when i grow up...

Sailing

2011-12-13T09:08:00.003-05:00

Saturday morning, I woke up before my alarm. Unlike most days, I didn't need to lay around for 20 minutes willing myself to get out of bed and embrace the day. Before 10:00 I had already gone to the gym, showered, eaten breakfast, spent a few last precious moments on the dock, watched the crane lift the remaining items onto the ship, mulled with the rest of the crew about when we might actually leave, and secured every mobile object in our cabin to the floor.

Saturday was sailing day.

Now, for all the time I have spent on this ship, I have never accompanied it onto the open water. I have known this ship in three different countries, through various stages of my life, but I have only ever known it to be stationary.

Which was why I was so excited on Saturday morning. Excitement - a sentiment I seemed to share with the other 275ish crew that are currently sailing somewhere off the coast of West Africa - was the overall vibe of the morning. It really felt like we were a family, all getting ready to set out on some big adventure together.

And, it seems that all of the anticipation was well-deserved.

This whole sailing thing has been incredible for me thus far. Highlights are as follows:

- We saw dolphins yesterday. Hundreds of them. Apparently there is something about swimming alongside the ship that makes life easier for them so they seem to hang around us a lot. Which is fine by me.

- It really IS like we are a tight-knit family on a vacation together. Sure, people are working and getting the essentials done, but everything just feels a little bit more laid back. That, combined with the uniqueness of a smaller crew on-board, with no one coming or going, makes for a very cozy-like atmosphere.

- The air is AMAZING! I tried to think of the last time I breathed air so clean and pure, and my conclusion was clearly.....never!

- Sunsets and full orange moons and stars. How anyone can experience such things and not be blown away by the magnificence of creation is beyond me!

I am sure there are more. However sailing does have it's downfalls and sitting in front of a computer screen for too long and causing seasickness is one of them, so this session of counting my blessings shall conclude for now. But, I am left feeling overwhelmingly blessed and romanced by a very powerful God.

Hospital Ship

2011-12-04T09:55:00.002-05:00

It’s a fairly common debate around here: Are we a ship that happens to have a hospital on it? Or are we a hospital that happens to be located on a ship?

The majority of the time, my answer would be “B”. It generally feels like a hospital to me. Despite the added bonuses of fire drills, overhead announcements about fuel bunkering, the constant white noise of generators, the lack of candles, and the pleasure of trying to explain to people that “yes, in fact, I do live on a boat”, my life here typically revolves around the fact that I am a nurse...in a hospital...doing typical nurse activities. Therefore, I have grown a strong affinity for the hospital-located-on-a-ship philosophy.

Every so often – this week being one of those times - I get swayed to the other side. Surgeries are over, all the patients (and a large proportion of the nurses) have gone home, and now all that is left to do is bleach and pack up every supply and piece of equipment that is required for a hospital to function and get the place ready for the sail. Sounds simple enough

Now, I have never sailed on the Africa Mercy, but, thanks to Discovery Channel Canada, I have seen a computer animation of what happens to our vessel when out on the open sea. It rocks. That being said, everything we store away in the hospital also has to be packed tightly and well secured to some sort of stable structure in order to prevent damage when we head out into the ocean.

These are the times when I am starkly aware of our shipness.

Late Tuesday afternoon, I was standing in the middle of B ward with a fellow nurse. A nurse who is incredibly competent at reading a cardiac rhythm, giving IV antibiotics, drawing venous bloodwork, doing an assessment or suctioning an intubated patient. Those skills proved to be highly useless to us when faced with a ward full of benches that needed to be secured to the ground with some strappy-clippy-tie-things that we couldn’t even begin to figure out how to use. We threw the straps around the ward for a couple minutes, with no particular aim, but hoping that upon manipulation of said ties, we might be inspired as to how the integrity of the benches might be preserved by them.

The answer never came.

We really are a ship, and such tasks are best left undone by folk such as us. Thank goodness for Maike, the one member of our nursing team who knows what she is doing and had the place whipped into shape in about a quarter of the time it would have taken us to pretend to do it.

I guess we all have our strengths. The rest of us spent the week scrubbing and waxing floors. Again, a trade not particularly within in our scope of nursing practice, but one that is at least straight forward enough for us to master within a try or two.

This week, we are definitely a ship.

The end

2011-11-25T03:31:00.001-05:00

It’s almost done.

The last lips were repaired last Thursday. Tuesday morning at 5:30am, six of the last pikins (“children” in krio) and their respective caregivers and siblings got on a bus that will start their journeys back to villages all over West Africa. We repeated that potential gong show nearly glitch-free again yesterday morning. By 11:00 this morning, the wards will be empty.

For the first time in over nine months, the wards will be completely still and silent. All the joy and pain and tears and laughter that have flooded those wards will be scattered throughout this country that we have been so blessed to serve this year.

And, I got to catch a glimpse of it.

I walked into this outreach as it was already on its last legs. When the crew of the Africa Mercy had already been stretched and tried. I walked in and got to be a part of it. And, I walked in and got to experience something that I have never been a part of here...the end.

The other night, we rounded the wards, sorting out medications, dressing supplies, transport money, personal possessions, border letters, nutritional supplements, and photos for the remaining fourteen patients. It was obvious: This was all coming to a close. I couldn’t help but notice that last night of camp feeling in my heart.

I started thinking about endings. I’ve experienced a couple of beginnings here. They are exciting and everyone has boundless energy. But, this is my first conclusion. And, I think I might like it even more.

Yesterday morning, as I did my last charge shift of the outreach, we had an amazing time of worship on the ward. Everyone was cognizant that this would be our last one, and as a result, it was no “check it off the list” worship session. We sang and danced and beat on drums and I am pretty sure the phone rang a couple of times but no one could have heard it even if they wanted to. I looked over at Grandma Groundnut at one point and saw tears streaming down her face. She knows she will leave the ward that has been her home for the last number of months and she is sad “to see her family go to another country while she stays here” (in her words). Grandma Groundnut and I spent the rest of yesterday’s worship time with our arms wrapped around eachother - singing, praying, crying a little. Aware that this was goodbye. But, for me at least, aware that saying goodbye means that a good work is complete. That finality only has its bittersweet sting because of the highs and lows that were encountered along the way.

Coming in for the last leg of the race has been a blessing to me. We care when something ends because of the significance it had throughout its course. And, as it turns out, experiencing the end of something significant can be just as moving as being part of its beginning.

My Ami

2011-11-15T15:38:00.003-05:00

It seems that every outreach, one individual child steals my heart. This time, Aminata has, hands down, taken the cake.

Oh, there have been other children, of course.

Like Bed 11 from last week: the 4-month old whose name I can’t even remember because his mother referred to him exclusively as Duck. Duck had an incomplete cleft lip, on the left side that Dr. Gary repaired. Conveniently, this is the same diagnosis and location of my own infantile malformation – which, to Duck’s mama, clearly meant that we were to be married. And thus, Duck & I are in love.

And then there is Kadia, who you have to tickle fight to the bed, in order to get her situated and stationary enough to start her NG feed. At which point she screams at you for a couple of minutes. Then chatters on about what I can only assume is a consideration of how many stickers she currently has plastered to her forehead and what strategy she should adopt to get more out of us.

And, of course there is Sia – our “almost too late in the outreach, but God seems to always provide the way” Burkitt’s Lymphoma kid who is literally a walking wonder. She and I were on a little walk the other day, hand-in-hand, her chatting away, again in some unknown language about who knows what, and I was struck by how blessed I am to get to participate in something that, in any other context, would be a once in a lifetime kind of miracle. And it happens here every day.

But, when all is said and done, it’s Aminata who I hold most near and dear to my heart. When we get up to deck 7 at the end of day shift to allow the patients some “fresh” air time, it’s Ami that I look for. It’s Ami that I will do any amount of running up and down the deck in Sub-Saharan African heat to make giggle. It’s Ami who brings me exceeding joy, watching her take little baby steps when she used to be barely able to sit up. It’s Ami who reminds me of God’s work in all of our lives when I watch her play with toys, not just stare at them, and know that her brain is now nourished enough to allow for close to developmentally appropriate mental processing.

The story for Aminata is far from over. She has a long way to go. More surgery needed. Money needing to be raised to get her to wherever that surgery will need to happen. Her body needs to clear itself of the infection that seems to stick around regardless of the assorted cocktails of antibiotics we have pumped into her. Her mama needs to learn how to treat whatever related mild ailments may surface, as they seem to be having the habit of doing. She actually has a lot to figure out in the next week, before the hospital gets packed up and the ship sails away.

She is by no means home free. But now she has a host of people praying and wholeheartedly invested in her ultimate well-being. That should serve her as well as anything else could.

When your driver hands you a screwdriver...

2011-10-18T04:20:00.003-04:00

I don’t know that the why I love Africa post will ever grow old for me.

Last weekend, we had the opportunity to spend the night as part of an Eco-Tourist Community at John Obey beach, which is located about 80km outside of Freetown, where the ship is located. (http://sierraleone.tribewanted.com/). While we didn’t take part in the whole Tribewanted week-long experience as community members, it was an interesting concept to catch a glimpse of, and it provided us with a lovely way to spend the Saturday night of our long weekend. A small group of friends and I ate 3 tasty meals of African food, had a campfire, spent the night in tents, woke up to the sound of crashing waves, played beach volleyball, swam in the ocean, lazed around in hammocks, and enjoyed the serenity of not being on the ship for 24 hours. However none of these things provided my true why I love Africa moment.

It didn’t happen until we were on our way home. Six of us were packed into our second taxi of the trip (which, to be fair, is actually a comparatively decent occupancy). The rains started to come down. It seems to still be rainy season here, which I had always assumed would finish itself up somewhere in the middle of September. Apparently basing all of your big life decisions on what Wikipedia tells you can be misleading. But anyways, back to the point…

We’re in the taxi. The rain starts, and naturally starts coming in the windows. The driver hands us a screwdriver.

There is no explanation provided. Not a person in the vehicle bats an eyelash. Jeff, who had the honour of the “aisleseat”, so-to-speak, just went about the business of jamming the screwdriver into the hunk of metal on the door where the window crank must have lived at some point in the taxi’s life, and starting the process of doing up the window.

Perhaps the thing that truly made this moment for me was the fact that the taxi driver felt no need to tell us what to do with the screwdriver. That he didn't think to apologize for the fact that a screwdriver would be necessary to keep the rain from pouring in the window. That the whole thing happened just so seamlessly and naturally.

We looked around at one another. Smiled. Loved it. Knew without saying any words that it is moments like this one that keep life interesting and keep us coming back for more.

Having lived it

2011-10-11T16:00:00.002-04:00

Dr. Gary said something to me a couple of weeks ago that I have had a hard time erasing from my mind.

He came into D ward on my evening charge shift and we started talking about how appropriate it is for me to be taking care of all these people having cleft lip repairs because, in his words, I have “lived it”.

I guess I feel like I havn’t earned the right to say I have lived it though. From what my long-term-memory-challenged mother tells me, I never really had any issues. I had my cleft-lip repaired when I was 12 weeks old and carried on to live a relatively lovely life. I ate, spoke, and for the most part looked like anyone else. Never once did a teacher tell me I wasn’t the same as the other kids. Never once was I cut from a team because of the way I looked. Never once was I denied a job because someone thought that having a congenital deformity would affect my work performance.

I had the opportunity to be who I was created to be --- that’s how Dr. Gary worded it anyways.

The unique qualities that I was designed to share with the world didn’t have to be suppressed as a result of a society that told me I was undeserving. We see people here every day who don’t have that same luxury.

Lack of access to healthcare means that people go their entire lives without a surgery that takes little more than an hour. Lack of awareness about the physiological basis of congenital disorders, and sometimes just disease in general, means that people are ostracized from sources of income and socialization. Something so minute can literally have the ability to take a person’s life away on so many levels. Something that is also a part of me but never had the chance to define or dominate me.

This morning, I was going through my 10-yr-old patient’s chart, making sure she was ready for surgery. I quickly scanned the admission assessment, looking for anything pertinent. I found something that was more significant to me that I would have been hoping for. Under “occupation” was the following response

“Quit school three years ago due to teasing”

Her whole life, education, and future, defined by the split tissue on one side of her upper lip. An entire nightmare that she has been living that I never had to experience. A soul that has been denied the opportunity to be shared with the world, because of a socially constructed hierarchy of value. To say “it doesn’t seem fair” is an understatement.

Dr. Gary told me that he loves when – within weeks after a person’s repair – you start to see them coming through. The parts of them that were always there, but that they felt ashamed or unable to show.

It gives me hope, for the ones who are here, having surgery - being given the opportunity to look more like the world expects them to look. But it leaves me asking that age-old question, yet again, of how is it fair that where you are born determines so much about whether you live or die.

It matters to this one

2011-10-07T17:56:00.002-04:00

I remember reading the well-known story of one man's humble attempt to rescue thousands of beached starfish back into the ocean, one by one. Mama Sue had it posted on our fridge for years. I remember not really grasping the significance of the punch line.

“It matters to this one”

At the time, it didn’t even occur to me that some would have considered the man’s efforts futile. I wholeheartedly sided with the labourer, not the skeptic.

I guess then I grew up a little. Went to University. Took “Statistics for Nurses” (aka, we’re only going to teach you what you absolutely need to get by, cause it’s just that hard and we don’t believe you have it in you to pass an actual stats course). Learned about upstream healthcare interventions. Started thinking about the world of limited resources that we live in. Adopted a “greatest good for the most amount of people” line of thinking. Came to Africa for the first time and stood face to face with thousands of people needing help.

Somewhere along the line, I started thinking about numbers.

It’s easy to focus on the numbers. Numbers indicate the significance of an issue. Numbers can prove that an intervention is effective and valuable. Numbers provide evidence. We hear that 22,500,000 people in Sub Saharan Africa are HIV positive and we are shocked by the magnitude of the statistic. But, unless we choose to go beyond the initial shock value of the number, then for me at least, the effect of the number ends there.

Maybe it is because I am, and forever will be a frontline person. I am invigorated when I am connecting or caring for another person. I relate to others – I find it natural to feel someone else’s pain. So a couple of weeks ago, when we were handed the lab slip for one of our patients, indicating in permanent ink that she is HIV positive, it didn’t matter to me at all that she now joins the 2% of people in her country with the same diagnosis. I know the numbers. I give socially responsible gifts for Christmas. I’ve got the GAP t-shirt. But I havn’t spent so much time thinking and reading about HIV in my life as I have these past few weeks. For me, it takes knowing the one.

She has, what will most likely prove to be for her, a terminal diagnosis. And, that news will shatter her world in the same way that it would shatter mine. She isn’t a number. It’s not easier for her to have HIV because so many others around her do too. She will experience it fully. The fact that she is one of millions doesn’t make her any less significant

It absolutely matters to her.

There won't be snow in Africa this Christmas

2011-10-06T06:46:00.002-04:00

The day was already going well. As opposed to doing charge, which is how I spend a good seventy percent of my shifts, I got to be a real nurse yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, the opportunity to put my borderline OCD organizational skills to use in coordinating patients, caregivers, and a constantly fluctuating surgical schedule is one that I am grateful for; However, it also turns out that as a charge nurse, you can accidentally go an entire shift without ever cuddling a baby, if you don’t go out of your way to do so.

So, there I was, being a nurse. Doing my thing. Waiting for Aminata to come back from the OR, where she was having her trach tube removed.

And Natalie, our team leader, asks us what music we wanted to listen to / subject our patients to. She rhymed off the options. Came to the end of her ipod genres and offered “Christmas Music?” with a laugh.

We didn’t miss a beat. Christmas was the obvious choice. Regular Christmas fanatics use November 1^st as the beginning of permissible Christmas celebration time. Always just a little bit more extreme and unreasonable – I prefer to use October 1^st.

And this is the story of how on October 5^th at one o’clock in the afternoon, on the max-fax ward of the Africa Mercy, docked off the coast of Freetown, Sierra Leone; four questionably stable nurses belted out “Baby it’s Cold Outside” as our patients looked on in wonder.

I have always wondered what people with very opposite lifestyles & traditions would make of our highly culturally-specific representation of the birth of Christ. I have multiple distinct memories of my brother Dave, belting out with Bono, wondering “Do the Africans even know it’s Christmas?????” (in the overdramatized, sarcastic way that only Dave can achieve). I have known since that first year my brother serenaded me with Band-aid’s hit that there would never be snow in Africa at Christmas.

Turns out there are a few other things that don’t translate either. I guess I can only be left with the thankfulness that acknowledging the arrival of my King to earth has next to nothing to do with the weather or pageants or songs about eggnog. I will probably continue to wholeheartedly embrace these endearing symbols, simply because of the memories they hold in my heart – but if it so happens that this Christmas, I find myself in Africa, without any snow, things will be alright.

Wrestling with an Alligator

2011-09-30T05:37:00.003-04:00

I started my nursing career six years ago as a neonatal nurse. Most seasoned nurses would probably advise a new grad to start out as a nurse in a much more general field and then move on to something specialized like the NICU. I guess I just knew that it was the place for me. “My unit” has become a second home for me – my coworkers, like a family to me. It’s where I learned to be a nurse. It’s where I struggled through feeling incompetent and learning to thrive. In this past year, it has become the one of the places where I feel most comfortable. In the times when I don’t find myself in West Africa, I know it is where I belong. All that to say, I am a neonatal nurse – through and through. Give me a 600gram baby and I know what to do.

This week, in the Africa Mercy ICU, I have been taking care of Aminata who weighs a whopping 9 kg - which, incidentally, is double what she weighed when she stepped into the world of Mercy Ships about three months ago. Aminata is two years old. As far as taking care of ventilated ICU patients go, two is my maximum, so she made the cut. Her diagnosis, on the hand – cystic hygroma – made me slightly more uneasy. The only patient I have ever taken care of with a cystic hygroma was Baby Greg from Liberia. He was the first African baby to steal my heart and take it to heaven with him. I knew that Aminata’s diagnosis was by no means a life threatening condition, but it’s funny the effect that one significant experience can have on a person.

Aminata spent about a week after her surgery intubated and ventilated. As children tend to do, she lost her ET tube on Monday and bought herself a trach, which will serve as a temporary solution to her lack of airway due to excessive swelling dilemma. By Tuesday, it seemed that keeping her ventilated was causing her more distress than it was worth, so, the decision was made that it was time to wake her up (as it is referred to in the ICU) and give her a shot at breathing on her own.

At this point, it is important to keep in mind that my ideal patient size = 1/10^th of Aminata’s.

Tuesday morning, we stopped the Ketamine and Midazolam infusions. We cut the Fentanyl by half. And we waited for it to happen.

And that is when the term “wrestling with an alligator” bounced around in my head for quite a few hours. Aminata went a little bit squirrelly. We tried different combinations and doses of drugs. We watched her closely. We sang, and held her head and rubbed her back and turned the lights down. We wrapped our arms around her and told her that she was safe. And she squirmed all over the bed. We finally won, but she didn’t go down without a fight. (I am fully aware that any nurse who has any experience with larger children, let alone adults will consider my sentiments to be somewhat exaggerated, perhaps even humorous…but keep in mind that I am usually able to contain my patients with one hand and use the other one to chart)

By yesterday evening, in just the way that makes me ever so happy to be part of this whole thing – she had come around. When her night nurse came to get report, Aminata was sitting up on the lap of one of our day volunteers, breathing room air, and maybe, possibly, even trying to force a smile through her impossibly swollen neck, tongue, and lips. When I leaned over to tell her goodnight, she reached both of her arms up at me in a purposeful motion and grabbed at my neck. She didn’t seem so much like an alligator anymore. She seemed a lot closer to a healthy, on-her-way-to-happy two-year-old; whose life I was blessed to be a part of for a short season.

