start next Monday.

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Today I experienced what felt like an awkward blind date with two men at the same time, and speaking a foreign language!  In other words, my coworker invited me to her house for dinner, and I was seated at the head of the table between her two brothers.  Sa se Ayiti! 

In all seriousness, I had a lovely time and I was honored by the invitation.  Aside from driving 40 minutes down the mountain into the city to pick me up and drop me off, my friend had prepared an elaborate meal and her entire family welcomed me warmly and treated me like royalty.  The conversation over the course of the afternoon was something along the lines of, "You should eat more," "You must try this fruit" (it was kanep), "Here, have this juice," "When will you come visit us again?" "Just let us know when you'd like to come back," "We can take you to the beach next time," "Do you think you would like to stay in Haiti for longer than a year?" and on an on.  I could barely get her mother to stop hugging me when I was leaving.  I was so overwhelmed by their kindness and graciousness--I have been in the country only six weeks, don't speak the language fluently, and had nothing to offer other than a bottle of wine, but this entire family spent their afternoon sharing their home and life with me.  Sa se Ayiti.

Thursday, 21 August 2014

The first few days after I arrived in Haiti, I distinctly remember asking myself, "What have I done??"  But now almost every day I find myself thinking how much I love it here....

“Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything... we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil, can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with an open mind. Every moment is golden for him who has the vision to realize it as such."

- Henry Miller

Monday, 18 August 2014

Today at work there was no running water, and St. Damien is the best pediatric hospital in the country.  The disparity in resources between here and the states sometimes floors me.

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

It's hard to believe a month has already gone by!  Overall, things are going well.  Shana and I still struggle with our uncertainty about our places at work, but the better my French gets again and the more Creole I learn, the easier things get.  We've been busy in the NICU this week--one of the nurses on the unit was ill, so I had six or seven babies to myself.  Yesterday was happy because we got to send three babies home, always gratifying in the NICU.  Today was a little harder because a baby died while I was examining him--he just stopped breathing and we weren't able to resuscitate him in the end.  I asked if I could prepare him for the morgue and tried to tuck him in like he was sleeping.  Death is everywhere here, but we still have the power to respect and honor the lives that go before; what matters is to remain present despite everything and to refuse to turn away.   

This month I've thought a lot about how many people have said, "How can you live there?" or, "That must be so hard."  It's true that compared to the U.S., our living conditions are not luxurious.  There is no air conditioning or TV.  We don't have cars and aren't permitted to walk anywhere.  Our home and workplaces are barricaded behind thick walls crowned with razor wire and secured by armed guards.  There are lizards on the walls, rats in the yard, and ants virtually everywhere; one day there was even a tarantula in the kitchen.  We're usually sweating and often covered in dust as well.  We're surrounded by abject poverty and unimaginable suffering.  But we live comfortably compared to many others, and there is also a strange peace here between the moments of madness.  We have the knowledge that although we are working with people who have little, we have the ability to give them our attention and caring.  With nowhere to go and not much to do, we have abundant opportunities to just talk and spend time together.  And with the endless mistakes that happen when so many different languages are always being spoken, and the absurdities of life in Haiti in general, we have plenty of things to laugh about. 

So while I would say that yes, it is hard here in some ways, in others, life is much simpler--the difficulties all around bring the rest into sharper focus.  And what remains are patience, perseverance, faith, hope.

Wednesday, 6 August 2014

It was so hot in mass today that I sweat through my scrubs before I had even set foot in the hospital, so Shana and I were complaining about the heat as we walked into work.  So easy to let yourself focus on the small, transient discomforts of everyday and reach the conclusion that your life is hard or unhappy....  One of the men we've met here greeted us with kisses on both cheeks and asked us how we were; when we asked him the same, he said he was fine, and then added that his wife and daughter had died last week.  After overcoming our speechlessness, it was impossible to express the magnitude of our regret, but he only said something along the lines of, "That's life."  And it is, here in Haiti.

