Hello you long shots
You dark horse runners
Hairbrush singers, dashboard drummers

Hello you wild magnolias
Just waiting to bloom
There's a little bit of all that inside of me and you
Thank God even crazy dreams come true

I stood at the bottom of some walls I thought I couldn't climb
I felt like Cinderella at the ball just running out of time
So I know how it feels to be afraid
Think that it's all gonna slip away
Hold on

Here's to you free souls, you firefly chasers
Tree climbers, porch swingers, air guitar players
Here's to you fearless dancers, shaking walls in your bedrooms
There's a lot of wonder left inside of me and you
Thank God even crazy dreams come true

Never let a bad day be enough
To go and talk you in to giving up
Sometimes everybody feels like you
Oh, feels like you, just like you

I've met some go-getters
Some difference makers
Small town heroes, and big chance takers
I've met some young hearts with something to prove

Here's to you long shots
You dark horse runners
Hairbrush singers, and dashboard drummers

Here's to you wild magnolias
Just waiting to bloom
There's a little bit of all that inside of me and you
Thank God even crazy dreams come true

I like this Carrie Underwood song. I know that songwriters purposely write lyrics that everyone will relate to and that admitting "I think Carrie Underwood and I are kindred spirits" simply identifies me as one in the masses of minds being manipulated by pop culture. But, it's true. My dreams are usually a little bit extreme and unreasonable, and people think I am a little bit crazy. And, if I could make a career out of "Hairbrush singing" I would.

But, in all honesty, I am just using Carrie Underwood so that this blog post isn't completely ridiculous and meaningless. Really, I just wanted a reason to write about my actual crazy dreams. I have really really really weird dreams (the kind you have when you are sleeping). Some people dream about things they want to happen, or things that are going to happen. I would settle for things that have the potential to happen in our physical world. Mine are more like an acid trip (or at least what I assume an acid trip would be like).

But, I think my brother Dave misses hearing about them. Dave likes me to describe my bizarre dreams in detail. Start to finish. (By "likes", I definitely mean that he tolerates it, and only because I have done it since I was 5, and thus, we find it funny, simply based on the fact that way too many hours of our lives have been wasted with my detailed descriptions). So anyways, since being in Africa, I have been taking an anti-malarial medication, which has one of the listed side-effects as "bizarre dreams". I felt that my "condition" could be considered a legitimate contraindication to taking the medication; but the doctor didn't concur. So, here goes my Mefloquine-induced rendition of last night's dream (which will probably be of no interest to anyone but Daisy, but I know that he faithfully reads my blog):

Rick, Amanda, Dave, Krissy and I were hiking the trail to the falls at Harrison Park, where we camp every year for Thanksgiving. It started out as a typical thanksgiving day hike, with Aunt Doris and apples and everything, but quickly turned into more like an international walk-a-thon, with participants from numerous different countries walking (for some sort of noble cause, I can only assume) in a setting that I am pretty sure is from the "running" part in Forrest Gump. So, the five of us decide to ditch the old folks, to walk at a faster pace. Soon, we catch up with the rest of the Canadians, all of whom are wearing disgusting red sweatshirts (the kind people wear at Christmas that have appliqued Christmas trees or snowmen on them). For the purposes of the Canadian walk-a-thon team, there were no appliques, but the sweatshirts were still ugly. And everyone was wearing white collared shirts underneath their sweatshirts, which, in my opinion, isn't the most appropriate attire for the said activity, but whatever. We complete the Forrest Gump phase of the race, and enter a forest. In the forest, we start finding bones lying around. The kind archeologists play with (not exactly sure what an archaeologist does....but I am pretty sure bones are involved). The bones get larger and larger and soon we happen upon the pelvis and hip bones of the world's largest woolly mammoth (obviously). Out of nowhere, the guy from "Night at the Museum" appears and tries to steal the very very large mammoth pelvis. Our group, being very devoted archaeological enthusiasts, refuse to hand over our discovery. We fight the ""Night at the Museum" guy, successfully, and carry our treasure to the butterfly conservatory in Niagara Falls. Because, where else would they really need an 8-foot woolly mammoth fossil?