Still, I hope that a 9kg alligator is the largest I ever have to face.

Sugarloaf Mountain

2011-09-12T19:43:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, we climbed Sugarloaf Mountain – the 17^th highest mountain in Sierra Leone.

Well, to be correct, we set out to climb Sugarloaf Mountain. But first we accidentally climbed the mountain a little bit to the right of Sugarloaf. Upon arriving at its peak, we realized that our intended destination was over to the left, which meant that we would have to climb halfway down Mountain Peak #1 and proceed the rest of the way up correct mountain.

No problem.

Despite it bordering on “sports” – it turns out that I actually really enjoy hiking. Especially this type of hiking. No real trail. Continuously assessing various options for routes to see which is more manageable. Hanging off vines. Climbing up and then sliding down granite rock faces. I find it sort of exciting.

Whilst climbing a mountain (which I should clarify, is an activity that I have experienced exclusively in West Africa), I waiver back and forth between images of Maria and the Von trapp children in the last scene of "The Sound of Music" and singing “The Climb” in my head. Yesterday, we threw some Pocahontas "Colours of the Wind" in there, just for variety’s sake. Needless to say, I was really enjoying myself.

For the first two and a half hours.

Then the climb got a little bit ridiculous. By this point, we were well off the so-called trail. We had been drenched from the rain for about three hours now. It was dark, and the path seemed to be less and less present. My legs were starting to hurt, and everyone’s breathing was getting faster and heavier. It seemed like a really good time for the relief of reaching the summit.

That’s when we arrived at the top of Mountain #2. Which unfortunately, turned out again, to not be the peak of Sugarloaf. It was at this point that I was wholeheartedly ready to bail on our adventure. We had reached the top of two mountains – neither of which had a particularly impressive view - and I was done.

Thank goodness for the rest of the group who remained committed to the goal. If I had been the decision maker for the group, we would have turned around at this point. I knew that however far we had gone up, we still had to climb down, and I just didn’t think I had it in me to keep going. But they didn’t waiver. They wanted to reach our destination, and there was no doubt in their minds that we were going to persevere until we found it.

I think that’s the only reason we ever did make it. It wasn’t physical endurance, because I definitely was feeling it in every muscle and wanted to quit. It wasn’t our navigational skills; because they failed us multiple times. The only thing that really got us there was the perseverance of my friends.

So, we made it to the top of Mountain #3. And it really was amazing. We spent 45 of the best minutes overlooking Sierra Leone, eating packed lunches, and listening to birds and the wind.

And, if it had been left to me – I would have never made it.

Thus, I am left concluding yet again, that life is all about the lessons we learn through it. Yesterday reminded me why it is so important that we live life together, and not alone. Why we need to function in teams. Why two heads are better than one.

Because if not for my “others”, I would still be sitting at the top of Mountain #2, wondering what I ever was thinking!

Again

2011-09-02T13:03:00.001-04:00

Once again, I find myself here.

Everything is exactly as it used to be, and completely new, all at the same time. Familiar and comfortable yet foreign and challenging – if that is even possible.

A new city in a new country. New friends and coworkers. New ways of doing things.

For starters, there is this ship – a 500ft vessel which has set the stage for some of my life’s most significant moments. I walked on board early last Thursday morning and breathed an immediate sigh of peace. Joy filled my heart. I was greeted by loving, familiar faces and had that wonderful sense of coming home to a place where you “fit”. I know where I belong for this time. I know what to do and how to go about things.

And then there is the city. I spent Friday exploring Freetown. I had been warned that excursions into town were fairly dramatic. “Freetown” and “traffic” are essentially synonymous terms here on the ship. I should have been prepared – I guess I thought I was. But, calling Freetown busy is the understatement of the century. It’s hard to truly describe the chaos of the heart of town. Between the open sewers and the vendors and the trucks and the “it’s here then its gone” excuse for a sidewalk, even getting from point A to point B on foot is a challenge. It sort of feels like you are in a videogame but there is more pressure because, if you fall in the gutter or get run over by a truck, you don’t get another life. Maybe I just don’t deal well with being over stimulated in every way simultaneously, from every direction. Either way, I found Friday overwhelming.

But then I did it again today. I went into Freetown - just myself and one friend, with a specific purpose. And, all of a sudden, it didn’t seem near as overwhelming. I would go so far as to say it was enjoyable. Relaxed even. I guess it doesn’t really matter how many times you come to Africa – every time you come back again, it takes a while to sink in. It’s just starting to sink for me. My being is ready, but I guess it takes time.

By Saturday, I was doing my first shift on the ward. D Ward. Where last year, we set up the summer camp craft corner for Tani and Gafar. Where O’Brien was healed. Where O’Brien died. Where there are now new faces: some repaired and ready to face the world and some still waiting. Two o’clock Saturday afternoon, I jumped in. As a result of our Gambian detour, our group left the wards a little short staffed. So, instead of having orientation shifts, I just went for it. I took care of patients in a world that I know incredibly well, and yet felt so unaccustomed to at first. Where do we keep this now? Do we still do it this way? How does this work now?

And again, just like riding a bike, as my friend Deb reminded me before my first shift, it has come back. It all feels as normal and natural as it possibly could. Half the time, I still don’t have the answers to the questions that arise in my own head or from others’ – but, I do know that I am doing it. Adapting. Coping. Caring for those that I have been sent to serve. Maybe not perfectly. Probably still with a lot of assistance for the time being. But, doing it.

We probably don’t ever figure it all out. Perhaps we don’t ever need to. If we ever think we have all the answers, we probably need to start again at the beginning and figure out what it was we missed. No matter how much experience we have, I doubt we ever have the ability to adapt to every situation seamlessly. I am thinking that I would never want to. Because these places that I find myself in are the ones where I learn the truths that I didn’t know I was missing.

How I spent my 29th birthday

2011-08-30T07:57:00.002-04:00

I was excited about my birthday this year. Something about being so close to 30 makes me feel like I have almost, maybe, come to verge of “arriving”. Arriving to true adulthood or maturity or something. When you are 23 and you present your wild and crazy ideas to the world, people smile sympathetically, pat you on your head, and tell you that it is simply your naivety that makes you think the way you do. But when you tell someone you are 30, they are suddenly a little less justified in assuming that “life” will eventually jade your rose coloured glasses. I am not for a second suggesting that I know all there is to know or have seen even a fraction of all there is to see in my 29 years on this earth – but it is nice to be given a little bit of the credit that living life grants you.

Back to the point – I was ready to turn 29.

And thanks to a small rock on a particularly long runway at Banjul International Airport, I rang in the beginning of my 30^th year of life with an experience that I can now add to my list of ways I have lived.

So, it all started with a bird. Or what we thought was a bird and turned out to be a rock. We had stopped in Banjul – capital city of the Gambia – to drop off about half of our flightmates and would have been carrying on and arriving in Freetown, Sierra Leone, approximately an hour later.

Except that we never took off. The plane sped down the runway and just as we would have been about to take off …

“THUNK” ….. followed by a smooth deceleration….. followed by a screeching stop (when the runway, which ironically and thankfully is significantly longer than the average runway, ended).

The captain came on the overhead to announce that a bird had flown into the engine and we would have to taxi back to the airport to check the plane and make sure it was safe to fly.

At which point, I decided that I wasn’t going to see the Africa Mercy any time soon. Because you see folks, this was not my first time in West Africa. Within a few minutes, a crowd of people had gathered around the plane – some of whom appeared official with uniforms or fluorescent vests; others of whom seemed to just have shown up because there seemed to be some commotion. Some people started crawling inside the engine. One dude shone his pen light into the cavity in an apparent effort to help identify the problem. Cameras were out and everyone seemed to have an opinion about what was wrong and how to fix it. Our stewardess even ended up out there having a look. Just didn’t seem like an effective recipe for “airplane repair following bird damage”.

To no surprise, three hours later, after having checked in to a lovely Gambian hotel courtesy of Brussels Airlines, I was sitting down to my first African dinner in over a year with all 150 of my flight 0225 mates, under a blanket of palm trees, minilights, and stars.

And two days later, I turned 29 and found myself still stranded in the Gambia – which turned out to be about the loveliest place on earth to be stranded on one’s birthday. Between pina colodas, a trip to a treetop café, a cherrycheesecake – esque dessert that the hotel chef made for me (which ironically tasted terribly, considering how beautiful it was) , and pretty much lying by the pool for the entire day…..I really couldn’t have asked for anything more.

That, plus the fact that after traveling the entire next night, I finally did arrive, safely and soundly on the ship, made me a fairly happy, legitimate almost 30-year-old.

Prepared

2011-07-19T00:36:00.006-04:00

It's happening again.

Last weekend, it all sort of clicked in my head. It's time to start getting excited again. It's time to start feeling the things again that only Africa can stir up in me. It's time to start thinking about the things that, despite having experienced before, I know I can't truly prepare for.

It's happening in my head and the excitement is quickly working it's way towards my heart. As desperately as I try to avoid romanticizing the whole thing, I can't help but find life a little bit sweeter, just knowing I get to spend the next 4 months on a floating white hospital.

I don't have my plane ticket. My apartment looks like it has been attacked by a group of college kids. I still don't know what to do with my car when I go. I work about 452hrs/week up until the day I leave. Never in my life have I felt so strikingly aware of my personal flaws & weaknesses. My to-do list is rubbish.

And yet, I have never been more ready. Because I think I finally get that we are never really "prepared" for these things, the way we think we should be. I might find the time to clean and organize my room. I might make and cross off every item on a highly structured list. I might finally take the time to figure out how to overcome the things in my life that hold me back. I might even figure out a sleep routine amidst flipping back and forth between day & night shifts and actually land on the other side of the world not already jet-lagged. The funny thing is that these things always come together.

Despite it all, I feel prepared. I think that preparation really has very little to do with lists and finances and plans. The reality is, I am ready to be used for the purpose my maker designed me for. Ready, once again, to learn and to teach, to laugh and to cry, to be challenged and broken and to fail and succeed - in a place where I know my heart beats a little bit stronger.

Challenges

2010-06-23T08:05:00.007-04:00

The other day a friend, who had recently left our floating home sent me an instant message asking how ship life was going for me. The tricky thing about instant messaging is that it forces you to summarize oceans of emotions together into brief, cohesive sentences. I had no problem.

“You know…..the same….amazingly wonderful and horribly challenging all at the same time”

It’s just how it is. The wonderful side tips the scales, obviously. I can think of nothing that I would rather be doing than living this life, doing what I am doing. It is overwhelmingly rewarding and downright incredible to spend the better part of all of my wakeful hours contributing to something in which I believe so strongly.

But, the challenge part of it all is just as existent, and I am beginning to think, just as important as the rest of it.

We are taught from such a young age that through trial, strength is developed. The preacher at church last Sunday morning reminded us that “…when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing” (James 1:2-3). His words came as an insightful conclusion to a challenging, yet entertaining morning. Rainy season has arrived in Togo. When we woke up and saw the massive amounts of water streaming from the sky with intense determination, we briefly considered bailing on our plans to go to church. But that would have meant we missed the important part – the part where our group, plus about 25 of the members of the congregation bailed a foot of water out of the church, so that church could happen. As I looked around at the group, in probably what is their only set of church clothes, soaked head to toe, using buckets and serving bowls and towels to defend their church home from water damage, I couldn’t help but be touched by the devotion and determination displayed.

When you care about something, you work for it….sacrifice for it….put your heart into it. And if you have to work, sacrifice, and put your heart into something, you can’t help but end up caring deeply about it.

Our approach to adversity is peculiar really: despite the fact that it is entirely inevitable and most often, completely out of our control, we dread its presence. And because we are in the habit of convincing ourselves to believe in a standard of utopia, we feel slighted when it shows its unfortunate face. The thing is - there is not a single one among us who has been promised a life free of trouble. The Bible doesn’t say if you face troubles, but when.

As I reflect on these last couple of months, I wonder what has changed me the most…where I learned the most….what will stick with me and define who I become. O’brien, Aissa, Tani, Abel, O’brien’s mama, fat baby Marius, bartering for hours with vendors in markets, being squished in taxis with seven others, working in areas that aren’t my comfort zone, having to make “bunk beds” in the wards to fit all the patients in, eating foods that I didn’t think I would like, trying and failing at walking across Togo, failing miserably at communicating in French – small trials that forced me to grow and learning from people who have encountered much greater trials than I have yet to face.

As much as the anticipation of adversity can be overwhelming, I would argue that we are completely dependant on it. A life of perfection on this earth is, at best, a falsehood. Trials will come. They will hurt. They might leave scars. But they will make us people of substance who are intensely purpose-driven in their passions.

Beauty

2010-06-15T05:27:00.018-04:00

Two years ago, Africa changed me. It changed the way I thought about what it means to be human. Perhaps at the time, I thought the change was like a one-time graduation from naivety to enlightenment. It seems however, that as so many before me have cautioned, learning really is a never-ending journey.

These last couple of weeks, one of our patients - an absolutely delightful little girl named Tani - has completely changed the way I think about beauty.

Physical beauty is one of those forces whose power over us we hate to admit. When you stop and think about it, basing our opinions of one another on a somewhat arbitrary criterion such as beauty seems not only superficial, but also simplistic and downright cruel. However, the unfortunate reality is that it does have a very significant impact on our interpersonal relations. We are innately attracted to beauty. It’s one of the reasons we do what we do here on the Africa Mercy….Because eliminating a feature that is grossly deforming means that a person can go from living a life of disgrace to living a life of acceptance.

Tani came to stay with us around the same time as Aissa was on the ward. I distinctly remember my first day with her. I came on for my charge shift and one of the first things Ali said to me was “Check out bed 8. She’s beautiful. You’re gonna love her!”

I turned my attention to the new little girl in bed 8. Tani didn’t look beautiful to me. Having been in West Africa for a little while now, and seeing what I hope are some of the most disfiguring cases out there, I credit myself with having some degree of tolerance for the worst of it. I would like to think it takes a lot to shock me at this point. But, Tani did.

Though nobody really knows the story of when or how, at some point in her 9-years of life, Tani’s face was burned off. She was left with bits of a mouth, and one eye. Though most of her little body was spared, one of her hands, which she probably used to catch herself when she fell into the fire, was left mangled. To be completely brutal, at first glance, Tani was hard to look at.

Until my experiences with this little one, I don’t know if I ever truly believed that beauty comes from within. It always sounded nice, and makes us all feel better about our imperfections, but then again, we make stuff up all the time to make ourselves feel better. But, Tani made it real for me, because my friend was right. Within 5 minutes of encountering Tani, I absolutely loved her. I like kids, as a rule, but Tani has a special quality within her that is unmatched. She makes it absolutely impossible to see anything but her inner beauty. Every day I spend with Tani, she grows more and more radiant. Her loving, joyful spirit can almost not be contained within her tiny little body.

Looking at her, you would expect that she would repulse others, but Tani cannot help but do exactly the opposite. Her presence is actually magnetic on the ship. Our head chef came up from the ward last night and announced:

“I just spent 10 minutes playing with Tani. It changed my life.”

It probably did. And it defies everything I used to think about beauty. Because Tani has a beauty that is legitimate, undeniable, and worth so much more than I could have ever realized without her.

Road trip

2010-06-14T06:34:00.014-04:00

In order for a weekend trip away from the ship to truly qualify as typical, there are several criteria that must be met. They are as follows*:

Just minutes after your departure, the driver will need to stop at the station, where you will have to...

a) Renegotiate the fare (which will have inevitably gone up from what you originally agreed upon)

b) Pick up a wingman

c) Sit around in the vehicle with all the doors open while the driver and the wingman exchange pleasantries with everyone else at the station.

d) Get gas – which, as a side note, cannot be done in combination with any of the above tasks.

You will begin the trip in a mildly uncomfortable seat, sitting relatively close to one of your friends, with some degree of leg / breathing room. You will conclude the road trip sitting on someone’s lap (in the most ideal scenario, this someone is a wet stranger that you picked up along the road), unable to feel your legs, and with your arms either directly out in front of you, straight up in the air, or wrapped around one of your other twenty travel-mates.

Numerous times along the way, the driver will pull over to the side of the road. The wingman will hop out of his seat (which is always conveniently located next to the one sliding door) and disappear under the vehicle for about 20 seconds with a bottle of discoloured water. Immediately after he resurfaces, the vehicle starts in motion and he hops back in. Nobody has ever been able to come up with an explanation for this one.

When you arrive at the hotel, the first staff member you encounter at the desk will respond to your attempts to explain who you are with complete bewilderment. After a couple of confused minutes, someone else (usually of higher power) emerges and provides you with some reassurance that you did, in fact, make reservations. These reservations will most likely not resemble what you intended them to, but they do usually exist.

You will then carry on to have a fantastically entertaining, re-energizing weekend with your friends in a setting that makes you consider throwing it all away and living in the jungle, under a waterfall for the rest of your life.

Thankfully for us this weekend, every single one of these criteria was met. Although it is always nice when things play by the rules, it was of particular importance this weekend, since Ali’s parents are on the ship right now, and she was committed to giving them a truly African experience. We had an incredible weekend marketing, swimming, eating, hiking, and playing in the waterfall. And, it truly did represent all of the things we love about Africa. TIA baby!

*this list is not exhaustive.

Turkey Dinner

2010-06-09T13:18:00.003-04:00

Life on the Africa Mercy is different than life at home.

We sleep, eat, work, and play on the same 500-foot floating box – having very little contact with what many people consider the “real world”. This combination of factors, as you might imagine, leads to a wide variety of highly improbable and somewhat bizarre scenarios. Often times, I find it amusing to laugh at the prospect of a similar situation occurring at home. Like last week, we thought one of our friends might have a maggot infestation in his foot, so we all gathered in one of the hospital wards to hack at it in hopes of witnessing a live creature crawling out. (Disappointingly, it turned out to just be a regular old infection, so our efforts were in vain).

But then other times, things happen here that make you feel just like a regular person, with regular relationships, pastimes, family, and social habits. Sunday night gave me that special sort of feeling. I don’t remember where the idea came from, but somewhere along the line, our little group of friends - who, in all honesty feel much more like family at this point - decided that, in honour of either Christmas or Thanksgiving (it never really became clear to me which of the two we were trying to imitate), we would cook ourselves a proper dinner. It took about 2 weeks of gathering ingredients and the creativity displayed in the process was creative to say the least (we even considered having a day volunteer buy, kill, and pluck a turkey from the market for us) but, in the end, we were able to prepare for ourselves a full-course turkey dinner with everything that a turkey dinner should have, pumpkin pie and ice cream included. The boys transformed our Queen’s Lounge (aka, the one fancy room on the ship – reserved mostly for the important people that come to visit) into a beautiful dining area, set the mood with Frank Sinatra, and served us fluorescent blue mock wine. We ate until we couldn’t anymore, washed dishes together, and played cranium until 11:00 at night. And I walked away feeling less like a girl a million miles away from her family, friends, and the life she used to know, and more like a part of something that feels a lot like home.