Saturday, 2 August 2014

One person grabbed each limb and struggled to hold her kicking legs still long enough to remove her high heels before she impaled herself or someone else.  A man--maybe her husband, or perhaps a brother--held her firmly around the waist and did his best to control her thrashing and lower her to the bench before she collapsed.  Her back arched as she twisted and writhed in pain, her plaintive wails piercing the calm morning air.  Abruptly, three pews up, another woman threw herself to the ground and began convulsing in agony, her black skirt soon covered in dust from the floor.  Her shrieks echoed those of the first woman and seemed, in some dark way, to compete to measure her misery.  When the mass ended and the pallbearers approached to removed the coffins, chaos erupted.  Dozens of cries filled the air and the crowd pressed forward around the caskets, as if preventing them from being removed might somehow reverse the death that was being mourned.  I could barely hear Father Rick continuing to sing throughout the anguished lamentations and I marveled at his stoicism.  It was my first time experiencing a type of mourning typical to the Haitian culture; calling it difficult to witness does not do it justice.  I noticed two visiting Italian girls crying quietly in a corner and many other volunteers' eyes were red, although we didn't even know the people who had died.  However, as excruciating as it was to observe such heart-wrenching displays of raw grief, it suddenly occurred to me that in some sad way, this funeral seemed better than many of our daily masses where no families are present at all.

Thursday, 31 July 2014

There's a set of twin girls in our NICU right now that were born the day I arrived in Haiti.  They're small, but fortunately doing well otherwise.  However, I was sorry to learn that their mother is only 16.  The idea of caring for twin infants is exhausting enough; I can't really fathom doing it at 16 years of age, possibly with limited education, complete lack of resources, and no social services to speak of.  The first day this mother visited the NICU, she looked dazed.  Watching her pick up one of her new daughters, it was obvious she had rarely, if ever, held a baby before.  The nurses were impatient and curt, and she remained silent, eyes downcast.  As the weeks have gone by, though, I've seen this young woman show up every day to care for her girls, and she always waves and smiles now when I pass her in or around the hospital.

Last week there was an animated debate going on around the twins' bedsides.  When I asked one of the nurses what was happening, I was informed that the mother wanted the babies baptized.  I kept hearing the word "marraine" and could not figure out why they were all looking at me so expectantly, until finally I remembered that "marraine" means "godmother" and realized they were asking if I wanted to be godmother for one of the twins.  Barely one month earlier, still at home in the states, I had been honored and proud to become godmother of my new nephew, Gregory.  But there had been dozens and dozens of other people present at his baptism to support and celebrate him.   My heart sank.  Surely there had to be somebody better suited to be godmother for this baby than a foreign nurse who barely speaks the language and will only be in the country for a year.  The mother is only 16--there have to be sisters, or aunts, or friends, or somebody who will be helping this girl...don't there?  They had to be joking...didn't they?  But as I stood frozen, looking around, I noticed nobody was laughing.

Sunday, 27 July 2014

If you had asked me two weeks ago what I would be doing in Haiti, "Riding the motorcycle of one of my new Haitian friends with him and an Italian priest," would not have been my answer.  However, if there is one thing I've learned in Haiti so far...it's that nothing should surprise me.  We were just leaving the Feast of St. Anne yesterday in Cite Soleil, slums that comprise the most impoverished and dangerous area in Port-au-Prince.  Beforehand, we weren't sure if it was safe to attend mass with Father Enzo there; constantly warring gang lords control the area.  But we were told that it was fine, and we went in the early morning when the day was just getting started and there should be no trouble.  The sun slowly climbing in the sky revealed many things I have already seen here in Haiti--hovels extending in every direction, filthy streets full of garbage and sewage, stray dogs and pigs.  Small, unaccompanied children, half-dressed and barefoot.  Many destitute people who struggle to feed themselves daily.  But I also saw other things.  Two little boys holding hands and dragging a toy dump truck down the street behind them.  Warm smiles and words from every person to whom we said, "Bonjou."  Bright, eager kids who couldn't wait to talk to us, play games, and hold our hands.  A huge bowl of beautiful fruit that was presented to Father Enzo in gratitude after the mass.  It shouldn't surprise me, but the main thing I remember seeing in Cite Soleil was humanity and faith that persists in the face of all odds.   