-the end

I realize that there may be some technical inaccuracies in this account, but I can't really take responsibility for any of it. It is 100% as it occurred in my head. YOUR WELCOME DAISY!!!!!

I think I might never come home. Never one to make overgeneralized or exaggerated statements that have little reflection on reality, I probably will in fact come home. But this week makes me question how life can go on as I used to know it, when there are little boys like Abraham out there to be loved. Yesterday I took care of Abraham, an 8-year old who had to be readmitted to the hospital after a hernia repair, due to a post-op infection he got from "excessive playing". An inguinal hernia repair is a relatively simple procedure; Most patients go home the day after surgery, as was the case with Abraham. I am not completely sure about Abraham's home and family life, but I get the sense that nobody would have stopped him from spending the day running around screaming and laughing and playing football. Thus, he ended up back with us this week with a large wound and needing antibiotics. And thus, I have found the reason God invented smiles.

Abraham speaks Liberian English, which as I may have mentioned previously, is as far from what we call English as any other foreign language. (On a completely unrelated topic, if you are interested, my friends Mark & Peggy are physicians on the ship, and their most recent blog has a detailed description of how to take a Liberian Health History which might be amusing to some: http://mercyinafrica.blogspot.com/2008/03/you-can-understand-me-yea.html). So, there is a language barrier. Not that it matters even a little when connecting with a child. They say that 80% of communication is non-verbal (I like quoting statistics that I make up, but are probably somewhat close to the real statistic, which, is probably made up as well, but at least is made up by someone with a lot of credentials). Anyways...what a fantastic example of how we can relate and communicate without words. After a day of colouring rainbow Cliffords (the big red dog doesn't have to be red in Liberia), and building lego castles, and making bizarre faces at one another and trying relentlessly to understand (most times unsuccessfully) what the other was saying, I think we are in love. He barely screamed at me at all when I did his dressing change, which I can only imagine is more than a little bit painful. And then as he was falling asleep last night, he asked he to pray for him. He gave me kisses and held my hands in his and fell asleep. It's hard to imagine anything touching my heart more.

It's hard because as much as I would like to just soak up the love and feel incredibly privileged to be a part of his world for a time, I want to do more. I want to offer more to Abraham than just some special moments for a couple days in our well-stocked, comfortable, air conditioned hospital. I want to make the reality that he is going to return to next week a little better. I want him to have a family that loves him and that takes care of him so that he never gets hurt and feels safe. I want him to have food and clean water to drink so that he has a functioning immune system. I want him to have enough money to go to school so that he can become a contractor and build grown-up lego castles.

I know that he probably won't have all, if any of those things. I know that even if I devoted my life to trying to make his life better, he is one child of millions, which makes it feel futile. But I also know that "it makes a difference to this one".

Amongst the myriad of advise and counselling and words of wisdom imparted on us when we were starting our time here on Mercy Ships, one story stood out for me. I can't even remember the specifics of the woman's situation, but I remember that her story was horrendous. She had lived through war and seen atrocities that we would find incomprehensible. Every single thing that had happened in her life had sent her the message that the world is a bad place. Not a thing had ever happened to her that would convince her that someone loved her. Until someone came and selflessly cared for her and took on her problem as their own and helped. She said it was the first time she knew she was loved. Knowing you are loved can change your entire perspective on life. We aren't here to prove that we love the people of Liberia. I believe we are here to prove to them that God loves them, and that he hasn't forgotten them. We can't solve all of the problems. I don't think we can even solve all of the problems for Abraham, who is just one little boy. But if fixing his hernia and spending the day smiling and playing with him convinces him that there is someone out there that loves him and cares for him, then I want to spend all of my days doing just that.