VVF

2010-05-24T12:01:00.010-04:00

The VVF ladies arrived today.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I can say that, from the B-ward charge nurse perspective, things were a little bit chaotic. As we set about the task of discharging half the ward full of max-fax and plastics patients before 9:00am and playing the ever intriguing game of "crack the gridlock" with the hospitality center to find beds for all of our new clientele, the VVF team screened four weeks worth of surgical patients. By 10:00, half of our ward had been taken over by more women than we had beds for, beating drums, and the smell of urine. And, regardless of the fact that we are all working with the same goal, purpose, and hopefully the same selfless motives, there were times when it seemed to be taking some extra effort for us all to see eye to eye.

To be completely honest, I found today to be challenging. I am a peds nurse - an NICU nurse more specifically - and that whole "region" isn't necessarily my forte. Add that to the fact that this whole charge situation is still relatively new to me and every once in a while, the 42 point running to-do list in my brain becomes overwhelming, and I was left wondering if today was going to be the day I cracked. .

I got to lunch and started to cry. One of those emotional breakdowns that happens for no particular reason and I realized that somewhere along the way I had lost my joy. I think my mom used to say that to me, when I was being a drama queen about something that didn't really matter. I remember her telling me not to let the wrong people or situations "steal my joy".

Because the reality is, that there was nothing that happened today that had the right to steal my joy. A couple of extra phone calls, a noisy ward, and a mildly elevated blood pressure for a couple of hours are very little price to pay for what is really happening down in B-ward right now.

By the end of the next four weeks, hopefully dozens of women will be going home with a future that could have never been possible without surgery. And, yes, if day one is any measure of how it's all going to happen, it is going to be a challenge. It will be busy, and exhausting and potentially quite messy. But, I am gonna remember Mama Sue's words, because the minor sacrifices we are all going to make in order to give some incredible women an immeasurable gift are more than worth it.

Aissa

2010-05-18T15:23:00.013-04:00

I’m a pretty firm believer that the most valuable thing we can do with our life is to positively invest in someone else’s. Show them love. Take them in. Care for them. Prove to them that they matter.

I think I try to do that. Most of the time I feel like what I really do is bounce around, doing mildly good works somewhat haphazardly and wishing that I was making more of a legitimate difference. I guess that requires focus, commitment, and a level of sacrifice that tests how much we truly care and how important the cause is. A level of commitment that is rare, but that I have seen displayed over the last couple of weeks in a beautiful love story.

When Sarah first encountered Aissa, she was nearly dead. Having survived a disease that kills 90% of its victims, her body had literally wasted away to just skin and bones. Noma had eaten away a large portion of Aissa’s facial tissue, and she was left with a gaping cavity directly into her mouth, where her cheek should have been. The first time Sarah saw Aissa, she was lying on the ground outside a local pharmacy, too weak to sit, let alone stand, with an insect-covered cloth covering her face. Her immediate thought was that the child in front of her was about to die.

I have to assume that everything inside of her was telling her to run. After having been in Africa for a little while, I am starting to understand the brutal, but essential mentality of “help the ones you can – don’t beat yourself up over the ones you can’t”. But, God specifically told Sarah to help this one – and she listened.

Sarah took Aissa back to the mission’s hospital in Cameroon, where she was working as a physician’s assistant. Aissa was treated and began the long road back to life. Through the use of nasogastric feeds, she started to gain some weight. But with Noma being such a rare condition – and one unique to West Africa, there are next to no facilities with experience in repairing Noma wounds. Truly by the grace of God, Sarah happened to be working with a doctor in Cameroon that conveniently had spent time on the Africa Mercy the previous year, learning about these exact types of patients. And thus began a great journey that seems to be coming to a glorious end.

Over a month ago now, Aissa arrived on the Africa Mercy, in Sarah’s tender care. I distinctly remember my first encounter with the parentless 8-year-old and thinking how obnoxiously misbehaved she was. Some children are easy to love – and some, by no fault of their own – take an extra bit of grace. It was obvious to me from the beginning that she was going to be one of the extra grace required types. But then Aissa had her surgery by two of the few surgeons in the world who actually have experience in this type of thing. A few days later she started to feel better and became the self-appointed ward assistant; shredding paper, sticking pre-op photos in charts, helping make assignments, and choosing the music for the ward from the charge nurse’s ipod. Then she started to learn English and would readily declare to her favourite nurses “I LOVE YOU!!!” (which, ironically, sounded like it was coming from an old Italian man every time she said it). Then, she started this habit of falling asleep on your lap while you were working on the computer. Then she figured out the game of memory to a level that very few humans have achieved and was able to whoop us all at any given time. And it seems, that somewhere in between all of these happenings, Aissa ended up being one of those patients that touches your heart just a little bit more than the rest and I found that it required very little grace on my part to love her. It turned out that an outpouring of unconditional love from all directions, transformed Aissa into exactly who Jesus always meant her to be.

In a few short days, Sarah will have the privilege of travelling back to Cameroon with a beautiful, brilliant little girl who is full of life and potential. I have no doubt that this life will continue to present Aissa with challenges. But Aissa has proven to be one of the strongest, feistiest, most ahead-of-her-time children I have ever met, which leads me to believe that she will conquer whatever life throws at her with a huge amount of gusto. I believe that she will live life with passion, with purpose, and with determination. And, most importantly, I know that she will live. All because Sarah chose to say yes -which makes me think that when I grow up, I would like to be a little bit more like Sarah.

I'm lovin it....

2010-05-14T09:37:00.008-04:00

Between typhoid fever, pseudomonas x "too many", MRSA, an absolutely gridlocked hospital, malaria x "i forget", a visiting surgeon that refused to wear (or maybe it was just answer his pager) and too many ICU patients....last week/weekend felt like much longer than seven days! Ali & her husband went on holiday to Ghana last week for their one year wedding anniversary, and, in her absence, Togo exploded onto the Africa Mercy. (I think she is tired of hearing that she chose the right week to go away). I think the good news is that somehow, after it all, I still love being a nurse here more than I could have imagined I would ever love anything. Yesterday morning, amidst wondering if I had Jeannie's powers to blink and make magical beds appear, I joined in with the rest of the ward for church. As Liz & I got our groove on with the patients, in the middle of the jam-packed ward, nothing else really seemed that important.

And today is Monday....so, here's to more moments like this!

Independence Day

2010-05-11T16:47:00.010-04:00

A couple of weeks ago was the 50^th Anniversary of Togo’s Independence from

France

. As good missionaries do, we decided to go out and celebrate Togolese style. This excursion proved to become by far, my most favourite experience in

Togo

thus far (Easter trip to

Ghana

excluded – since that occurred in

Ghana

). In order to effectively document said excursion, I have been planning to blog about it for the past two weeks…but alas, I am highly distractible and sitting at my computer is never high on my priority list. At this point, I have given up the dream of a clever, informative, entertaining report of the details of my first Togolese Independence Day, but decided that it would still be worth it to post some photos – courtesy of the day volunteers who served as our tour guides for the day.

More than a nurse

2010-05-06T06:01:00.003-04:00

I embraced my patient assignment last Friday morning with all the gumption I could muster up at the end of a long work week. Conveniently enough, Ali’s box of special crafts and a Lion King itunes playlist also found their way to A ward on Friday morning. Aissa, Lovelace, Akoh, Gloria, and two children I stole from B ward for the festivities set about putting together the most counter-culture tribe of sock puppets I have ever seen. (Marius tried too, but apparently breathing, eating, laughing, and pooping are about the extent of his skill set at this point.) Amidst a production line of sparkles, googly eyes, pipe cleaners, giggling children, and nurses singing Hakuna Matada, I met Ali’s eyes. I can’t remember which one of us actually said the words:

“This is why we pay to work”

I started to feel just a little bit smug. After the emotional rollercoaster of the previous couple of weeks, I couldn’t have been more grateful for a shift like Friday morning’s. I had spent the previous day bent over a little baby in an oversized ICU bed, trying for IV’s, building an oxygen hood out of a coat hanger and plastic bag, attempting to build compatible CPAP tubing out of NG tubes, wishing that we could do so much more, and strangely at the same time, wishing we were doing so much less. O’brien had taken another turn for the worse, and he spent Thursday morning yet again, struggling to breath. After 4 hours of fighting crappy saturations that everyone knew could have probably only been resolved with an ET tube that would have then had little chance of ever being removed, I was - to put it plainly - absolutely spent. By 1:00, my comrade in crime and I finally flopped down into chairs and pronounced that we couldn’t do anymore. Not for now anyways. We decided to give our little man a break and, as so very often is the case, less turned out to be more. He settled a little bit - just enough to allow us to report off to the next nurse who would hopefully have some novel idea about how to help him. Needless to say, when I arrived on Friday morning to realize that I had an assignment in the ward, a small part of me was relieved. As selfish as I felt, I didn’t know if I had it in me to be the one there with him again. I didn’t want to be the one who held O’brien’s mama as she held him in his last hours. And, it actually seemed that things had maybe turned around a little.

But, at shift change on Friday afternoon, we got the call

“O’brien just passed away. His mama wants to be alone right now”

I swallowed the words. I chose to be numb for a moment rather than feel it. I carried on as nurses do….administered my last couple of meds, gave report, put away a couple of lingering boxes of supplies. I left the ward and went to meet the tailor who was meeting me to make adjustments on the skirt I had him make. I made plans for the evening.

Then, I did it. I set my own desires aside and I went back. I walked into the tiny little room where she was sitting. Barely through the door, she cried my name. I fell to my knees to receive her desperate embrace. We stayed like that, crying and rocking, until I couldn’t feel the bottom half of my legs. We cried until I felt it. Not in the therapeutic empathy kind of way that you learn about in nursing school, but in the my heart is breaking not only for you, but also for me kind of way. Other nurses who had played an instrumental role in his life came in and joined in our mourning and kissed his head and commented how peaceful he looked. We talked about how hard he had struggled and how he was now with Jesus. When mama was ready, we started to pray. And we sang.

God will make a way
When there seems to be no way
He works in ways we cannot see
He will make a way for me

He will be my guide
Hold me closely to his side
With love and strength for each new day
He will make a way, He will make a way

We held her and cried and prayed and sang because we were her people. We had become O’brien’s people, and for the time being, we had become her people. And, I couldn’t help but think that this was something special and unique that I might not get to be a part of anywhere else. That here, I get to be so much more than a nurse. That this was why I pay to work.

Miracles

2010-04-27T10:42:00.002-04:00

Over the past couple of weeks, I have seen God work in ways that I have only ever in the past prayed for. As a healthcare professional, I have always had a hard time trying to pray for healing. I always get hung up on the fact that all too often, it seems that we pray for healing and fail to see it come to pass – at least in the ways that we expect or want. I have watched families of dying children pray for revival, and then suffer through the exact thing they were hoping to overpower. Overtime, these types of experiences had turned a little part of me skeptical. Don’t get me wrong, I have never for a second seriously doubted that my God has the power to heal, restore, and even overcome death…..but, I had started to wonder, why He didn’t always do just that. And, more importantly, why we needed to bother bargaining for such interventions if the decision had already been made and He had the power to do so regardless of us.

I had been wondering, for quite some number of years now.

Then, just a couple of weeks ago, Baby O’Brien remembered how to breathe before our eyes. Uncle Gary prayed and within minutes, his entire respiratory status was transformed. Like an actual miracle that has absolutely no medical explanation (I would go into detail about this particular incident, but my friend Ali does it more than justice). When I came in for my day shift the morning after and saw what had happened, I made the night nurse explain it to me three times before I would believe. (It’s funny how shocked we can be when things we pray for actually happen)

Just days later, I was taking care of Marius, our other in-and-out-of-the-ICU-baby, on trial number two of what seemed to be at the time, “the case of the trach that refused to be removed”. Forty-five minutes into the decanulation trial and the little baby in front of us continued to breathe at about 80/minute (for those non-NICU types….that is too fast), wheezing and indrawing like a champ.

Maybe it was because we had done everything we could think of and we had no other nursing tricks up our sleeves. Maybe it was because Marius has the most beautiful, huge, dark eyes that pierce your soul and compel you to do something more supernatural than you are capable of in your own humanness. Or maybe it was because my faith in praying for miraculous healing had just recently been restored.

Whatever the reason, I decided I should pray. Normally, I would have said “God already knows our desire in this situation, what difference does it make if I say it?” Or I might have thought “There are too many more important things to get done right now”. But instead, in this case, I layed my hands on his chest, closed my eyes to the monitor flashing much less-than-impressive numbers, and I prayed to my Saviour. I thanked him for allowing me the opportunity to care for His child. I told him that I believed that He was the only one who had the power to heal Marius. And, I told him that we would accept His will for Marius’ life in this situation.

That morning, the miracle didn’t happen instantly. Marius lasted 12 hours without his trach, and then needed it for a couple more days before he was able to be decanulated for good. But, within a couple more days, he stopped requiring any oxygen whatsoever. And, just a few days after that, a repaired-lip, fat-cheeked, beautiful baby Marius returned to the ward in a triumphant celebration of hope and healing.

And, I think I am starting to understand why our faith and outward expression of faith is so crucial. Because I know God could have healed Marius without me. He didn’t need me to stand there and pray. But, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had tears in my eyes when I saw him become whole again. I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to be a part of it. And, if that were the case, then I would have denied Him the opportunity to change my life through changing Marius’.

The tickle

2010-04-01T08:01:00.001-04:00

I realize it has been a while and I don’t have a real excuse. Being a nurse these days honestly feels like all I could have ever imagined it could be and then some. Life on the ship is as lovely as ever. And Africa remains….Africa. (Nuff said).

So, “why the prolonged silence???” I had to ask myself.

And the best I can come up with is that my blogging silence may be directly related to the relative silence I have embraced as of late in my professional role. As far as verbal communication goes….things are harder here. Although I never even came close to achieving the fluency with Liberian English of my friend Ali, I might have come in a very distant second….or maybe fifth. Regardless, I made do. But, like I said – things are harder here. It seems that skipping out on French class in elementary school to write plays for extra credit was a poor decision.

So I have been left figuring out other ways to communicate with the children placed in my charge. Lucky for them, I seem to remember someone teaching me at some point that only 9.3% of communication is verbal. Or maybe it is 14.6% (it would be fair at this point to question whether I actually attended school at all). What I do know is that it is possible, if not completely necessary, to learn to connect with another person without the use of words.

Which brings me to the point of this mostly-senseless-thus-far rambling: I have recently discovered the significance of “the tickle”.

It started with Junior. It happened three weeks ago, which, in case you are keeping track, is quite a number of weeks into this outreach. I might have been starting to question whether or not I would be able to ever connect with these kids the way I wanted. But I quickly found that, at any given time, day or night, I could produce the most glorious 7-yr-old belly laugh just by tickling / tackling him to the ground. Chalking it up to coincidence and the uniqueness of the child, I refused to give myself too much credit.

However, a double-fisted handful of 2 – 10yr olds later and I am willing to make a very bold assertion: Communication really IS 91.2% non-verbal. Through balloons, bubbles, online crayola colouring pages, and most importantly, embracing the tickle monster that lives inside me (and I would be willing to argue – all of us), I have some new very sweet friends.

Perhaps, I could have learned this lesson (or French) at some point in school. I am pretty sure I would chose to learn it this way.

Bobo

2010-03-11T06:54:00.006-05:00

This weekend, I did my first two shifts as a charge nurse. Fortunately for me, things were relatively slow. I am wholeheartedly appreciative for a weekend void of social drama or medical crises – because anything less might have made me pack my bags and head home. The one minor “situation” in B ward involved a little guy who has now become my most memorable patient of Togo 2010 – thus far.

Nobody is completely sure what Bobo’s deal was. It may be the fact that his name is Bobo. It may be that Bobo is innately a drama queen. Or possibly, as Ali has proposed, it may be that Bobo is mildly autistic (Given my extensive knowledge of autism - the result of an entire year of ever purposeful graduate studies – I was inclined to concur). Regardless of the reason, Bobo spent last week less than impressed with his bilateral casts. For somewhere between 3 – 243 days (the timeline is blurry….I had a stressful weekend), Bobo moaned. In Ewe.

Most of the time, it sounded something like “why-eeeeeee……..why-eeeeeee……….why-eeeeeee……”. Every once in a while, he would change things up and cry “owwwwwww………..owwwwwww………..owwwwwww”, just for variety’s sake, from what I could tell. Extensive efforts on our part to medicate, entertain, and distract the tormented child were essentially futile. I even went in on a couple of my nights off, after shifts to sit with him and play, but nothing seemed to touch this kid.

Finally, after quite a bit of discussion, the decision was made that regardless of whether or not Bobo was just a kid being a kid and expressing his lack of appreciation for his two new plaster companions, the risk that something legitimate was wrong inside them warranted a cast change under general anesthetic.

And on Monday afternoon, the recovery room brought us back this:

The debate still stands about what truly made the difference. Maybe he was bored of his old casts. Maybe when the entire nursing staff prays every morning, evening, and night for “Bobo to have peace”, God listens. Or maybe when Clementine (our Togolese counselor) threatened him in the recovery room that “if you don’t stop crying, you will never get to go home”, he finally listened.

Either way, I witnessed a miracle.

Church

2010-02-28T11:31:00.004-05:00

The Sunday before I left for Togo, I had a number of church family members ask me if I was excited for my trip. I remember having the realization at that point that in one week exactly, I would be in African church. That thought made me excited.

However, due to jetlag on my first Sunday here, and then an unfortunate incident the next week with either the dirt-covered fanmilk bag I had to suck on to enjoy my delicious ice-creamy treat, or the fanmilk itself, I missed African church my first two weeks here. This made today my first Togolese service. As I explained to a friend this morning at breakfast, the three most important criteria for African church are as follows:

a) Not so hot that you require IV fluids to rehydrate in the afternoon – if oral fluids will do, you have chosen the right place (being hot is a given – so “cool” would be an unrealistic criterion)
b) Less than 4 hours (again – it’s going to be long…..also a given)
c) English translation that is actually English

Miraculously, God granted me all three wishes this morning. We had the opportunity to worship at a church that was planted by fellow Mercy Shippers in 1995 in a small fishing village, about 15 minutes from the port that we call home. And, it was everything I could have ever dreamed of.

As I should have been expecting, all the Mercy Shippers were called up to the front to introduce ourselves and say where we were from. We were taught the "official" Togolese national dance (I had already been taught the Togolese national dance – during translator orientation, so I was sort of a pro….except for the fact that while doing the Togolese national dance, one looks quite similar to a chicken and it is hard to look much like a pro while dancing like a chicken).

During the sermon, the congregation spontaneously raised a beautiful song that I knew very well from my time in Liberia. As we all sang “Do something new in my life, oh God”, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that this outreach isn’t just simply “another trip to Africa”, a Liberian reunion, or a checkmark off my bucket list, but that God has unique plans of what he wants to do in me and through me for this season.

But the incident that trumped them all occurred after the service was over. I read somewhere once that “inside the heart of every North American lies an innate desire to box up their old winter jackets and send them to Africa". That always made me laugh – mostly because I think it reflects the way most of us think of Africa. Desolate. Desperate. Lacking. And the reality is that my experience of Africa has been none of those things. But this morning, I got to see the effects of what happens when people really do box up their things and send them to Africa. In this case, the "people" were from a church in Tenerife, and the "things" were brand new toys and clothes. And the outcome was so great to experience.

