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