These are Anthony and Kumassah. My roommate Meg took these pictures of the most beautiful babies I have ever seen. I got to play with them all weekend. I am in love. Before I left for Africa, I used to joke that I was really only coming here to play with little black babies. Turns out, some dreams come true.

I pride myself on being unique. I like it when someone says I am weird. I think it is the weirdness that makes people special and interesting and exciting. That being said, I try to avoid embracing concepts and thought processes that are overused and cliched. Phrases like "everything happens for a reason", though potentially very true, have a very vague meaning in my head. But tonight, as I have been working my fourth night shift in a row, in "B" ward of the Africa Mercy, I have a hard time denying that everything does in fact happen for a very specific reason.

"B" ward has officially become the baby-ward. As of tonight, there are 5 babies for me to love on, and play with, and take care of. Apparently, this is not normal for the wards here. Our patient population is normally much older. We do take lots of pediatric patients, but rarely, if ever are there babies. Let alone 5. I was hired as a pediatric ward nurse, and even that scarred me a little. I came here with the understanding that, although I would be used as a peds nurse if necessary, I may never get to take care of a child. Our patient load here is 100% dependant upon the people who show up to screening, and how their needs coincide with the surgeons we have on board at the time. That means we get what we get, and we have to be able to take care of anyone, with any myriad of clinical issues. I had come to terms with that. But, more than anything, I like playing with babies.

I have a lot of theories (side note: most of which are based on little-to-no fact, yet I choose to believe whole-heartedly). Some of them relate to important things like how people turn out in life is strongly influenced by the messages that are conveyed to them in childhood. Most of them are more ridiculous. I believe that not eating enough bananas gives you Charlie Horse's, and that my poor hand-eye coordination is a direct result of my missing the critical skill development period because of dance competitions, and that if Tim McGraw had met me first, he would have chosen me. Despite convincing evidence to prove otherwise, I think deep down I really want to believe that Santa Clause really does exist, because that would be amazing! And I believe that I understand babies. I feel like I know what they want when they cry, and that I am able to comfort them with better than average skills. I know everybody likes babies, but, I have this theory that I get babies.

So then, what are the chances that the first month I spend working as a nurse in Africa is the same month that all the babies show up? I said to one of my fellow nurse's the other day "I was wondering what my purpose was in coming here. All of a sudden it makes sense". Obviously, caring for babies wasn't the only reason God probably wanted me here. I like to believe that I have a wide variety of skills and attributes and love to share with the people here. But also, I know a lot about babies. I have mentioned before how one of my challenges, not only here, but in general, as a nurse is feeling competent. For this season in the baby ward on the Africa Mercy, I instead feel confident. I potentially have knowledge and skills relating to this population that no one else here has. Considering that, I can't dispute that coming here, at this time, did in fact, happen for a reason.

I just had an fantastic weekend. I offered something to some amazing children that was unique and that not many other people could have offered. But overall, I know I got the good end of the deal. When you make a baby laugh or hold him to your chest or rock him to sleep, you feel blessed. Blessed to have made his day a little nicer. Blessed to be a part of his world. Blessed to be a part of a world where little miracles exist.

Talking to friends and family from home makes me feel like me. Not that I don't feel like me on a day-to-day basis, but ship life, as I have mentioned before, is unique. There are about 400 people on board. A large crew, for the purpose we serve; however, I am surprised at how small it can seem. In regular life, you have the people you interact with on a regular basis, and than an infinite number of people out there with the potential for interaction or the development of relationship, if you so choose.

On the ship, you know exactly who you have the potential to interact or form relationships with. Not to say that this can't have advantages, and that I haven't met some absolutely fantastic people, whom I hope to maintain friendships with well after we leave this time and place in our lives; but, this situation also presents some unique challenges. I made a joke last night that I have been a very "subdued" version of myself since coming to the ship: I don't want to do anything to too irrational that would turn people off, because I only have one shot at making friends. No "fall-back" people. I can't go out and find a different crowd. Mostly I was kidding. But usually sarcasm has a some element of truth behind it.