Because, as much praise as I give to my African brothers and sisters for their spiritual, emotional, relational, and cultural wealth, they often lack the finances for new clothes and toys for their babies for play with. So, to watch an entire congregation open up massive boxes of material blessings was truly an honour. Not because it necessarily changed their lives in any massively significant way, but because through those boxes of goods two very different groups of people became connected. And, if packing up our stuff and sending it to people who might be able to use it accomplishes that, then I am off to find some duck tape....

Yayra

2010-02-25T20:18:00.004-05:00

I remember the day that I truly realized how blessed I am. Blessed and undeserving.

It was the day I became friends with Marion. In crossing the line from caregiver and nurse to friends who found genuine similarities between one another, I became starkly aware that (if God had willed it) our two situations could have been easily reversed. From that point forward, it was impossible for me to view my upbringing, my geographical home, my family, my education, or my experiences as anything more than cards dealt to me by my heavenly father – not at all haphazardly or arbitrarily – yet similarly without obvious cause or warrant.

It has been this type of thinking that has prevented me from being able to settle into a self-serving life. But, as it turns out, it seems that it has been this type of thinking that is also making “this time around” feel so natural so quickly.

On Tuesday, at the reception we hosted for our Togolese hospital translators to welcome them to our healthcare services team, I met Aida. My new sister and I spent the better part of an hour learning about eachother’s lives, histories, and passions. For those few precious moments - for which I was scarcely aware of the other one hundred something people in the dining hall - I became truly connected to another person in that unique, rare way that I used to think would only be possible with someone whom I had invested copious amounts of quality time. But, as Aida told me her story, it was impossible to deny that we have been cut from the same cloth.

“….I know that I am blessed to have received an education…I consider it my responsibility to bless others with my skills…when I look at little children, I know I need to help because I see them as innocent……it is so important to teach people skills that can be used in the future to support their families… people sometimes question whether I am capable to do the job because they think I am too young…God called me to do his work and I had no choice but to go…”

Aida received her post-secondary education in Business from a University in England. She returned to her homeland and, despite initially finding a fairly well-paying, prestigious job, Aida chose to give up her job to create an NGO. God gave her the name Yayra for her organization– which means blessing in her native language of Mina. She and her 5 coworkers travel to rural areas where many groups put little to no value on formal education. As Aida explained to me, education is paid for by the government up until the end of the equivalent of elementary school, but many children do not attend due to a lack of cultural value on school. Aida’s passion is for children to be able to go to school, even if only to obtain the foundational skills they can acquire in the first years of being in the educational system. Her team does teaching, and raises money to pay for school uniforms or supplies, if that is the inhibiting factor. In addition, they try to do agricultural training for families that are currently farming on a small scale, but have yet to expand to a level where their farming can provide a regular income. In Aida’s words:

“I want to help both groups. For the children, they have the opportunity to receive an education, and I want to help them with that. But there are many people for whom school is no longer an option. We want to provide something for them as well”

Aida and her team live the definition of their namesake. In comparison, my life’s vision probably fails miserably. But her life’s work spoke to me - because I saw her, and felt her passion, and understood her vision. And, the ability of the two of us to connect in such a unique way is yet another miraculous blessing.

Inspiration

2010-02-23T18:33:00.004-05:00

When I really think about my life and the vast scope of people who have influenced the person I am today, I am able to identify numerous wonderful people who I have admired. That being said, very rarely do we come across people whose consistent faithfulness and servitude set an example truly worthy of being used as a guide and inspiration for our own actions. For me, one of the rare exceptions has been Dr. Gary Parker. He is one of those exceptional saints who I consider to represent, not only the epitome of excellent healthcare, but also the epitome of who we should be as followers of Christ.

Which is why I know that when Dr. Gary is holding a teaching session, there is something important to be learned. Like tonight, for example.

We have just spent the last week and a half waxing floors, making beds, cleaning the wards, stocking supplies, orientating local day volunteers, hosting members of the Togolese medical community, and touring the non-medical crew of the Africa Mercy through the hospital … all important tasks for the eventual reopening of the wards…..but none coming even close to bringing the satisfaction and sense of purpose that bedside nursing brings to a nurse. So, I was just starting to contemplate the idea of maybe feeling just the slightest bit unmotivated. Or distracted. Or invested in things that, deep down, I know don’t really matter but that seem to start to matter when your mind has nowhere else to be.

Until I started to listen to Dr. Gary’s talk.

I was so clearly reminded of why we came here. He reminded us that the biggest health problems in the developing world have simple solutions. He reminded us that to whom much has been given, much is expected (“…freely you have received, freely give” Matthew 10:8). He reminded us that we have the opportunity to offer tangible hope to people who may have never experienced anything comparable (at which point I considered the very real possibility that bringing hope and healing represents so much more than just catchy alliteration on my Mercy Ships-branded wear).

And just so readily, all else began to fade. Thoughts of whether I would remember how to complete the excel spreadsheet for the patient census when I do my first shift as a charge nurse seem shockingly less relevant.

Perhaps that is how God intended it. That if we turn our eyes to him, trust him, choose to honour him, obey his commands, and listen to his voice – that he will take care of the rest.

"At the end of life we will not be judged by how many diplomas we have received how much money we have made, how many great things we have done. We will be judged by "I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat, I was naked and you clothed me. I was homeless, and you took me in."
- Mother Theresa

Home

2010-02-21T06:09:00.003-05:00

I’m in Africa.

The place that has pulsed through my soul since I left it so many months ago. The place that forced me to think things and feel things that I didn’t know to exist before coming here. The place that taught me how small the world is and how truly similar its inhabitants are, regardless of where they happened to be born.

From a very external viewpoint, my first seven days back on this wonderfully bizarre floating world that I have so quickly come to call home could be considered far less than perfect. My luggage did a 4-day African tour prior to being reunited with me – its rightful owner. Neither my lungs nor my stomach have been terribly compliant with the travel and new environment. And, as any fellow Mercy Shipper could attest, the transition from unlimited personal time and space to this can take a small bit of adjustment.

But, as much as my world has done a complete 180 in the past seven days, something about that just feels..."right"

I knew it the moment I walked up the gangway last Saturday night and was greeted by the warm embraces of friends that I have only been able to dream of for the last year. I knew it the first time we went out to Africa and saw mamas sitting on stools under palm trees, washing babies on their laps and knowing that in a few short days, mamas just like them will bring their babies to our ship and allow me the privilege of caring for them. I knew it when I was sitting on the beach yesterday watching massive, powerful waves crash against the shore and became so conscious of God’s great might.

And the best part is that the best is yet to come…

And from the Queen of lists....

2010-01-23T22:13:00.006-05:00

Things that I am going to miss when I am living on a ship off the coast of West Africa in "T" minus 3 weeks:

My beautiful apartment
Biweekly deposits into my bank account
Katie
Streaming “you tube” videos
Having pretty hair
Vegetables

Things that I am absolutely not going to miss when I am living on a ship off the coast of West Africa in "T" minus 3 weeks:

Waking up every morning and wondering if I have enough layers of clothing in my closet to make getting out from under the covers tolerable
Making decisions (The lovely thing about living on a ship is that 99.43% of one’s decisions are made for them. If my prediction is correct, I will be forced the odd time, to decide whether I want to use my Tupperware to transport my meal outside for a “dock dinner” or opt for the more traditional dining room meal. I am prepared for that.)
Make up (because I am bringing it all….obviously….)
Listening to patients complain about how long they had to wait for their free health care
Snow, ice, sleet, freezing rain, salted cars, cold steering wheels, sliding through stop signs, and running out of windshield washer fluid
Shoes

To do...

2010-01-20T21:31:00.005-05:00

Two years ago - almost to the day - I was doing this very same thing. It's really one of my favourite activities: Making lists.

I have the "to buy", "to pack", and the customary "to do" lists currently on the go. From what I can tell, thanks to a drastic shortage of sick children in the Ontario health care system as of late and its subsequent effect on my employment situation, I am more than on track to being fully prepared for my departure in less than one month. One would expect that such an exquisite display of organization and planning would cause me to be feeling nothing short of smug with myself.

Unfortunately, I can't help but wonder my lists are so short. And why, despite my persistence in attempting to make them longer, I continue to cross off items at a pace that should be the envy of procrastinators everywhere. It seems like it should be harder.

Maybe, the excitement of how I am going to spend the next three months is completely overshadowing the fact that spending 45 minutes on the phone arguing with a FIDO representative is typically less than enjoyable.

Maybe, it is just plain easier the second time around

Or maybe, I am going to get to Togo and realize that I did everything wrong and have to suffer three mascara & high-quality pen-free months. I'll keep you posted....

Taking Risks

2010-01-11T22:55:00.006-05:00

I never cared much for art. Art of any type really – I found it intimidating. I could appreciate something beautiful as much as the next guy, but I always felt like the ability to create something original was beyond me. To be artistic, you have to put yourself out there in a way that made me uncomfortable. I always preferred the safety of scientific equations. You can’t really go wrong with an equation.

There’s a part in “ps I love you” where Holly is talking about this very concept…but with a slightly more positive perspective

“All I know is, if you don't figure out this something, you'll just stay ordinary, and it doesn't matter if it’s a work of art or a taco, or a pair of socks! Just create something... new, and there it is, and its you, out in the world, out side of you and you can look at it, or hear it, or read it, or feel it... and you know a little more about... you. A little bit more than anyone else does...”

Up until about the age of 23 (the point at which I graduated from University, making it a convenient age to remember), I wasn’t much of a risk taker. I made every logical, responsible decision that was out there to be made. On the “straight and narrow” so to speak. Such thinking didn’t allow for too much creative expression.

Then school ended and I realized there was no longer a pre-destined straight and narrow direction for me to follow. I suppose that is probably what sparked this whole world is your oyster mentality that has fueled so many of my major life decisions. The beginning of the era of taking risks.

In the same way that taking the safe path has a fairly high probability of producing a potentially positive (but very finite) outcome; risk taking, in its essence, has no guarantee of producing positive results. The incredible part comes in the unknown. Without taking the chance, we can have no comprehension about the potential for something amazing.

I think that it is the same with God.

We can choose to do things our way. The safe way. The logical way.

Or we can decide that the potential for absolute inconceivable blessings are worth the risk of following God. We can decide that whatever he has planned for us is going to be undeniably superior to what we could plan for ourselves.

Why I Love Christmas

2009-12-20T00:56:00.004-05:00

When I was 5 years old, I learned the “truth” about Santa Clause. I use the word truth in quotations because, despite all evidence to the contrary, there is some part deep within me that would love to believe that there is a jolly, magical man that loves us all so much that he flies across the world in one night, to bring us gifts, based on our good deeds. It seems like a fantastic concept, and I like to believe that it is real.

A discussion about the merits of children’s belief in Santa Clause aside, I am thankful for having a mother that wanted her children to know the true meaning of Christmas. I grew up understanding that Christmas was a celebration of Jesus’ birth. I never questioned it. I read the Christmas story in my bible every December (usually in both Matthew and Luke, if I didn’t have too much homework that month and could swing it), went to church every Christmas Eve, and made sure that I never asked for anything too extravagant so as to avoid becoming plagued by the looming consumerism of the season.

Despite my efforts, I remember often being left feeling like something wasn’t completely right. Even amidst a Christ-filled Christmas, there was always this sense of not being happy enough. And the problem was (and continues to be) that something would always go wrong. Someone doesn’t like a gift, someone gets stuck in a snowstorm and can’t make it to family Christmas, or (as has become a family tradition for the Carrol’s), someone makes a horribly inappropriate comment at the wrong time and “ruins Christmas”. Inevitably, despite our best efforts, not everything will be perfect, lovely, and beautiful. Even at Christmas. Even amidst the celebration of the saviour of the world.

This year, I watched The Nativity Story and it made me think. I know the story well. I have known it well since I was a child. But I know it within the context of children’s pageants and manger scenes and Christmas carols. Things that make the story seem magical. But, as I watched this film, I began to think of how the whole scenario would have felt to experience first-hand. It was more than a story. Mary was a real young girl. She was poor and living in an absolutely oppressive situation. And, she became pregnant without having a husband - which was less than acceptable for her time. When you think about the reality of how it all played out - a 13-year old in labour, in a stable, after having walked for days and days with her fiancé, to pay taxes that they couldn’t afford, to their oppressors - it must have felt far less than magical at the time. It probably felt like an absolutely impossible situation.

The reality is that God’s people at that time desperately needed a saviour. Not so that they could have a beautiful, Norman Rockwell celebration, but because they were living in a world where things weren’t right. God sent them a saviour - in His own way. Which is why we celebrate.

Not because everything in our lives has been made perfect. But because, most often, our lives are quite the opposite. So, if our celebration of Christ’s birth is flawed, or there isn’t enough money for the gifts we wanted to purchase, or someone we love is missing, or if someone says something inappropriate….then we can be reminded of why He came.

And that, more than attempting to have a perfect celebration, in an imperfect world, resonates with me.

Mercy

2009-12-16T22:55:00.004-05:00

It's happened.

I finally got excited. I think that maybe I was afraid to let it happen too early. But ever since I realized that I am less that 1422 hours away from arriving in Africa again, something has felt different. I guess I have been avoiding letting myself feel the way I should feel about doing the thing I think I was born to do. But, with another chance for my dreams to come to realization in the very near future, I am absolutely overcome with joy, passion, and raw excitement

For the last two years I have been wary of implying that serving, loving, teaching, growing, and living in Africa were any more important, special, or purposeful than doing those same things in North America. Any logical person should be able to come to the conclusion that they have to be equal. For the most part, we have little control over where we are geographically located at any given time, give or take a vacation every couple of years. It stands to reason then, that we are called to serve and love the people around us.....not simply serve and love when we happen to be in an area where the the needs are literally written all over peoples' faces.

But the reality is that we were each made uniquely.

I have spent the last two years learning a lot about my brain, and my heart, and my unique strengths. And, as it turns out, this whole theme of mercy is more than a coincidence in my life. While I won't even pretend to take credit for it, I realize that all of those nursing school lectures on empathy must have stuck and I have been left with the ability to legitimately feel what another person is feeling. At this point in my very immature career, I usually lack the tools and skills necessary to solve the problem. But, I feel it. Sometimes, when I am really lucky, as if it were my own pain.

Lately, I have been asking God to "break my heart with what breaks His"....and miraculously, He has. I am starting to feel direct compassion for the patients that I have yet to meet, but that I am going to have the opportunity to serve in Togo.

Some people will change their world by changing policies. Some people will change their world by being influential public figures. Some people will change their world through strategic application of their financial affluence. I hope to change my world through the unique privilege of demonstrating the compassion God first showed to me to someone who may not have experienced it before.

And that excites me.

Back in the game...

2009-12-14T23:02:00.006-05:00

In sixty days, I will once again pack up whatever portion of my life will fit into a backpack, pray that my luck has not yet run out, and head east. That means there are just over....

60 days until I will hold a beautiful baby on my chest that I havn't even met yet and breath in his scent and melt inside just a little.

60 days until I will begin to yet again pay $700.00/month for my own personal unlimited supply of Nutella.

60 days until that big ocean no longer separates me from friends whose recent absence have left significant holes in my life.

60 days until I embark on the daily struggle of trying to communicate with patients in a language that, despite what the Ontario Secondary School System may have tried to teach me, I am far less than fluent in.

60 days until I go from someone who did something cool once in her life to someone who has a lifestyle that reflects who she wants to become.

60 days until I get to once again witness miraculous transformations in the matter of hours, literally before my eyes.

60 days until "going to work" will mean 25 steps down the hall, instead of a 60 minute commute through a snowstorm.

60 days until I will get to bargain and haggle for rides on slightly less than safe vehicles with only slightly above completely hazardous drivers.

60 days until my heart begins to break in a way that I know I cannot yet begin to imagine.

And I can't wait.

The Lucky Ones

2009-09-19T22:54:00.004-04:00

I am one of the lucky ones who actually stayed friends with their university roommates. Miraculously, all of the “best friends forever” declarations stuck, and eight years later (give or take a day or two), I spent the day with the same girls I met in frosh week at Wallingford Hall. Our ever-changing and improving, yet still so kindred-spirited selves, and the next generation of McMaster grads spent the day welcoming Joshua, the newest member of our club, into the world.

The funny thing about our gang (the “Westside Story” kind – not the “hood” kind….none of us would last 2 minutes in the hood) is the fact that we have all ended up in some degree of the same place. Despite significantly different paths of life, we are all proud contributors to the crazy world of health care. And after taking the longest, most atypical routes imaginable, we nurses have all found ourselves living the nurse-to-George-Clooney dream (minus George – he has yet to show up in my ER – but he will).

As always seems to be the case, our experiences in healthcare drove the majority of the conversation today (between pauses to debate whether or not Joshua really could be any cuter. He couldn’t).

Kate has been an ER nurse for a year. I have been an ER nurse for about 5 minutes. Becky has been an ER nurse for minus 2 days. We’ve all got a lot to learn. This predicament provided the groundwork for my second-favourite moment of the day:

Jenn: It’s overwhelming. I feel like in the ER, you have to know everything. And, that’s a hard skill to learn.
Sara (Social Worker….but still pretty cool): How do you measure your progress toward knowing everything? How do you know when you know 50% of everything?

She was mostly being funny….but 10% serious. She’s probably working on the measurement tool right now. That’s why Sara’s great.

And, what would a second-favourite moment of the day be, without a first-favourite moment of the day???

Jenn to Becky (yep, again, I set the stage): How come you don’t wear your wedding band with your engagement ring?
Becky: Did you ever see a Disney princess with two rings on?

The moment.

2009-09-16T00:17:00.005-04:00

It finally happened.

Saturday afternoon. Mid-shift 2 out of 3. I was walking down the hall and one of the attendants asked me if the patient in Fast Track 3 had gone home.

And I, with all of the competence and confidence of someone who works in the ER and actually knows what she is doing, responded "YES!"

At which point I knew....there was no turning back. I was now officially and functionally part of the team. I knew what was going on. I didn't have to ask anyone else the answer. I didn't doubt for a second whether or not *Mr. Adams* had been discharged or not. I answered the question with absolute brilliance and continued on to do one of the eight oh-so-important tasks that where on my to-do-list.

And that one moment - amidst the thousands of "I wish I had some clue what was going on right now" moments that occurred that day - made me realize that it is only a matter of time before more ER light bulb moments occur. And that before I know it, I will wake up one day to find myself feeling like I belong there. And that once that happens, it will only be a matter of time before it all makes sense and the whole reason I decided to climb this crazy mountain reveals its beautiful purpose.

Because now that what I believed to be impossible has happened, I know the miraculous is possible.

*name has been changed to protect patient privacy. Obviously. This isn't Liberia.

My People

2009-08-24T23:37:00.003-04:00

Growing up, I was as close to a wannabe princess as a little girl living in middle-class North America can get. I lived for dolls, ballet lessons, Disney movies, dresses, lipstick, pretty dresses, and birthday parties that revolved around me. I remember loving that there was an entire day (or entire season, if I got my way) when everyone’s attention was devoted solely to me.

Maybe we get out of our system as children what won’t be conducive to our lives as adults. Or maybe I just grew up.

Either way, I know that my 10-year-old self wouldn’t have settled for the day I just had. And more importantly, my now 27-year-old self wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. On the general theme of love that I seem to be rolling with these days, I had so many more opportunities to give and receive it than the 10-year-old could have ever imagined. And, if I had the chance, I am pretty sure I would tell her that what I get to experience now is so much greater than what she thinks she desires.

