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.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
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.
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, August 21, 2014
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....
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, August 18, 2014
Sunday, August 17, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, August 11, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, August 4, 2014
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.
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.
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