Nobody knows anything about me here. Nobody knows my past, or my heart, or my family. Nobody knows what I was like as a child. Or the challenges and the triumphs I have experienced thus far in life. I have made a couple friends who I have consciously decided to let "into my heart". I do my best to show my true self, knowing that genuine relationships with people are important and valuable and will not only enhance my experience here, but are going to be a crucial component to it. Even given my best attempt, I know that the version of me that comes out here is a little bit different than the me that I have always been. I think that is inevitable in this environment, with its unique challenges and characteristics. Maybe this is the me that I am becoming and a version of me that is a little bit better than the one that used to be. I like that. But, I love calling home. I love talking to the people that know me. Perspective into the big picture is pretty important to maintain, and talking to home brings me back.

Last night I called my brother and sister-in-law. It was just after dinner time for them, so I knew everyone would be around. As it turned out, they were expecting 15cm of freezing rain, so I could have called pretty much anyone in Ontario, and they would have been home. Normally, I don't love talking to kids on the phone. They usually don't say anything and I find that awkward. Especially when you are calling from Africa and your phone time is limited. Jared and Aislin are different though. I would have paid a lot of money to hear their voices last night. Here is how the conversation went with Jared:

Jenn: "Hi Jared"
Jared: "Hi Aunty Jenn"
Jenn: "What are you doing Jared?"
Jared: "I am playing my drums"

* clarification: this was somewhat of an irrelevant question to ask. The only thing that Jared is ever doing is playing his drums. For anyone who doesn't know, Jared is 5 years old and has been a skilled percussionist since he was 2 and my brother Rick bought him his first set of drums. He now has two sets to choose from or can effectively create a full set from pillows, beach balls, baby strollers, lawn chairs, or whatever household items he has at his disposal. He is awesome.

Jenn: "I miss seeing you play your drums"
Jared: "Mrs. Beckett is pregnant!!!"

That was the end of the conversation. Jared's kindergarten teacher is pregnant. I am going to guess that he had just come into this very exciting piece of information for a 5-year-old's brain very recently. How overwhelmingly happy it made my heart to hear him say it. I love that he couldn't even respond to what I had said. I love that he wanted to tell me. I love that he is genuinely so excited for his teacher.

Being an aunt is important to me. I love those three kids more than I am probably even aware. I like kids as a rule, but Jared and Aislin (and potentially Breanna when she starts to talk) are just so hilarious and come up with the most random things. Like telling their aunt in Africa amidst a very-time limited conversation about drumming, that their teacher is pregnant. I remembered why I like them so much. And who I am when I am not here. Jared, with his one quirky little line, made my heart smile.

There are many differences between Africa and North America (which, just in case anyone was curious, is a term used exclusively by Canadians. To Americans, there is only the United States. Using the term "North America" was a completley novel idea here. Everyone also considers all the Canadians and Americans on the ship to be one big group. We try a little bit to assert our independence, but, we don't have a lot to go on.....some people try by calling us "hosers". It doesn't really hurt.)

Anyways, back to the differences:

- In Canada, a memorable Saturday night usually involves getting dressed up, and going to some sort of trendy restaurant, bar, or cafe. This weekend, it rained on Saturday night. It hadn't rained since I have been here. It is nice not to have to consider the weather when making plans. It is safe to assume that it will always be hot and sunny. But this Saturday night at midnight in Monrovia, a whole large group of twenty-somethings spent an hour standing on the deck watching the rain pour down. The stories I have heard about the relentless rain and ligitimate "cabin fever" that goes along with it have made me less-than-excited for the Liberian rainy season. That being said, I hesitate to say that we were particularly excited about the rain. But there was something going on. Something a little bit different than what usually goes on. So we embraced it and stood together on the dock and watched the rain and lightening. Party!