This grand revelation requires a bit of background and thus the story of yesterday evening: After tucking in my nieces and nephew (aka – the loves of my life) last night, I was watching a rerun of Sex and the City. It was the one where Samantha finds out that she has cancer. Amidst the hype of Miranda’s wedding, Samantha’s rather earth shattering news comes out. Initially they try to hide it from Miranda – because she is the bride, and they don’t want to ruin her day. The scenario goes as follows:

Miranda: Tell me what you were talking about.
Samantha: I'll tell you tomorrow. I don't want to ruin your special day.
Miranda: Forget about my special day and be normal, please. I beg of you.
Samantha: I have breast cancer.
Miranda: What?
Charlotte: See, this is what we were afraid of. Go back to your people. We'll talk about this later.
Miranda: You are my people and we'll talk about it now.Now start at the beginning.

Despite their overt promiscuity, those trendy new yorkers are just sometimes so insightful and profound that I have a hard time not idolizing them. (Sometimes, I think Carrie lives inside my soul…but, that’s beside the point). The important part is that I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams to be like Miranda and have “people”. I am privileged enough to be in relationships that can not only withstand, but are essentially founded upon the fact that we can say “screw the special day. I don’t want to pretend that you aren’t hurting”. I don’t ever want to be the bride if that means pretending that things are different from what they really are. Little by little, I am learning that the opportunity to give love is so much more valuable than the opportunity to receive it. And that idle attention and flattery quickly fade in comparison to true relationship and that ultimately, I couldn’t be more blessed.

Maybe I am becoming less of a princess, and more of a Miranda. Either way, it's been a very Happy Birthday to me

My Broken Heart

2009-08-22T21:27:00.005-04:00

I don’t cry very often. Despite my tendency to purposely plunge myself into environments that lay claim to more than their fair share of human suffering, pain, and tragedy, I have become increasingly good at keeping it together. I suppose it comes with the territory. You don’t do it if it wrecks you every time.

But, every once in a while, my heart breaks. Into 17 pieces. And when it does, I cannot – for the life of me – keep it together.

Last night, it happened. Driving home from work, I absolutely fell apart. And whatever that snowball metaphor is and what it is supposed to represent happened somewhere deep inside my soul. The thing that always happens…happened. One patient reminds me of another. One sorrow-filled story brings to memory something else that broke my heart and I tucked away for a "more appropriate time". And the alligator tears and hysterical sobs become so overwhelming that I seriously question how on earth I will ever regain any degree of composure. Even when my good sense tries to get the better of my internal drama-queen and I make the effort to “accentuate the positive”, I end up overcome by the feeling that there is nothing positive to focus on because one person’s gain is another’s loss.

Irrational. Overwhelming. All-consuming.

And every once in a while, when my heart is breaking, I can’t help but ask my God why he made us so raw. Why are our hearts so fragile? Why do we feel emotion in such an intense way?

And then I experience this:

And it all makes sense. If our hearts didn’t have the potential to be broken, we wouldn’t be able to love. If we didn’t care about anyone, we would never be able to experience the intense satisfaction of relationship. If nothing was personal, then nothing would be personal. If we didn’t feel true sorrow, we would also never feel true joy. It’s what makes us human. And alive. And us.

Enough

2009-08-07T23:16:00.005-04:00

I’ve always been pretty proud of my resume. One of my life’s biggest confessions is actually that I look a lot better on paper. Seriously. I have being toiling with the idea of going on "The Bachelor" for quite some time now, for the sole purpose that it would make my resume more diverse.

The majority of the time, I am overwhelmingly content with the path that my life has traveled down. With some degree of regret, I will admit that there are times when I even feel proud of my accomplishments. And, if I am being perfectly honest, most of that has less to do with academics and career than it does with the whimsical nuance and overall philosophy which infuses the majority of my decision making and social interactions. I like climbing mountains that are clearly too big. I like jumping in without being totally aware of what the water is like. I like having a story that no one else has.

Most of the time, it is enough.

Which is why days like today and feelings like this always throw me for a freaking loop.

There’s no real explanation for why it happened today. No particular critical incident. Maybe it was too many consecutive night shifts and my defenses are just low. Maybe it’s too many muscle relaxants. Or maybe it is just the reality of my resume and what deep down I know it lacks.

Because today, being a nurse, a best friend, a coworker, an aunt, a daughter, a sister, a disciple of the God of the universe, and an all-round fabulous person didn’t really seem to cut it for me. The things that were missing seemed so much bigger and more important. And, I am not even implying that I want a house, a husband, 2.5 babies, a puppy, a dishwasher, a winning 649 ticket, more expensive clothes, a personal chef, and a white picket fence. Given the option, I would pass on most of those. But today, given the option, there are a few that would entice me into a second glance.

I know it all comes with a price. I know it. I know that the life God has given me is mine and it’s mine because it is what he knows is best for me, right now. I know it. I know that when presented with this particular hypothetical fork in the road, 363 days of the year, I would chose the path I have chosen. And that my particular road less traveled is the only road where I can experience God’s true desire for me.

Unfortunately, every once in a while, knowing doesn’t make what is usually enough feel like anything close to enough.

Things that are Brilliant

2009-08-04T21:19:00.009-04:00

by Jennifer Louise Carrol (ya, Louise...I know, it's "pretty")

1. I was making a grilled cheese sandwich today at my brother and sister-in-law's and set my plate down on a pile of papers which, upon being stirred, began singing "What a Feeling" from Flashdance - only the number one dance tune of all time! (disclaimer: the pile of papers turned out not to be alive, prophetic, or infested with a choir of 80's dance-loving dwarves. The pile of papers was, instead, covering up one of the most inspired singing birthday cards ever made) (side note: if anyone was planning on acknowledging my own upcoming birthday, please try to find this card)

2. My most favourite human being out there is 39-weeks pregnant. Which, in the baby-delivering / saving world, means she is gonna pop another human out any second now. As if having the world's most stunning child wasn't enough, she's gonna go off and do it again. I can't wait - Good luck Hamberger!

3. THIS exists: http://www.google.com/hostednews/canadianpress/article/ALeqM5g36gjY5cn9CEwouslPXwBfz050JA

Seriously?

If you thought you might be a princess before....just wait....your life can get even better!

WHAT!?!??!?!

Afraid

2009-07-11T16:40:00.004-04:00

As it turns out, I am absolutely scared to death of being comfortable. Because I think that comfort is ridiculously sneaky and has the potential to keep you in a place you were maybe never supposed to be.

I recently made my eternal peace with grad school (potentially an inaccurate use of the term eternal – since I have in no way resolved to never pursue graduate studies again in my life, but only to stop pretending that the pathway I was following was right, simply because I was there and doing it). This decision left a fairly significant chasm in my life.

By rights, there was no physical chasm. I actually have had a job this whole time. An incredible, purposeful, important job, where I know what to do and where I am loved like a member of an extraordinary family. A job that I should have been totally content to return to.

Given the situation at hand, I obviously began my pursuit of “what next?” (please note: I completely understand how, at first glance, this type of behaviour might appear flighty, unsettled, unappreciative, nomadic, idealistic, or even pompous….but hear me out). The initial realization that there had to be a “what next” came almost immediately following my beauty school drop-out moment. Basking in all my pink-haired glory, my thoughts went back to Africa of course.

“But I am not ready Lord, we both know that. There is so much more to learn and to know.”

It was almost humorous to me considering myself in the middle of a bush somewhere, with a cupboard full of expired bottles and viles, attempting to decipher how each (or better yet how I) might be of any assistance to anyone.

"Ok, so not now. I'll get more experience….got it"

So, where do you get experience? Where do nurses have to learn to deal with the unexpected and unknown with grace, flair, and confidence? I didn’t spend my teenage years in love with George Clooney for nothing.

"Absolutely! Emerg … perfect!"

Enter: Fear. The allure of comfort.

Emergency departments are scary. I think I remember a distinct putrid smell. Most people that come to emergency departments are irritable, annoyed, and tired. From my experience with human beings thus far, this combo doesn’t make for the most pleasant of interactions. Nurses dealing with emergencies have to think on their feet. They have to have a wealth of knowledge categorically stored in their brains for instant retrieval in the critical moment. They have to have supreme confidence and common sense. I have none of these. I desperately desperately want them (thus the decision to work in a place where I will be forced to acquire them), but I don’t have them.

Thus the dilemma: which is more risky – doing something that is intimidating or being comfortable? The allure of comfort is just so strong. The desire to stick where I am with what I know. To stay where I am comfortable and loved. But, how thankful I am to have a God who convinces me that the not doing something because I am afraid is so much more dangerous. Because there is a path that I need to walk down, and apparently there are some things I need to learn before I can head out.

It seems that God and my Starbucks cup were thinking along the same lines today: “Failure's hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you're successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever”.

And so, here I am: afraid. An ER-nurse-to-be (as of Tuesday). Unsure of what to expect. Convinced that I am going to be overwhelmed. Confident that there are going to be a million things to learn. Fairly sure that there are going to be moments that absolutely blow chunks (probably literally). And, yet here I am, wholly convinced that doing anything less would scare me to death.

Earning Grace

2009-06-01T18:16:00.003-04:00

(aka – Failure Part II)

When you stop and think about it, it’s almost like God is smarter than us. Like, maybe His way of thinking about things is better. Maybe.

It’s true, and simple, and absolutely imperative. Yet, just so readily, I forget.

Life “works” about 98% of the time. Sort of like a really sneaky, effective trap. Just enough love, success, power, joy, attention, and positive reinforcement to almost make us believe that we’ve got it all – all because of us. The thing I am starting to realize is that there is always that 2% that we will never come close to achieving. That ultimately crucial 2% that feels so disproportionally significant.

My greatest attempts will never impress everyone. And I am on the road to becoming ultimately grateful that they won’t.

I am becoming just so thankful that God’s system functions according to completely different principles than our own. I am so thankful that it isn’t about earning or proving anything. Because, if it were – I would be found wanting.

If God’s love were based on my personal merits, I wouldn’t deserve it. If a relationship with Him was dependant on my character, I wouldn’t be worthy. If His grace were based on my goodness, I wouldn’t be able to receive it. I know, beyond on a shadow of a doubt, that I would fail. My life thus far is a testimony to that.

What an incredible gift then, that He has given us: Love that is truly unconditional - that functions, not only in spite of our failures, imperfections, and sin, but because of them. Because I could never earn grace.

Life before the internet

2009-05-30T11:38:00.001-04:00

I know it had to exist. If I dig down really deep inside me, I can even muster up my own memories of this so-called existence without the world wide web (as Kate & I like to refer to it). But, for the life of me, I have no idea how we conquered our demons and made it out alive.

On too many times than I am willing to admit, I have sat and pondered this dilemma – What did people do before the internet? How did one convert lbs to kgs in a pinch? Where did you get directions to a new or unknown location? How did one finish a movie without pausing it and researching IMDb to assess where she knows that actor from and why she can’t bring herself to buy him as a villain? And, hypothetically, how would one begin the process of finding that one program out there in the world that has the potential to teach everything one requires to become the most competent outback nurse possible? (hypothetically)

Most importantly, when life’s really big questions arise, how were they solved? Big questions, like, who were the gypsies? Why did they have such darn cool jewellery? What was their mandate in life? Was there a deeper reason that they had to resort to thievery for their livelihood? Is there a way I can become a modern-day gypsy? If I am accepted, will I be forced to deny my lifelong pursuit of righteousness and adopt felony as a way life? Where do I get the skirts and the headwraps?

When these types of things pop into my brilliant whirlwind of a brain, I now have the tools to deal with them.

But, woe to you, poor inhabitants of 1989, what did you do???

Failure

2009-05-29T23:09:00.003-04:00

There’s this secret they don’t tell you in nursing school. I am guessing that they fail to elude to it in med school, physiotherapy, occupational therapy, respiratory therapy, or social work programs either. It hits you like a hurricane at first. You adapt to it over time. Then sometimes it comes out of nowhere and knocks you off your feet all over again, sometimes even stronger than the first time, because you thought you had it beat.

Nursing school did its best to prepare me to do thorough physical assessments. Conscientious tutors laboured over nursing theories that may or may not have no degree of relevance to anything I do now. Anatomy & Physiology profs taught me why sodium-potassium pumps are important. I learned Piaget’s development from Dick Day and 43 278 other Psych 101 students. At some point in the 4 years, I apparently figured out how to give medications, start IV’s, take vital signs, wash my hands like a pro, and sometimes, if the wind is blowing in just the right direction, even offer an effectively therapeutic word of support to a grieving family. As much as I may have doubted it throughout the process, I came out with some degree of an idea of how to be a nurse.

But, nothing prepared me for the overwhelming sense of failure that would come along with it. Four years in, and I think I am just starting to realize its legitimacy and influence in all of our careers.

I am beginning to wonder if that feeling ever goes away – or if it even should. That feeling that things go wrong with a patient as a direct result of my own personal incompetence. I am completely aware that in 99.99999% of cases, this is absolutely not true. Things happen to sick patients because they are sick. People don’t end up in the hospital because they are well. The simplicity of the matter makes its mention almost futile. Nevertheless, I have yet to win the mental battle with myself. Shows like ER, and Grey’s Anatomy, while grossly dramaticized, hollywoodized, and romanticized, elude to these same types of emotional struggles. And despite the exaggerations, the fact that these struggles are reenacted on film means that the emotions portrayed were originally felt by someone – in all probability some other health care worker who, like me, has a hard time moving past his or her insecurities.

And, lets just say that hypothetically, one was able to deny or overcome all of his personal insecurities – and wholeheartedly believe that he had mastered all components of his professional domain. The reality is that said person remains a flawed human being who, despite overwhelming confidence, will still make mistakes.

Take today for instance. In the course of my 12-hour shift I:
- Dropped about 14 things on the floor (arousing plentiful questioning about the potential of my being pregnant – of which there is none)
- Missed my attempts at getting venous blood
- Came down with an acute inability to complete relatively simple mathematical equations – which is actually a required skill in the NICU

If I put any amount of consideration into it, I know I could put together a more thorough list – but, no need to hound on the already unfortunate. Today was challenging in a number of ways, and I walked out of the hospital feeling beaten. Things go wrong. Sometimes because I am human – most times because we are always dealing with people who are already unwell.

But, this is the part that I wish I had known. I knew that being a new nurse would be hard. I knew I wouldn’t know what to do, and I would be overwhelmed and confused and incompetent.

I figured all of that would change when I “grew up”. I feel like I am still waiting. Because I am no longer confused. Most times, I feel fairly competent at what I do. And the majority of the time, the most overwhelming thing I face is how to strategically space the food I bring in my lunch pack throughout the day so that I don’t have a sugar-crash on the drive home.

And yet, despite all of that, I can’t overcome this overwhelming sense of failure. Sometimes, I wonder if it is just human nature and our desire to control situations. When things don’t go the way we wish, we look for ways we could have acted differently and how that might have changed the outcome. Or maybe it is the human tendency to dwell on the negative – despite 99 flawlessly executed acts, we perseverate on the one thing that didn’t go according to our plan.

I hope someday I get there. That place where I am absolutely alright with it all. Where I know that my best is all I can give. When I give my best, I am satisfied. Where I know that what I have to offer is just as important as what everyone else has to offer. Where I know that stuff happens – and it is my responsibility to help it, but won’t always be able to fix it. Where I truly recognize that we are all functioning in this less-than-perfect system and that we would all be better off if we recognized it and helped eachother thrive. Where I realize that Mr. Rogers, my mom, my dance teacher, Big Bird, my Grade 8 teacher, and God weren’t lying when they told me that nobody is perfect. And that that truth needs to be taken, not as an excuse, but as an encouragement to persevere through the moments when a failure is all you see.

Because, as far as those of us in this crazy world of health care are concerned, it is going to be tough. At the end of the day, I know that people get sick because there is something wrong with their bodies. And people die because they are sick. And, we get this incredible opportunity to intervene at an absolutely critical moment of their lives and sometimes improve it in a physical, tangible way. And, with this knowledge, I also recognize that viewing every turn for the worse as a failure won’t cut it.

I am not going to even suggest that I am there. It’s probably a long road. Maybe even an unrealistic goal. But, all I will ever be is this passionate, yet so obviously human, nurse – and hopefully someday that won’t feel like a failure.

Something along the road

2009-05-22T18:16:00.004-04:00

There is a wee bit of irony I realize. Posting to a "Jenn in Africa" blog, when Jenn is, according to the untrained eye, very much not in Africa.

It seems that aside from a very brief hiatus to the tropical island of St.Martin, the majority of this last year has found me in Canada - the true north strong and free, if you will. And, I have no complaints about this beautiful country or the beloved family and friends I found here. Or anything here really. I know that I have been blessed beyond belief. I know that I have been given so much in almost every area of my life.

And I know that "to whom much has been given, much is expected". I think that is why things like this rock me to the core. Why after watching it 5 times in a row, I have yet to dry my eyes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSdP6PqsbJY

"Something along the road cut me to the soul". Every line. Every face. Every single little clip of Sara Groves re-enacting contrived significant moments with the locals reminds me of a friend or a moment that I can't let go. Reminds me of the 6 months that destroyed the girl I used to be, and made me the slightly idealistic, irresponsible, unconventional, yet still drastically naive girl that I am today. Someone who believes that her efforts to change a broken, hurting world through direct service is worthwhile. Someone who thinks that changing lives doesn't always mean saving lives, but that a changed life is worth the effort. Someone who thinks that every single person's story is worth hearing. And that the very act of listening to a story brings healing.

These past few weeks, I have been reliving my 6 months in Africa. I have been trying to make decisions about how to proceed with my career. I have been craving the peace that I know can come from nothing other than holding a small African baby to your chest and having him fall asleep.

And, the only conclusive deduction I have made is that my heart has been absolutely broken. It wasn't about finding myself. It wasn't about seeing the world. I havn't gotten over it. This is just the beginning.

I am on the brink of some fairly significant change (as far as my tiny, insignificant life is concerned) and I woke up this morning with this emotion that I couldn't even initially identify. I really have no idea where I am going in this next phase of life, however long it may be. But that excites me, because I also know that only when I am open and seeking God does He have the potential to knock me off of my feet with His plans. And, I absolutely know where the plan will eventually lead me. Back to my heart and to the people who broke it in a way that I will forever be grateful for. And, for one of the first times since I came home from Africa last summer, I have this incredible sense of hope.

If God is good

2009-01-02T00:01:00.004-05:00

My Ali is home.

She’s actually in my home (and by home, I mean my home-town, and technically not even really, but when you meet in West Africa, and end up in the same section of South Western Ontario over Christmas, it’s close enough). She’s home, and engaged, and planning a wedding and, from what I can tell from this seat, is exactly in the center of her destiny.

I love this girl. I remember seeing her for the first time in the Brussels airport running around screaming and laughing joyously with a 5-year-old, presumably Belgian child, that she had met moments earlier. It sort of reminded me of something my Kate would do in a foreign airport if presented with a delayed flight, which obviously drew me in. I remember standing huddled in a crowd of Mercy Shippers in the Liberian “airport” – a term I must use very loosely – and Ali, the experienced African missionary, confidently informing me that we were going to ride together to the ship. “Alright”, I thought (and if I remember correctly, said out loud). “I guess we are friends”.