Friday, 25 July 2014

The thing that bothered me most about collecting bodies at the general hospital in Port-au-Prince wasn't the stench.  True, the cooler had stopped working sometime during the last two weeks and there was concern about the condition of the bodies as they were being moved; the workers offered me a swig from the bottle of whiskey they had brought and Father Enzo ripped strips of fabric off of one of the burial cloths so that we had something to tie over our faces.  But it wasn't that.  It also wasn't the sounds--the sounds of bodies being tossed one on top of the other, and the sickening noise it made when a body slid out of the cooler; I cringed when one hit the ground, but that wasn't the worst part.  Nor was it the sight--the sight of bare feet protruding from the cooler, of bodies spilling and sliding out into the parking lot, of limbs haphazardly entwined and twisted awkwardly in lifeless poses, of so many shells of people that had once lived and breathed, many still clothed, as if they landed here by accident.  No, the thing that bothered me most was the people that kept tapping me on the shoulder.  Tapping me on the shoulder to ask me if they could have one of the rosaries I was handing to Father Enzo to place on each corpse for a blessing before the body bag was zipped closed.  Seemingly oblivious to the pile of abandoned, lifeless bodies stacked mere feet in front of us, people tapped on my shoulder to ask if they could have a cheap plastic rosary (intended for a corpse) to wear around their neck like some misguided jewelry.  To be so desensitized to death spoke to me of existing in a poverty that I will never fully understand.  As I was told shortly after I arrived here, "In Haiti, nothing is an emergency because everybody is in crisis, all the time."

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

It's hard to believe we've already been here a week and a half!  At the same time, it seems like a long time ago that I left the states...so many things are so different here that it's a constant barrage of new information.  It was overwhelming at first (and I was really missing my baby nephew!), but things are starting to feel more comfortable and every day I make more friends.  Everybody at work and at the villa has been really kind and friendly, so that has made the transition easier.  Also, I was very fortunate to arrive at the same time as three other long-term volunteers--Shana, who lives with me and is also from the states, and Hajo and Birgit, the German couple that live next door.  It's been incredibly comforting to have people around who are experiencing the same things at the same time and I have no doubt we will have a lot of good times this coming year!  I was also excited to meet Merlin, who is an orthopedic surgeon that grew up in the NPH home in Honduras and was checking out the surgical suites here.  I've read and heard a lot about him through NPH, but nobody every mentioned how hilarious he is.  Hoping he comes back to Haiti again to visit! 

Work in the NICU is going well.  In talking to the other new volunteers here, we all seem to be finding that one of the most challenging aspects of working here is simply to figure out what we're supposed to be doing...we're ready to work hard, but first we have to figure out what, exactly, we're working on....  I knew before I came that I would be challenged by this, but I guess I didn't know exactly how directionless it would make me feel.  However, it's only the second week, so I'm trying to focus on improving my languages as quickly as possible and just getting to know the nurses and learning the routine on their unit.  In retrospect, it seems hilarious to me that I was nervous to start orientation at my new job at the U of M last January...here, not only was there no orientation per se, but everything is in French.  Ha.  The nurses have been so wonderful, though--it can be tiring to precept new nurses, and I'm sure the fact that I'm constantly asking them to repeat things I don't catch doesn't help...but they've been so patient and welcoming.  Actually one of them already invited me over to dinner at her house and offered me one of her brothers in marriage, so I think I'm getting along with them pretty well.  Ha ha.     

The other main practical challenge has been getting around.  Because of recent safety concerns, we are no longer permitted to walk anywhere, so although the villa is only about four blocks from the hospital, we have to be driven (all of the properties are behind high walls topped with razor wire and gates with armed guards).  It's pretty isolating.  The UN was actually all over St. Damien last week assessing our security in preparation for a visit from Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon...however, he never made an appearance.  Father Rick joked, "Tell him the babies aren't armed.  The doctors and nurses aren't either, as far as I know.  But the babies definitely aren't."   

A million thoughts have gone through my head this week; the amount of suffering is overwhelming and forces into question faith and beliefs that were taken for grated prior.  Mass is held every day at the hospital chapel and weekday masses are funeral masses unless there are no deceased (which hasn't happened yet).  Usually there are about four coffins, but I was told that if there are too many bodies, sometimes they have to put more than one in a coffin.  Since St. Damien is a pediatric hospital, mostly it's children and babies.  They don't all have names.  Rarely are any families present.  To me, the saddest part is that nobody in attendance even knows who these little ones were, but at least there are some people there to honor these short lives.  I've questioned how people can maintain their faith in a place with so much widespread suffering, but in some ways, it seems easier to find your faith when you have nothing else to distract you.