- In Canada, I can walk down the street and go fairly unnoticed. As far as North Americans are concerned, I would consider myself to be pretty typical in appearance. It is easy to blend. Going out in Liberia is physically and emotionally draining for many reasons, one of which being the massive amount of attention that gets constantly paid to us. Even if we are not in a Mercy Ships Vehicle, people stare. They yell things at us. They ask us for money. If they suspect that we might be from Mercy Ships, they ask us to help them with their health problems. The children wave. Sometimes they follow us for a little while. They try to touch our clothes or our hands. People try to sell us ridiculous things that we don't need. Yesterday, we went to the beach and a group of children perched themselves at the ends of towels and set up camp. They didn't talk to us, just sat and stared. That must be what it is like to be famous. I have always thought it was ridiculous when famous people complained about how hard it is to have so much attention. Don't get me wrong, I still think it is ridiculous that people think they are justified in being annoyed that they are famous, but, perhaps, I understand, just a little, how it is hard to relax and act like a normal person when people are constantly staring at you and following you like you are a freak of nature (I understand your pain Britney!.....wait.....no.....nobody understands that one...)

- In Canada, spirituality is one aspect of many people's lives. Deep down, I believe that it has the potential to be a part of every person's life. The degree to which people choose to acknowledge the role of spirituality in their lives varies widely, but I believe that we were created with the potential and an inherent desire for a spiritual connection with God. The African culture is so much more intensely spiritual. I have been thinking for a couple of days about this very blatent difference. I think that perhaps people turn to spirituality when they are desparate. We see it in our own lives and culture. Everyone calls out to God when bad things happen. When life gets tough, we remember God. Hardships in North America definaltey occur frequently and are awful, but for us, they are rare. Living in horrible circumstances is not the norm for most of us. We all have homes, and jobs, and food to eat (numerous times a day), and medicine, and clean water, and most of our family members weren't killed in a war, and we havn't been rejected by our families and communties due to a tumour on our face, and if we get an infection, it probably won't take over our entire body and kill us within a couple of weeks. People who have lived through horrendous attrocities are desparate. And rightly so. They have no choice but to believe that something higher and more powerful is out there. If they don't believe it, they have nothing. Everyone I know in Canada is loved by someone. There are obviously people who feel lonely, unloved, and sad at times, but I cannot think of one single soul who has absolutely no source of love or joy in their lives. For our lifestyles, we do not need God. Life can carry on fairly comfortably without Him. I have met people in Liberia who actually have nothing. No posessions or people in their lives to make life worth living. Spirituality is an absolute necessity. This makes for a level of intensity that I have never experienced. When people love and worship God, it is full-on. A whole body, whole life expression of devotion to someone who they believe has the power to provide them with something that this world has failed to offer them. And, although I don't know much about it, I know that witchcraft and other religions are hugely at work here as well. They go for it whole-heartedly. This intense level of spiritual presense in the country and in the lives of the people I am serving is so vastly different from anything I am used to. This makes life in Liberia both exciting and scarry. But, I came here to be thrilled and stretched, so bring it on God.

Babies are very forgiving. Most days, being a NICU nurse doesn't continually break my heart. Especially the big babies that can be held and rocked. The moment you pick them up in your arms, they forget that you are the same person who moments ago poked them with a very sharp needle and stole their blood. I can handle them screaming in my face knowing that, after it is all over, I will bundle them up and rock them to sleep and they will do that wonderful baby-thing where they put their hand on your chest and both of your breathing slows and you believe that the world is a lovely place.