I remember feeling far from home that first week, and going to my self-declared new friend’s cabin in hopes of finding someone to pray with. Never one to miss an opportunity to hang out with God, we had our first of many God-talks that day. The next six months would find us in a wide variety of desperate situations together. Sadie. Hepatitis. Baby Greg. Jitta. Family crises at home that we weren’t physically a part of, but that rocked us just the same. We prayed for miracles. Some of them happened. Some of them turned out differently than our humanness would have desired. We cried, and hugged, and laughed, and watched SYTYCD in almost real-time, and co-founded team Greg, and ate chicken bread & humus, and stuck stickers on small children’s foreheads, and gave report like only ICU nurses can do. And, out of all this, emerged this fabulous friendship.

And now she is here, and I got to hug her yesterday. Right here, in my very own country. She is staying here for just a while, before she goes on to live the rest of her ridiculously purpose-driven life. And, I really can’t thank God enough that He is letting our paths cross yet again.

Yesterday, Ali wrote a blog post called “New Song”, reflecting on her year on the Africa Mercy and transitioning to this new life, and she wrote something that stuck in my head:

“I don't want to be seduced by my culture into thinking I need to have or be or do anything other than what God would have me have and be and do.”

Even if I am the only one who gets anything from that, it would have been worth it. And, not only is it just so true, but the fact that this token of goodness came from my dear friend, is just further proof to me that God is good. That He gives us just what we need at just the right time. That He doesn’t have any responsibility or obligation to, but that He blesses us with friendships, and experiences, and love beyond our wildest expectations.

As He and I have been talking lately, I have been reminded of that. The simple fact that God is good. If we can accept that, we have the tools to cope with whatever life presents us with. If we truly believe that the God of the universe is in control and works for the good of those who serve Him, then we can have ultimate peace, knowing that He has it all figured out. And, in the words of my Ali…I don’t want to be anything other than what God would have me be.

My socially responsible Christmas

2008-12-27T00:51:00.003-05:00

Every Christmas, 75 000 coloured bulbs lights light up Victoria park in London Ontario. I just happened to be in town for the official “lighting of the lights” kick-off celebration. Always one for organized fun, I attended the festivities with a friend. We stood and counted down to the inevitable flip-of-the-switch with the crowd of thousands of locals, drinking our starbucks coffee out of our red paper cups. As the crowd cheered, the park became illuminated with tiny lights, for the first of many nights to come. We looked out into the brightly lit surroundings. Took sips from our $5.00 coffee. Looked at our red cups. Laughed at the irony.

“Merry Christmas white middle-class North America!” my sarcastic friend said. “Enjoy your lights!”

It really is ironic. I just came from a country that hasn’t had electricity since the war and are thrilled to finally have street lights.

If you’re reading this, my consistent moral dilemma with living a holy, God-centered, socially-responsible life in North America is probably not news to you. It’s not that Africa ruined me. At the risk of sounding like a catharsis-seeking, back-pack-clad, Europe-bound college grad, I would instead say it helped me find me. I would never want to go back to the me that I was before. I want to continually engulf myself in situations that will challenge me to become more like the me that I am sure God always had planned.

It’s harder here. It’s been six months since I could hop in a landrover on a Saturday morning, drive for half an hour down a pot-hole-filled dirt road and end up serving as a human jungle-gym for 25 filthy, beautiful, little orphans. Six months since I rocked Baby Greg to sleep at night. Six months since I taught patients how to clean their surgical wounds in Liberian English. Six months since I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was serving. That I was right exactly where God wanted me to be. Doing exactly what he desired.

But now I am here. And, as surprising as this may sound, critical analysis of randomized control trials evaluating the efficacy of intensive behavioural intervention doesn’t feel nearly as purposeful as any of the above mentioned activities. And, I drink Starbucks. And our family Christmas just involved the exchange of two GPS’s, an ipod, a children’s videocamera, a digital photo-frame, a cushy computer-desk-chair, and some very pretty boots (unfortunately not for me)…all of which were received with gracious gratitude, but also, all of which we would continue to go on eating, sleeping, and breathing without.

So, how does it work? Because, here is where we are. Wherever we find ourselves, that is where we have been placed. And that is where we are expected to live holy, righteous, admirable, outstanding lives. And it has to be possible. Because we all aren’t called to live in the bush in West Africa. We all aren’t called preach to thousands on Sunday mornings. We all aren’t capable of running a charitable organization.

Which leads me to believe that it has to be in the little things. Wherever life places you, it has to be possible to live an absolutely God-honouring life. Even in white, middle-class North-America. Even while taking part in the consumerism-driven version of Christmas that our society has created.

Because, there is nothing wrong with the mini-lights. There is nothing wrong with the GPS. And, I refuse to think there is anything wrong with boots (and if there is, that will need to be an entirely different blog, because I just have way too many feelings about boots to express here). I think there is only something wrong with them all if we care about them more than the other things.

Those “little things” - the everyday choices that we can make to be the person God wants us to be in the time and place we are in- were part of this Christmas as well. We received “red” gifts from my brother, because, (in his own words) “As we intentionally sow/spend with companies that are intentionally generous... they will be motivated to continue because they'll see profit and benefit”. I bought a mosquito net on behalf of everyone in my family, for a family in Liberia. We cut out all the extra stuff that you usually get for Christmas, to make the stockings and the bottom of the tree look more full, but that nobody really needs or at the end of the day even wants. We’re definitely not single-handedly saving the world. But maybe we are starting to think about the fact that our little choices have the potential to do so.

I just read a quote from Steven Harper about how we may be living in the most prosperous, peaceful land in the world. If he is right, then we are blessed. And there has to be a way to live in this land without a sense of guilt. To invest in our economy and find joy in the blessings, yet still live with a deliberate awareness of our responsibility to enrich others out of our blessing. I am not claiming to have figured this out. But, I hoping I am starting to find the right path.

Anywhere but here

2008-10-23T20:58:00.005-04:00

My brain is on overtime.

Nevermind the ceaseless articles to be read, papers to be written, exams to be marked, presentations to be prepared, meetings to attend, sleepless nights to spend pouring over textbooks that I am sure were written solely for the pleasure of the author. That I can take. I have been a student before. The expectations are ridiculous and one has to literally sacrifice everything else in their world to buy into what University is selling. But I can handle that. I am actually pretty good at it.

This whole analytical thing is what might “push me over the edge” - “Give me a run for my money”. I could go on. (nothing like a good colloquialism to put a smile on my face)

I just keep thinking. Wondering whether I am doing the right thing. Wondering why God didn’t want me to stay in Africa. Somebody’s gotta be there. Why not me? I am right here. Totally willing. Send me.

But don’t worry, my brain doesn’t stop there. Twenty-six years of obsessive overanalysis of every aspect of my life wouldn’t allow me to settle for such a one-dimensional approach to my future. Because, I am all about the making connections. Nursing school taught me to find themes. And, you see, I think that perhaps that my brain likes to see the “grass as always greener on the other side” (last one…promise).

Grad school is hard. I wonder why I ever left a full-time job in exchange for this. I wonder how, in the matter of just a few months, I went from a world where I experienced more love and purpose than I ever thought imaginable to this seemingly self-indulgent world with a goal so far off that I can't even see it. And, as much as hindsight encourges me to idealize everything about my African life, I have a stark understanding that the far-off land of my dreams is just so horrifically full of pain that it is hard to imagine what I could ever acheive, even if I devoted the rest of my life trying. I just read a movie review on my brother’s blog of a documentary (Darwin’s Nightmare) about perch fishing in Tanzania, which is as far from my idea and associations with fishing than I am from Africa. I wonder why there is so much sadness and hurt and pain in this world. I wonder what I can do about it. Almost everybody we come into contact with is suffering. From something. Sometimes, it can all just get so absolutely overwhelming to the point where I wonder how I will ever realize my goal of changing the world. I wonder why I am right here, right now.

The good news is, I am not figuring out this life on my own.

Kate and I had just the greatest talk the other day about how all anyone can do is their small part. We would be foolish to think we are capable of something more.

And, despite all of the confusion and stress and chaos of this new life I have found myself in, at the end of two years, I will have helped some parents in Ontario optimize their babies’ development. Parents who have the threat of a diagnosis looming over them like a sentence. Babies who might not otherwise have had much attention. Not much hope. Might not have grown up to be the best that they could be. I hope I can help them do that.

And, I’ve got just the greatest God I could ever hope for. Because I know that in the confusion, He is my direction. When I feel that I would rather be anywhere but here, He shows me exactly why I am here. And that gives me faith to keep at this.

I used to listen to this song a lot when I was on the ship. I think I liked it mostly because the whole concept of “storms” was quite relevant on the coast of West Africa. But, here, in Canada, facing a different type of storm, I am just as in need of direction and strength. And I couldn't be more thankful that it is right there for me the moment I ask for it.

Because I know I am not going to change the world. But, I need to be here, now, changing whatever small pieces of the world that I can.

How long have I been in this storm?
So overwhelmed by the ocean's shapeless form
Water's getting harder to tread
With these waves crashing over my head

If I could just see you
Everything would be all right
If I'd see you
This darkness would turn to light

And I will walk on water
And you will catch me if I fall
And I will get lost into your eyes
I know everything will be alright
I know everything is alright

I know you didn't bring me out here to drown
So why am I ten feet under and upside down
Barely surviving has become my purpose
Cause I'm so used to living underneath the surface

If I could just see you
Everything would be all right
If i'd see you
This darkness would turn to light

And I will walk on water
You will catch me if I fall
And I will get lost into your eyes
I know everything will be alright
I know everything is alright

- Lifehouse "Storm"

Not be forgetting

2008-10-09T10:08:00.001-04:00

Last night, Baby Greg fell off. It was inevitable. The single strand of blue hemp that had been tied around my ankle for 4 months didn’t have a hope of making it till Christmas. But, like I told Marion on the phone last week, everytime I look at it, I think of her. And Bendu. And Darling Boy. And Joanna. And Friend. And Ali. So, I wasn’t ready for it to be gone

But then, just when I thought I might not have a reason to remember, I find this:

http://www.kltv.com/global/video/flash/popupplayer.asp?vt1=v&clipFormat=flv&clipId1=2869229&at1=Sport&h1=Malcolm

The baby you see sucking the bottle is Greg. And there are all of the rest of them. All of my incredible Liberian friends who I told “I will not be forgetting you” as I left.

Thanks God.

And maybe, somewhere in this vast expanse of a country, I will be able to find another small piece of blue hemp.

Be all there

2008-09-22T08:27:00.004-04:00

It's been two whole months. Much to my despair, I have become 100% acclimatized to Canadian life once again. I drive on the highway, diligently follow SYTYCD Canada in real-time, eat fresh vegetables, speak like a grown-up, use the term "beach" to refer to sparse patches of sand along the Great Lakes, spend 98.9% of my time reading articles comprised of words I never knew to exist - let alone have any meaning in my life, shower almost every day, and make decisions all by myself.

I sort of feel like I have everyone fooled. Somebody even decided that I was qualified enough to shape the lives and minds of wanna-be nurses in the School of Nursing.

To be completely honest, I think this is the most challenging thing I have ever done. Despite ample warning from well-meaning friends and mentors about the culture-shock of returning to "normal" life; coming home for me, was relatively smooth. But, after the hype of the transition, everything just goes back to normal. After the new beginnings, the newness wears off, and it just becomes life. After the novelty of the restaurants, stores, cities, outings, Independence, parties, and everything I craved while I didn't have it wears off, none of it seems like much of a big deal. And as it turns out, this so called normal life takes quite a bit of investment.

It is competitive. A competition of who is willing to sacrifice the most amount of personal time, social time, and sleep to get ahead. It is stressful - in a way that I had almost completely forgotten about. There is an obsession with a definition of success that I am not so sure I buy into. Everyone, it seems, has something to prove. It's harder than I anticipated.

I think it is because my heart is in Africa. I check for updates on Ali's blog almost every day. I have yet to get through one without tears in my eyes. It makes me feel like I am there, experiencing a small part of it with them. But I think, even more importantly, it helps me remember and embrace a way of thinking and a way of life that I am not willing to let go.

I don't think I could have prepared myself for this feeling. For being involved in a world that is doing everything it can to make me forget. My first encounter with almost everyone when I got home involved two questions: "How was your trip?" and "Did it change your life?" Without a doubt - "amazing", and "absolutely".

I think changing your life is one of those "much easier said than done" types of things. Because, here I am, absolutely saturated in a world of academia that is as far from the world of West Africa as you could imagine. And, as much as I want to be that person whose life was changed, it gets easier and easier every day to be the North American grad student who is pursuing a life of success and status.

Last night, I read through everything I wrote while I was there. In hindsight, it seems that I foresaw a little bit of what was to come. But I also apparently was excited....in my own words:

"This is what Africa has been for me. A realization and understanding of God in a greater way. Life lessons that have nothing to do with a geographical location. A chance to see people in a completely authentic way.

It makes going home exciting. Because, I am still me. I will take this part of me with me. And I cannot wait to see how it will be used in the rest of my world"

I was talking on the phone the other night with a friend from the ship and she had a quote that we both found particularly relevant for this unique stage that we find ourselves in: "Wherever you are, be all there".

I guess I need both: Friends who can take my heart to Africa, and friends who bring me back here. Because somewhere in the middle is that perfect balance of where I should live. Living life to the fullest, exactly where I find myself. Embracing the ways my life has been changed. Maintaining and applying the sense of purpose that should drive our lives despite circumstances. Again, obviously easier said than done. But, I feel like it is worth giving it a shot.

http://www.alirae.net/

The little things

2008-07-28T22:38:00.003-04:00

I don't want to forget Africa. I know that I won't ever forget their faces and their stories and the way my heart would break with empathy. But, I am worried about the little things. The things that made Liberia Liberia. Made me laugh and wonder what kind of alternate universe I had stepped into. The things I had no choice but to embrace with open arms.

Already, I find myself answering questions verbally, as opposed to granting the questioner a slight head nod and raising of my eyebrows (which, I have concluded expends the absolute least amount of energy possible, and thus makes it the obvious choice for responding in Liberian heat). I no longer drop off the last two syllables of every word. I might actually go out of my way to enunciate when I speak, in attempts to be taken for an educated, respectable, professional North American. I havn't heard anyone "trying" or "trying small" in far too long.

I haven't been asked to hold or care for a stranger's newborn in over two weeks. The last three items I have purchased have been from a store where you make your selection from a shelf, as opposed to a wheel barrel, and there is no option for a discount if you allow the vendor to keep their "plastic". There are price tags attached to the items, which tell you how much you will end up paying, even before ten minutes of bartering. Mothers in North America apparently have first names and one is expected to refer to the woman by her given name, not "mama".

It is not acceptable to ignore any and all previous engagements due simply to the fact that "it is raining". ("Rain" is a perfectly acceptable excuse for missing appointments, meetings, surgery, etc. in Liberia. Good system.)

Sidewalks. Enough said. Where's the fun in that?

I am worried that I may never again see a 30-year-old man thoroughly enjoy colouring with crayons. Or a teenage girl carrying a large bundle of lumber on her head. Or that next time someone asks me to marry them, they might know my first and last name.

I miss pretending to care about football (soccer). I miss pretending to sell mangos from a basket on my head to the inhabitants of the ward. I miss hearing a stranger's life story while sitting in ridiculous traffic in a 7-berth cab. (I will note that I don't miss continually explaining that giving him my email address will most definitely not facilitate him coming to "America".)

I am refusing to forget what it felt like to live in a culture that truly loved. That truly valued relationships. That prayed without ceasing. Where the response to "How are you?" was "Thank God". Where patients prayed for the doctors and nurses. Where people who had never met made true sacrifice for one another.

I think I will make it my goal to be mistaken for an African someday. I'll let you know how that goes.

As luck would have it

2008-07-21T18:35:00.003-04:00

I often feel unprepared for life. Before leaving for Africa, I remember being swamped with questions from well-meaning friends, family, and colleagues about my plans, intentions, and preparation for this trip. And, despite as much preparation as I could possibly stomach, it seemed that there were just so many unknowns. Africa was quite a big step for me. To be completely honest, I hadn’t really done a whole lot else in my life. When I got on the plane last February, it was my second time ever setting foot on an airplane. My first nursing shift on the ship was the first time I had every taken care of adult patients. And when I opted to portage through Belgium on my way home, so that I could fly to Scotland to visit a friend, it was my first time alone in a non-English speaking country.

I often make this joke that I feel like there is some instruction manual for life that everyone else has read that I somehow have missed. People joke about things that they believe deep down.

In spite of all of this, the world doesn’t really scare me. I like to seek out the unknown, just to see what might happen. And, deep down, I live with the attitude that “it will all work itself out”. I guess most people would call this naivety. I have had too many experiences convincing me that it is God.

Because, I am too lucky to be lucky.

My last four hours in Liberia were easily the most frightening of my life. I literally had a “Brokedown Pallace” nightmare flashback and wondered how on earth I had ended up in such a crazy situation in a very unstable country. I sat in a locked landrover in the parking lot of a Liberian Police Station in 100 degree heat praying with all of my heart that we would be safe and the whole thing would be over. Then, like what most would call magic, it just was.

By the time I reached Scotland I had successfully boarded two planes, two trains, and one bus with only minutes to spare each. I would have bet money that I was on the wrong trains both times. Turns out, I would have bet wrong. I had no money for the bus ride so the driver just let me on. I made it to Scotland exactly how I was supposed to.

I came home to the most welcoming and loving parents, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephew that a girl could ask for. My sister-in-law Amanda gave me a welcome home book called “Scaredy Squirrel” and wrote in the inside that she is glad I am not a scaredy squirrel.

There are things that I believe to be true despite all logical evidence to convince me otherwise. Like, the fact that having absolutely no worldwide traveling experience, I would be able to go to Liberia, and figure it out. And, despite the fact that there is every reason in the world to be scared, I don’t have to be.

Over the past five months, I have seen legitimate miracles. Babies whose chance of overwhelming infection shouldn’t have allowed them to live, thrive, and go home. Friends whose lives prior to coming to Africa and learning to sacrifice and serve I wouldn’t have even believed. Mamas whose entire personalities changed because they learned what love felt like. Against all odds, things turn out right.

I could write it off as chance. That, with all of the pain and hurt and evil in the world, sometimes good things just have to happen. Or I could step back and recognize that when I pray, God listens and answers. That He watches over me with every move I make.

I know that I am just way too lucky for it to be luck.

This is your life

2008-07-09T21:20:00.002-04:00

We went out for one last dinner tonight at our favourite Lebanese restaurant. Ali is working nights so I stopped by the ward when I got home, before heading to my room to say hello and bring her some Chicken Bread to help her survive her twelve-hour shift. Darling Boy, Prince, and Angela charged at me and, amongst perpectual hugs and kisses, used me as a human jungle gym. Greg’s Grandmother looked up from her loving gaze into her grandson’s eyes to give me a whole-hearted welcoming hello.

I went over to greet my new favourite set of twins, Hope and Joy, and they were immediately plopped into my arms by mama. Nurses, who have over the past five months become my family, came over to hear my stories of my last Liberian night out and we passed the babies around the group, gawking, tickling, and soaking up every single baby belly laugh. Hope started crying because he was hungry. Without a word, mama handed me a bottle, expecting me to feed him his bedtime snack.

Ali told the children in exceptionally fluent Liberian English that it was getting close to bedtime and they need to start being quiet. Bendu (a twenty-something year old burn patient who has become a mainstay in the ward) offered affirmation of the importance of a strict bedtime. Another nurse who was off-duty as well stopped by to check on everyone and say goodnight. I kissed and hugged my beloved B-ward children goodnight, bid my dear colleges a lovely nightshift, and walked the few short steps back to my cabin.

It is partly inevitable. We eat, sleep, work, breath, and play with the same small group of people in a very small space. It’s partly Africa. We have learned to take on each other’s needs, hurts, and joys as our own based on the example so strongly set in the African culture. And it is partly God. We have learned to appreciate eachother for who we are. To value the qualities and uniqueness that we each posses. To view eachother not in light of or despite our merits, but to simply love based on the fact that as humans we have an inherent desire to love and be loved.

So for the time being, this is what my life has become. A wonderfully intertwined world of community, codependence, and love. A family of used-to-be-strangers from all over the world brought together by this wonderful inexplicable thing and learning to love and need one another. An absolute blessing.

In less than 48 hours, I will get on a plane and leave behind my unique little world that I have come to love and depend upon. But, I will forever treasure these faces. These moments. This life.

A Good Read

2008-07-06T13:42:00.003-04:00

It's almost over.

I am trying to get mentally prepared to transition from this season of life into the next. Some parts of me feel ready. I am ready for mom's hugs, coffee dates with my girls, and the freedom to walk outside independently.

However, I find it quite hard to imagine leaving this place in five days.

Mama Sue sent me a beautiful scrapbooked card a couple of weeks ago encouraging me to "finish strong". To quote my ever inspirational mother: "This experience represents a chapter, maybe a couple of chapters, in your life and I know that looking back, you will want it to be a good read". I can confidently assure her that it will be. I don't have regrets. I have learned, grown, served, loved, cried, laughed, worked, and danced hard. My heart is different. I know I view the world differently. The way I look at people is different.

I think that, like so many people, I came to Africa desiring to change the world. It would be incredibly hard to leave this place if I still felt that my calling was to change the world by being a nurse in Africa. I feel like it is my calling to change the world by loving people. By serving people that others don't want to serve. By showing people that they are important. My showing them that God wants to use their brokenness for healing.

I walked into ward church today and learned that last night, Greg drank from a bottle. An insignificant stride by most standards, but a major accomplishment for a baby in his condition. There is a small chance that a local surgeon may be able to help Greg using a technique that has been successful for him in the past. There is a chance that Greg is going to get his miracle. There is a massive army of people praying for this little baby all over the world. Today Marion (Greg's mama) became part of "team Greg” which is outwardly identified by a light blue string tied around our ankle. Inwardly, it means we are praying for our baby. Whatever the outcome in Greg's life, Marion has learned that we love her. People she has never met love her baby.

Prince sat on my lap today. He was wavering between sleep and wakefulness during the sermon. I would call Prince more of a princess. He screams relentlessly anytime his dressings are changed, or comes near him in a vaguely objectionable fashion. He demands "stickas" for his forehead on a regular basis. He started crying in church today because he was thirsty. But I have this theory that children whose physical needs have not been consistently met develop an obsessive concern with their physical state. Even the most attentive of Liberian parents would be hard-pressed to consistently meet the needs of their children. Therefore, I am left not blaming Prince for what we would call at home, whiny neediness. I instead have immense compassion for it. And, today as he laid against me and wrapped my arms around him, and rested his head on my chest, drifting slowly into a peaceful state, I felt nothing but love for him. I stroked his burn-scarred hands and was reminded of how God is so capable of using our imperfections. Of how God loves us past our imperfections.

This is what Africa has been for me. A realization and understanding of God in a greater way. Life lessons that have nothing to do with a geographical location. A chance to see people in a completely authentic way.

It makes going home exciting. Because, I am still me. I will take this part of me with me. And I cannot wait to see how it will be used in the rest of my world.

Irony

2008-06-29T10:28:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I don't know how to handle it.

The blatant contrast of extreme joy and extreme pain, all wrapped up into one tidy, compact little experience. The vast myriad of emotions that overtake me on a daily basis. Blessing and wealth juxtaposed against utter poverty. Feeling intense bewilderment and compassion towards a person all at the same time.

Friday, we visited Mama Victoria's Kingsville Orhphanage, out in the country. Liberia's countryside is unreal. Lush. Green. Picturesque. As we drive down the dirt road in our landrover, children run to the streets with huge smiles on their faces screaming "White man, White man, White man!".

We arrive and are greeted with overwhelmingly welcoming faces and embraces, mostly from complete strangers. We are given a tour of the buildings, which are already getting run down, a year after construction, from the 80+ children who inhabit them. We see their undressed ratty foam mattresses lying on bunkbeds that were constructed by veteran Mercy Shippers on previous outreaches.

We walk through their "kitchen", where old women are cooking massive pots of rice over open fires, knowing that similar fires have been the source of so many of the burn contractures of our patients.

We listen to Liberian music being blasted over a low quality sound system that we know was bought with money that could have been used to buy rice. Or add to the half-finished school building. The children dance. We make awkward attempts, but even white people who have been in Africa for half a year can't even begin to compete. They don't care. We all laugh and sweat and sing the words to songs we have never heard before. Little girls are dressed in their very best attire and have beads platted into their hair because today is special.

The program begins. One of the older boys recites an alphabet poem that he clearly wrote himself and is quite proud of. It involves the phrase "Kissing is the best part of love" and concludes with the indisputable statement that "Zebra is a member of the animal kingdom". Enough said.

The "Birthday Month Challenge" starts. A fundraising competition, to raise money for the school building project. For ten minutes, prominent people from the community dance around and put money into plastic Walmart bags in front of their respective month representative. Again, the horrible sound system is blaring music.

The nine of us each give probably no more than a dollar. It would be unfair to sway the competition by giving more. The competition ends and it is time for the counting. One younger man tries to collect the bags, which a number of others apparently disagree with. In typical Liberian fashion, they all jump him and everybody begins yelling incoherently all at the same time.

My stomach grumbles because it is 1:00 and my lunch is in the landrover. The child on my lap gets one meal of rice per day.

The grand totals are read. The month of May takes the crown with a grand total of 900 Liberian Dollars being raised (15$ in our world).

My lifelong goal to become friends with a monkey that isn't crawling on top of my car at the African Lion Safari comes true.

My perfectly representative African day.

Feels like home

2008-06-26T16:52:00.002-04:00

I remember hearing so much in nursing school about how nurses function as the patient’s advocate. I remember starting my career and learning what that meant. I am now learning how universal that feeling is. How you can feel the exact same emotions and heartache and fight standing in a crowded ward with patients and families who barely understand you, make-shift equipment, and decisions being made based on the accumulation of knowledge from a group of doctors and nurses from all over the world with various backgrounds and experiences. It is odd how it all comes back and I am once again reminded that people are people, mothers are mothers, suffering children are suffering children, and nurses are nurses, no matter where they happened to be born or what circumstances they happen to find themselves in.

Baby Greg didn’t have the miraculous post-surgical recovery that we all hoped for. His trachea is “floppy”. Apparently, his little body had become adapted to having the cyst on his neck, and since he has been extubated, he has not yet been able to breathe well on his own. He is now on CPAP (which, for you non-medical types, gives him pressure down his airway and keeps his breathing tube open instead of collapsing shut). And, for you medical-types, we have had to rig it up here on the ship due to Greg’s desperate need.

I spent most of the day Tuesday with baby Greg, watching him struggle to breathe. The boy was absolutely exhausted. Whatever energy he could muster up, he was using to gasp and keep his body oxygenated. By two o’clock, I absolutely couldn’t handle it and we called a meeting to find a solution for our little one. We all knew that Greg was having troubles. The problem is that his issue (officially called “Trachea Malaysia”) will not resolve overnight. Typically, children take a number of years to outgrow it. At home, we would pop in a trach. Not so simple in Liberia.

After an hour of deliberating, the team of brilliant (I mean that honestly, not sarcastically) doctors and anesthetists were at a loss. If we give Greg a tracheotomy, we will solve his breathing problems, but that is a long-term intervention. One that we are not able to follow through with, and most likely would not be able to be properly cared for once the ship sails away.

But Greg was still laying in front of us gasping and retracting and breathing over a hundred times a minute, and it wasn’t ok. There had to be a solution. So Greg is back in the ICU on make-shift CPAP to help him keep his airway open. And that night, I got to see Greg relax and the panic-stricken look from his eyes disappear. For the first time in 36 hours, Greg fell asleep. He stopped sounding like a dying duck every time he took a breath. Nurses have been in the ICU day and night since then doing essentially nothing but keeping the mask on his face that delivers his airway pressure and silencing the ventilator alarm that goes off about every three minutes. I would do it for the next month if it would help his little soul.

It isn’t a long term solution. I don’t think anyone really knows what will happen with Baby Greg. He really needs a miracle.

To be honest, if a miracle is going to happen, I think this is the place. Ali and I were watching “So you think you can dance” after shifts of taking care of Greg and one of the contestants made a ridiculous comment that “they needed a miracle”. Ali laughed and said “You have no idea what a miracle is”.

So, can you pray for one? There is this horrible helpless feeling that nurses get when we want so badly to help and feel so strongly for a patient’s situation and we know that there is nothing we can do. I am there. I hate that there is no solution. So, I will wait for a miracle.

Bob and Greg

2008-06-18T22:10:00.006-04:00

Playing dress-up with babies is one of the best parts of being a NICU nurse. As long and exhausting as the night shifts can be, I always looked forward to "bath-night" at the NICU at home, which most often involved less of a bath and more of a get-the-baby-onto-the-scale-and-back-into-a freshly-made-bed-as-quickly-as-possible-without-letting-his-sats-drop-uncomfortably-low. However, there was that one perk of getting to choose a matching receiving blanket, hat, crib sheet, and if you were really lucky and your baby was stable enough to get dressed, sleeper. Simple pleasures.

It isn't quite the same here. Unfortunately, there aren't as many old ladies around knitting us multi-coloured toques for our infants. And, I have yet to see a nice receiving blanket so I can properly bundle a baby the way every good NICU nurse desires to do.

But tonight, at the very bottom of a large pile of adult hospital blankets in a cart on D ward, I found a Bob the Builder blanket, which has the same general thickness and consistency of the receiving blankets of my dreams. I brought the blanket into the ICU and introduced mama to the North American phenomenon of Bob the Builder. The blanket was potentially meant to be a wall-hanging, but Greg's mama liked it. So, my little one got wrapped in a frighteningly large replica of a cartoon construction worker. Within minutes, baby Greg was settled and had long forgotten his intense desire to remove the pesky tube from his trachea.

I looked over at mama and saw an uncharacteristically large smile on her face.

"Bob is a handsome man" she said. "Greg is a handsome baby. They should be together".

And together they are. Sleep well baby Greg. In the arms of our good friend Bob the Builder.

The night shift with Greg

2008-06-17T20:59:00.004-04:00

I am on my second of three night shifts, working in the ICU with baby Greg.

There are three problems that I have found thus far with Greg. One, as I promptly informed his mama upon meeting her: Greg is not an African name. African babies are supposed to be named Darling Boy, or Handsome, or Allusain, or ideally, something that I cannot pronounce correctly. Not Greg.

Secondly, everyone seems to think Greg is five months. If Greg was standing up, I am fairly sure he would be taller than my almost three-year-old niece. Also, rumour has it that before he was intubated, he could talk. My extensive experience with the newborn population has taught me that five-month-olds do not talk. But, whatever.

Thirdly, Greg was born with a cystic hygroma: a very large, fluid-filled cyst on his neck. This potentially is the biggest problem plaguing Greg at present. The name thing he can deal with later in life when all his Liberian school mates with proper Liberian names exclude him from football.

But, five hours were spent on Monday "debulking" baby Greg's hygroma, and now it is gone. Greg has been left with a very large pressure bandage where his neck is supposed to be, and a tube down his throat so that his swollen neck doesn't cut off his air supply. In a couple of days, if all goes as planned, he will be extubated, transferred out of his personal NICU back to the regular ward and will begin to heal and recover. And, whilst I am confident that this goes against some universal rule regarding counting one's chickens before they hatch, I can't help but recognize that this was a "job-well-done" by some incredibly talented, devoted doctors.

I feel like so many of my memories from this time and place will be consumed by the very traumatic, dramatic stories of patients who had near or actual misses. I will never forget Sadie or Benjamin who will forever be entwined in our minds as we remember the beginning of this outreach. I can't help but be overwhelmed by the incredible transformation of Alimou. The picture in my mind of Abraham's little burned face will be one that I will carry with me long after I leave Africa. I tend to be greatly impacted by drama.

But, I want to remember the Greg's. The patients whose stories might not have initially gripped my heart or made a great story to tell when I get home. So much of what we have been doing here has to do, not necessarily with heroic life-saving measures, but with helping people in small, tangible ways. Maybe saving their lives. More likely demonstrating compassion that has been unparalleled in their world by meeting a practical need in their lives. I want to remember the babies who had their little cleft lips repaired and will therefore be accepted into their families and communities instead of living a life of shame and rejection. I want to remember the countless children who had their club feet repaired and will soon be running and playing with their friends. I want to remember the conversations that I have had with patients about the little things. Their lives and their families. I want to remember playing Jenga with Thomas. And how Gbor would want me to tuck her in and lay in her bed with her on the nights she was in the hospital by herself. And how Jennifer liked to sing Christmas carols while her bandages were changed.

Nobody can deny that it is the little things in life that make up life. Sometimes a seemingly insignificant word or conversation can change our entire perspective on a subject. A single act of kindness can change how we view others. If I have had the opportunity to be a part of these conversations or acts of kindness for any person here, than my time has been well spent.

So, hopefully nothing dramatic or life-changing happens on my night shifts with baby Greg. Hopefully, I just get to be a small, forgettable, invisible part of something that will someday positively affect his little life. And in that way, I will get to be a part of a miracle.

A few of my favourite things

2008-06-17T20:19:00.002-04:00

Blogging really is the "thing to do" for Africa Mercy crew members. I would argue that we nurses have the best job on the ship, because we get to play and spend hours on end with the patients, which, most of the time is purely enjoyable and rewarding, if not incredbly humerous. That's why I like reading my nursy friends' blogs. I love hearing about how other people perceive situations and their experiences with patients.

My friend Ali has quite an eloquent way of portraying what goes on in the wards. On numerous occasions, her renditions of patient stories have left me speechless (a rarity for me).

One of my most favourite things about working here (aside from all of the legitimate reasons a person leaves their life, family, and friends to live on a floating hospital in West Africa) is the things we say and do as health care workers in Africa that just would never ever ever happen at a hospital at home. Sometimes, I stop myself and realize just exactly what it is I am saying and have a hard time not laughing out loud. This week, while reading Ali's blog, I actually did laugh out loud.

http://www.alirae.net/blog/archives/81-mama-....html

And this is why I wonder how life will ever be the same!

Because I am white

2008-06-12T18:54:00.013-04:00

One week ago Willemetta, one of the translators on the ward, went into labour. Fifteen minutes later, she had a baby.

It is most advantageous when African babies are born quickly. As Westerners, we tend not to consider the various problems that can present themselves during labour and childbirth in Africa. Sometimes, babies are born in hospitals. Many times, not. This eliminates the potential for epidurals, fetal monitoring, or crash c-sections. As I was reminded of by the translators at the baby shower we had for Willemetta on Wednesday: Someday, if and when I am pregnant and go into labour, it will be easy for me "because I am white". The whole "your life is perfect and easy because you live in America" mentality is pretty widespread amongst my African friends. I have to stop myself from becoming defensive when people imply such generalizations. The reality is that at least in this case, they are right.

On Tuesday afternoon, we got word from the outside world that a baby with gastroschisis had been born on Monday and would be coming to the ship. The thrill-seeking, adrenaline-junkie part of me got excited. I have been working on this ship for 4-months now and I can count on one hand the number of times when I have really felt "in my element". More often, I fumble my way through situations that I am slightly unsure of, asking a million and one questions, praying, and hoping that at the end of the day, my patients and coworkers remember only my dazzling personality.

But, disorders and defects in newborns is my comfort zone. So, for a very very brief moment, I was excited.

The most simple explanation of gastroschisis is intestines on the outside, instead of the inside of the baby's abdomen. As rare and visually disturbing as it can be, babies with gastroschisis born at home tend to do quite well. With our knowledge and special toys, we have become quite skilled at pushing the gastrointestinal system back where it belongs. Not to diminish the significance of the condition or imply that all babies do well; But, as a whole, outcomes are good.

The thing is, gastroschisis is still a significant issue. The surgery is a massive strain on the baby's body. Ideally, surgery should be done as soon as possible after delivery. Sometimes it is hard to fit everything back inside. It is necessary to provide IV nutrition for the baby until he can tolerate formula through his GI tract. The baby is at high risk for infection, due to the large opening in his body. The baby should be born in a high-risk delivery center, and have every precaution taken against infection. After the repair the baby's respiratory status can be compromised because there is less space for his lungs to expand. It is a process and a risk; But one that we are quite willing and competent to take at home.

Obviously, a baby born here with a gastroschisis has very little hope of the bright outcome that we offer to babies with the same condition in "America". Even with all of the expensive equipment and qualified professionals that Mercy Ships has to offer, we couldn't have saved this baby. What we could have offered him is nowhere near what it would have taken to give him a reasonable, successful outcome. It sometimes surprises me that after four months the "where you live determines whether you live or die" phenomenon continues to rip my heart out. I guess you aren't supposed to grow accustomed to that one.

Our awaited baby didn't ever arrive. Apparently, traveling in the Liberian taxi system when your intestines are outside of your body doesn't have quite the same efficacy in terms of survival as being wisked away to a sterile incubator immediately upon entry to the world. I know that we couldn't have saved him even if he had arrived. I know that it is better for him that I didn't get to show off my skills. I know that the ship of "Hope & Healing" has a specific goal and purpose and needs to function for that purpose. I know that we cannot transport America to Liberia. It just doesn't seem right knowing what is available out there and knowing that it will never make it here.

Fair thee well

2008-06-10T18:04:00.006-04:00

Yesterday, I stood on the dock and bid my bunkmate Megan farewell as she left this place, probably forever. We are solidly committed to meeting up later this year, potentially at Disney World (finally....after I have been waiting my whole life, I am going to meet Snow White. How lovely). That being said, saying goodbye sucked.

Goodbyes suck. Change is difficult. Loss of a person, place, or time in your life hurts.

I think that we tend to believe that whatever time and place we happen to find ourselves in is the best that life has to offer us. I suppose it makes sense. It would be maladaptive to live in the past and always regret that you aren't still there. And we have no idea what lies in the future. The unknown is always a little daunting. I guess that leaves us right smack dab in the middle of the here and the now.

Maybe it is just me. Maybe I am just a little too narrow-minded or self-centered. Maybe I put God in a box. Someday, I hope that I can whole-heartedly embrace change as an opportunity for life to get better.

I will miss Megan. She is one of those people who literally brings joy and fun and an overwhelmingly fresh perspective to life. My favourite type of people are the ones whose presence makes the environment happier and more fun. She wins that contest! This all gives my human self plenty of reason to be sad because our lives have gone separate ways for a time.

Instead, I have chosen to be thankful for the wonderful time that I got to spend with my friend. My ridiculously-valuable obsession with cliche words of wisdom has resulted in the not-so-clever-or-particularly-brilliant-saying "Don't cry because it is over, Smile because it happened" to be brought to my mind. I think that maybe we can choose to look at any situation in this way. Taking from it everything that it had to offer and teach. Treasuring it as a beautiful memory that we can take with us forever. Considering it as a wonderful blessing in our lives.