As it turns out, the same technique doesn't fly with older children. They have memories. And clear vision that allows them to identify the girl coming towards them in scrubs and associate her with fear and pain. They scream in your face and don't want to look at you after. Apparently, there is a whole world of pediatric nursing that I hadn't even considered. That was the beginning of my week. It was filled with a myriad of emotions as I tried to learn how to balance a 5 or 6 patient load, tried to remember back from nursing school how a bedpan works, and tried to figure out how to give medications to patients that are about 45 times the size of those that I am used to. Overall, by midweek, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself. Anyone who knows me well knows that I wouldn't consider myself a "natural" in the world of nursing. I have always felt that I excelled in other areas. Nursing is a challenge for me. But, I was thinking, perhaps, nursing is a challenge that I am beginning to conquer. Being thrown into a world of completely different equipment, medications, ages and types of patients, and to be honest, just an entirely unique way of getting things done, I was preparing myself to sink. At the end of the day though, nobody had died. I have heard nurses use that criteria for the measure of a good day. Obviously, it is a lot more complex than that, but, considering the circumstances, I felt like I was doing alright.

By the end of the week on the Africa Mercy, unfortunately, things had become a little more intense. "Intensive Care" in North America means ventilators, arterial blood gases, hourly vitals, chest tubes, sedation drugs, and code carts. All things that are pretty foreign to African health care. The last ship from Mercy Ships apparently did not have an intensive care unit. Our main purpose here is to provide reconstructive surgery for things that in other countries would be an easy-fix. Many of our patients go home within a couple of days. However, our lack of resources sometimes means that we cannot foresee how a patient will tolerate surgery. And then there is the inevitable fact that as humans, we have a certain degree of compassion that cannot look another human being in the eye and tell them we cannot help. That their situation is hopeless. It seems that all too often here, we have to say that. But sometimes, we try. And this week, a combination of these factors led to patients in our intensive care unit that I would have never thought possible in Africa. Resources are limited here; However, we somehow maintained a level of care that in some ways, actually did compare to the level of care that we are used to providing in our home countries. But there are also many limitations. Doctors, nurses, lab techs, x-ray techs, supplies, equipment, drugs, are all in very high demand. We are all from various backgrounds, specialties, and levels of experience. This makes for a completely unique and challenging situation. So, we do the best we can with what we have.

When I came to Africa to be a nurse, I knew it would be nothing like what I was used to. I guess the thing that wrecked me this week, was actually how close the level of care came to what I was used to. I didn't think that I would be taking care of a sedated, ventilated child, with central lines doing neurovitals, helping make decisions about courses of action. The fact that it was on a child and not a baby, and therefore, was a completely new situation for me regardless of the fact that we are in Africa is a different story, that is beyond the scope of my brain right now. At the end of this week, I am left with completely mixed feelings. Friday may have been the scariest day of my nursing career thus far. It was very very very hard to provide the level of care that we were trying to provide. I had to continually remind myself that I am in Africa and many of the shortcomings had nothing to do with my personal experience and skills, and were simply a result of the circumstances. On the other hand, we had the potential this week to offer something to patients that otherwise would have been impossible. During one of my many near "freak-outs" on Friday, regarding my own personal fear and lack of comfort, one of the charge nurses made a very valid point that stuck with me. She said "If you weren't here, we wouldn't be caring for this child". For that point in time, I apparently was the most qualified person for the job. I really believe God called me to Africa, for this season of my life, for a specific purpose. That being said, I have to also believe that what happened this week in the intensive care unit on the Africa Mercy, on a grand scheme was allowed by God.

As I start a fresh week of being a nurse on the Africa Mercy, I am struggling to feel competent and motivated. I know that many of us are. I have had this overwhelming feeling of "failing human kind", that may be only partly justified. The thing that is keeping me going is that I know nothing happens by chance. Everyone of the crew members was brought here with a purpose, and it isn't by chance that we all ended up here together. Though we are limited in skills and experience and expertise, let alone resources and equipment, we are not functioning in our own strength or by our own will. And therefore, we are not bound by our human limitations. We have come here to touch lives, and through the accumulation of everything we as a team can offer, we will touch lives.