We are not promised to be blessed in any particular way indefinitely. We are promised to be loved. Loved by a God who is good and knows what is best for us and the exact timing of what is best for us.

So, with that, I will shed a tear for my friend's departure. I will thank God for bringing someone so beautiful into my life to inspire me and to laugh with me. And I will be excited for whatever is to come.

Right Here, Right Now

2008-06-04T21:16:00.001-04:00

I like to play this game in my head when I am not looking forward to something. Prior to the unwelcome event or time period, I speculate about how horrible it could potentially be and then prepare myself for the worst. Having this healthy does of realism most often leaves me presently surprised. I applied this technique a couple of weekends ago when a group of friends and I went on a camping trip literally to the middle of nowhere. After committing to go on what turned out to be a rather enjoyable weekend, a pang of doom and fear entered my body as I considered how miserable a weekend on the beach at the dawn of Liberian rainy season, for a girl for tolerates camping at best, could be. As the weekend drew to a close, I realized that I had been having a good time, but I refused to admit it to anyone until I was safely back on the ship; clean, dry, fed, and showered. It was just too much of a risk.

I am deciding to take a similar risk tonight. My week so far could be described as nothing less than “brilliant” (my favourite new descriptive term, courtesy of my British friends and coworkers). That feeling of being “in the right place at the right time” has been following me around relentlessly. I think it is worth the risk of committing too soon and I going to confidently declare that this week I have been in all the right places at all the right times.

It started with what had the potential to be a long, drawn-out, “feeling-sorry-for-myself” weekend of working 12-hour night shifts. Not the case. Life is so much about the people you share it with and it couldn’t be more true when talking about night shifts for nurses. Luckily for me, I got to spend my night shifts with my friend Becky, a PICU nurse from Seattle, with whom I share many qualities, including a love for making kids laugh, the office, reheated chicken bread, and what we have chosen to call “prophetic charting”. The company made the weekend for me and all of a sudden I found I was feeling not quite so sorry for myself and just more than a little bit blessed to be in this place.

Already the week was off to a lovely start, but, as humans tend to do, I had my doubts that it could continue in such a truly lovely fashion. Enter God.

Over the past few weeks, I have been saying goodbye to many good friends, including a nice little group of six girls with whom many of my most favourite moments on the Africa Mercy have occurred. As of this week, it was down to just Joanna and myself. This could be a reason for one’s heart to feel a little abandoned. Instead, I got to spend the most relaxing, perfect weather, great food, amazing heart-to-heart conversation, exclusively one-on-one (that so rarely happens here) lunch date with my dear friend. We learned so much about each other that somehow we had missed over the past four months and talked through so many of the issues that are clearly plaguing the minds of young, single, North-American pretend missionaries preparing to go to grad school and enter a world of academia and competition that seems so foreign to us right now. Joanna left me a card when she left the ship that said “Thanks for lunch yesterday. My soul needed it”. Perhaps mine did too.

There are some moments in time where you feel like you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Where you almost feel guilty that you are there and other people aren’t getting to experience what you are. Where you feel like the advice you are getting shouldn’t really be free, because if everyone could hear it all of the world’s problems would disappear and we would all just want to hold hands and sing (which would be creepy, so forget it, I am glad it was just a small group of us). Most conversations with Dr.Gary Parker, the medical director onboard the ship, are such moments. The man is truly a legacy. After an entire career and lifetime of serving with Mercy Ships, he has authority. And that was exactly what the group of about a dozen of young wannabe doctors, nurses, pharmacists, surgeons, and Ph.D.’s sensed as we sat around him after dinner last night, soaking up every word and token of advice he had to offer. What was meant to be a goodbye party for a couple crew members turned into a question and answer session with Dr.Gary, who I can say without a doubt, we all aspire to be. He is one of those rare people in life who has all the brilliance, skill, personality, and greatness, yet successfully manages to combine and balance them with grace, humility, and compassion. It truly is incredible, and I believe that the truths he talked about with us last night will not soon be forgotten. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that he successfully inspired us to be tomorrow’s leaders reaping eternal rewards.

Finally, tonight we went to the orphanage that a group of us nurses venture out to every Wednesday evening to read and talk about the bible with the nine teenage / early twenties girls. Most weeks, I don’t want to go. I am tired by the end of my shift. Going out into Africa is hot and you get dirty, and anyone who knows me knows how I feel about getting dirty. But, alas, every week we get there and something happens and I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. This week as we were walking towards the car, I told Kortu (my favourite….I know it isn’t ok to have favourites, but I do, and someday maybe I will get saved) that I really appreciate her participation in the discussion and that she makes very valuable contributions (obviously, I phrased it nothing like that, because I don’t think any of those words translate into Liberian English). She opened her notebook and explained to me “Every week, when you leave, I read the chapter for the next week. Then I read the chapter every day until you come back. I think of what it means to me each time I read it, and write something down each day.” I wish I knew what it was like to value something that much. I have wished in the past that my points in Bible Study were a little bit more like 16-year-old Kortu’s points. Now I get. Tonight, I learned a valuable lesson about how much she values her bible and her God. So, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

If it is even possible, I hope my week goes up from here!

What else am I gonna do with my life?

2008-06-02T19:29:00.002-04:00

In less than six weeks, my intimate relationship with the Africa Mercy will be coming to an end. My bunkmate Meg leaves in less than a week. I have been saying goodbye to many of my friends here over the past few weeks, and it seems that I will continue to do so for the next few. This whole process of everyone leaving has resulted in a lot of discussions about life after Mercy Ships. I would definitely say I am still mentally and emotionally invested in this time and place. As others are preparing to re-enter the "real-world", I am doing my best to apply my new "living in the moment" philosophy.

That being said, I have been reflecting on what it will be like to return to my fast-paced, time-oriented, comparatively complicated world. So many things that play on my mind, emotions, and time in normal life are completely eliminated, simply by living on the ship. Little worries, like why we don't have cheese on a more regular basis and how many times we will have to push start the cab on the way to the beach and whether or not my medication labels will be printed in English or Dutch are relatively minor compared to most of the issues that plague my ever-complex brain at home. I realize that this will take some getting-used-to. I also realize that I will have to relearn proper English. Unfortunately, it seems that the word "small" has completely replaced my need for any other similar word or phrase (like, "a little bit", "sort of", "minor", "kind of", "some", etc) in my vocabulary. This might be a problem in grad school. But, I think the biggest adjustment is one that I really don't want to make.

I feel like it would be far to easy to go home and lose this incredible sense of purpose that I have here. I had spent years before coming here thinking about how all I wanted to do with my life was to come to Africa and take care of orphaned kids. Obviously, over time, that vision became more refined, defined, and less like what you hear ridiculous Miss America contenders say when they are trying to come across as "humanitarian". But, I really do remember the first time I felt like I wanted to do this whole missionary thing. It was actually kind of ironic. Missions were for other people I thought. People needed help on the other side of the world, but so did people in my own community. I would be the one to help the people in my own community.

But then something in my heart changed. I actually remember the time and the place. I was sitting in church about a month before Christmas during my second year of University and we were watching a promotional video for the Christmas Shoe Boxes, organized my Samaritan's Purse. I cried really hard and thought that more than anything I had ever wanted in my life, I wanted to go wherever those people were and work in that hospital. Conveniently, I was in nursing school, and was on the perfect pathway to get there. Life carried on very uneventfully from that time, but from then on, I believed in my heart that my life's purpose was to come and help people in Africa. It wasn't a very dramatic or philosophical purpose. I just knew that there were people out there that needed more help than I could ever imagine and that it was my responsibility to go help them.

I had this idea in my head of what it would be like to hold a baby who had never been held by someone who loved them. Or what it would be like to give medicine to a small child who had worms causing pain in their stomach. Or what it would be like to give food to someone who was hungry. I knew it would be something incredible. I imagined what it would be like to look into their eyes and see thankfulness or joy or hope through the void of hopelessness. I guess I didn't ever realize that it would be indescribable. I don't think I realized how incredibly humbling it would be.

It is a rare occasion when I am without words, but situations like this are difficult to portray. It is hard to be greeted with such wholehearted appreciation when you know that what you are doing is only what God has called you to do. When I know that the only reason I am in the position I am in is because I happened to be born in North America and they happened to be born in Liberia. When I know that I lived a childhood filled with dolls and treats and comfort and love and dance lessons and friends. And they lived a childhood filled with war and poverty and loss. That they have no reason to look at me as some sort of martyr, because I am really doing the least I could be doing after all I have been given. But the things is, even with my heart breaking everytime a baby falls asleep in my arms or a Grandmother says "God bless you" for taking care of her loved one, I still can't get enough. It still is just the most amazing feeling I could ever dream up. I have said this before but there are times when I actually wonder how any moment will ever compare?

Most likely, I will not be a missionary forever. At least for the next few years, I will be a full-time student, and then I really have no idea where my life will go. At this point, I think it is likely that I will live a more "normal" life than I am living right now. Not making any predictions at this point, but the chances that I will get to rock African babies to sleep every night and lead bible studies at orphanages for the rest of my life is slim. I feel that this realization could cause my heart to be discouraged. On some levels, it is less-than-exciting to think about regular old life.

Every night as of late, before we go to bed, it seems that Meg and I end up engaged in a heart-to-heart, analyzing and defining the world according to us. The other night, as we were discussing the various paths she could take once she arrives home she brought up a point that has stuck in my head.

"What else am I gonna do with my life?"

After this, how can I possibly go back to regular life with a regular job in a regular world? In discussing the various options, it was hard to think of anything as seemingly significant as what we are doing now. But as I have put more and more thought into it, I think that she may have hit on something very important.

It is true, I may never again have the opportunity to do something as adventurous or unique as living on a multicultural, hospital-ship off the coast of West Africa. This really is an experience of a lifetime. But, the other options and pathways that my life will follow are, in no way, going to be less purposeful, important, God-centered, or God-oriented. I am going to consciously chose to take the motivation and lessons I have acquired here in this place and bring them to my "regular life". I am going to keep this spirit of purpose, knowing that I can make a difference in individuals' lives. Knowing that there are hurting people out there and that my greatest purpose can be found in serving them. Knowing that hurting people are essentially the same and just as human as the rest of us. Knowing that relationships are the foundation of life. Knowing that investing in others can transform lives. Knowing that no dream is too big. Knowing that "it's a small world afterall". Knowing that a small group of very determined workers can accomplish miracles (or however that quote goes). Knowing that, life, in essence is humorous and joy can be found anywhere. Knowing that making God the absolute center of every decision is crucial for success. Most importantly, the lessons I have learned are, in no way, exclusively to be used here on the ship. Overall, I think that is what I have learned and that is what God has instilled in me through this whole experience. Life is about purpose. My purpose isn't one-dimensional and doesn't end here. Living with purpose doesn't have to be on this ship.

I will be eternally grateful for having this experience and I really do hope that I get to return to Africa someday. But mostly I hope that my spirit of purpose and adventure stays alive well past these few months. I hope that something real and long-lasting radiates from me as I continue on in this journey of life.

Parlez-vu Francais?

2008-05-16T15:33:00.005-04:00

Alison & Joanna....waiting to show off her knitting

The girls, after community meeting

An essentially unrelated picture I found on my computer of Massa, Edwin, and Vivienne, but aren't they cute???

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It seems that as of late, a wide variety of skills that I have acquired throughout my life have been coming in handy for me here on the Africa Mercy. It started with an influx of patients from Guinea, a predominantly French-speaking country, over the past couple of weeks. As challenging as Liberian-English can be for us Westerners to speak and understand, I have become more and more appreciative that we aren’t in a country that speaks a completely different language. That being said, if there was a language that I could pretend to be fluent in, other than English, it would be French. At least it used to be. I think I remember something about one being considered officially bilingual if one was to take French until the end of highschool. Which, I did. Sort of to appease Mama Sue. Sort of because I thought it might be useful at some point later in life. I probably had no idea that I would ever end up working as a nurse on a hospital ship serving West Africans who speak a diverse myriad of languages and adaptations of languages. I also failed to consider that language is definitely one of those “if you don’t use it, you lose it” kinds of things.

The Americans and Africans all share the same misconception that all Canadians are fluent in French. Thus, I was nominated to explain to the Guinean patient in bed 17 that I was going to remove the small small stitches from his inflamed cleft lip. Overconfidently, I approached the situation with enthusiasm. Here is how the conversation went:

Me: “Bonjour”
Patient: Head nod
Me: “Comment sa va?”
Patient: Slight head nod (the African equivalent of whole-hearted agreement, approval, or confirmation)
Me (clueless nurse): “Je……” long pause…...awkward facial expression indicating that I had absolutely no idea how to proceed with the statement or conversation.

Seriously. Thirteen years of French education and I had not a clue. To make me feel even more competent, one of our Head & Neck surgeons, Dr.Mark who did a fellowship in Canada last year entered the scenario a few moments later had a completely coherent, fluent conversation with the patient. He told me he grew up speaking French. So did I. I wonder what it would feel like to remember the things I learned in school.

So, in hindsight having stellar French skills in my back pocket really did me no favours. However, my extensive career as a camp counselor actually did prove useful this week. Many of our patients are here for a couple of weeks. Some even months. The hospital is on the third deck of the ship, where there are no windows. (Side note: The windowless deck three is also the location of my six-berth cabin….say a little prayer for me). We do our best to entertain the patients and whenever possible, we take them up and outside for a brief break everyday. But, realistically, these days, it is a challenge. With fewer and fewer nurses (Another side note: pray that some more nurses get inspired to come hang out and play with us here in Africa), the patient loads are increasing, and we don’t always have the chance to entertain or take our patients outside. So they end up being quite bored. Which is fine for about a week. But after that, I think a person goes crazy in a windowless, 20-patient ward. So, this week, we have been on mission to raise money to buy supplies for the patients to do crafts.

I think the term “crafts” is funny. At camp, nobody wants to do crafts. It is the sucky activity. Who wants to play with sparkles and glue when there is a lake and a high ropes course and sports? But in the wards of the Africa Mercy, the crafts are a hit. And, our goal is that, if we can teach the patients a skill here that they can use and make bags, knitting, jewelery, etc, it can potentially be a source of income when they go home. I understand that this may sound ridiculous to everyone at home, but it really is a different world here. These are people who lived through a fourteen-year civil war. Most people didn’t have childhoods. One of the most bizarre and humbling experiences here is to watch a 25-year-old man enthusiastically colour a children’s colouring page with crayons. It is bizarre because they didn’t do it when they were children. They were fighting a war. They had been captured by rebels. Or they were hiding from rebels. Or searching for missing members of their families. Therefore, doing crafts is novel. And lovely.

This week, I taught Gaye, a 21-year-old man whose story would break your heart, how to make friendship bracelets. The kind I used to make when I was ten, with my friends. At the time, I was really good. I laughed when I was recalling with the patients that it had been fifteen years since I had had the opportunity to make use of my friendship-bracelet-making skills. I taught Blessing how to make pom-poms. I tried my hardest to remember how to make gymp bracelets but apparently that one has eluded me. I think that is what makes it hard on my heart. I can barely remember how to do these things, because it has been so many years since I would let my mind be consumed with such menial tasks as making a bracelet out of thread or making a hand bag out of scraps of fabric. Yet, the group of patients we have on the ward are unfailingly enthusiastic about learning such “skills”. Things that at home, we would designate as ineffective or juvenile pastimes. But, when you didn’t have a childhood, you didn’t get to experience the simple joy that comes from producing something lovely. I am so glad that some things I learned as a child were still tucked somewhere in the back of my brain. And I am glad that the patients on the ward this week helped me remember how simple joy can be.

Look Mom!

2008-05-06T20:53:00.003-04:00

I really am a nurse!!!

We are running out of cheese

2008-04-30T10:51:00.003-04:00

The situation here on the ship is getting a little desperate. People keep leaving. People that I really really like. Today my good friend Rachel left and I know that life will never be the same again. Nurses are leaving at a much higher rate than they are coming. (Hint: If anyone reading this is a nurse and has a couple of months to spare, I know some amazing African children that would love to meet you). The rainy season is coming. That means less sunny days and consequently less Vitamin D. I have been noticing via facebook albums that my nieces and nephews are growing at a very rapid pace and I am missing critical moments in their little lives. It is spring in Canada, and I can no longer basque in the knowledge that I am missing out on blizzards. My body has finally clued in to the fact that it doesn't like working 8 days in a row and flipping between day shifts and night shifts like it is going out of style. And, I found out last night, we are running out of cheese. Two more blocks to be exact. Then, the Africa Mercy will become a cheeseless society. There are no words.

I could allow myself to get upset about the myriad of issues that are currently plaguing my heart, or I could choose to make lemonade (or whatever that saying is....we don't have lemons here, so lemonade might be out of the question). One of my favourite things about life and God is how He knows exactly when we are getting desperate. When we need something to remind us that we are blessed and life is beautiful, not always because of our circumstances, but because He makes beautiful moments despite the circumstances. Wednesday April 3oth, at 1:00 in the morning, turned out to be one of those moments. The circumstances weren't anything spectacular. Most of my life's greatest moments had nothing to do with spectacular circumstances. Katie & I have often had the discussion about how the meaningful moments, the ones that truly make you stop and reflect about how happy you are to be alive, have no particular setup. They don't cost money. They usually have no planning. They just happen and, for a brief time, your heart has a sense of complete, pure, innocent joy. Like, when you and six equally spontaneous, irrational girls unanimously decide to have a cartwheeling contest down the dock in a rainstorm at 1:00 in the morning. That moment now gets added to my list of best life moments. I think I needed it.

When I grow up, I want to be...

2008-04-24T21:50:00.003-04:00

I feel like I have been thinking and talking a lot about dreams since I have been in Africa. Being here was one of my dreams. I recently found out that I got accepted to grad school for this coming September. I will be studying applied behavioural analysis for children with disabilities. When people ask me how I feel about it, all I can think is that, if I had the chance to create a dream job for myself, this would be it. For whatever reason, I have been blessed to be one of those people that gets to realize her dreams. I have always genuinely believed that “the world is at my fingertips”. I have made it my mission to make others think the same way. I like to inspire other people to dream big and realize that there are actually no limits to what they can achieve. If you have enough determination to accomplish something, there are no barriers, only obstacles. The other night, I started to question my theories. A late-night conversation made me wonder if my unfailingly optimistic attitude has less to do with the reality of the situation and more to do with my circumstances. I can’t deny that I was born into a life of privilege. Anyone reading this was. I don’t claim to be a natural genius. But, simply based on the fact that I was born in North America, I got to go to school. I had to choose to pursue higher education, but I really can’t say that there were too many real obstacles in my way. And, every time somebody told me I could be anything I wanted to be in this life, I knew that it was true. I could.

The other night, a wonderfully heart-wrenching conversation with my friend Alfred left me with a mental dilemma about whether my perspective on reaching goals is ridiculously naïve. Alfred has become a household name on the Africa Mercy. He is everyone’s favorite wannabe Ivy League Scholar, trapped in a 14-year-old’s body. About half of the time, he is a mature, well-spoken kid with a vocabulary that makes me envious. His other moody, pouty, grudge-holding, manipulative half is less desirable, but is probably what ropes us all in, makes us laugh, and awards him with the undivided attention of all his “aunties” (nurses) well into the night. He made me promise that I would come visit him on my night shift the other night after all of my patients went to bed. So, at midnight, I went to A-ward and pulled a chair up beside his bed, where he was waiting for me. Never one for small talk, we dove right into a heart-to-heart. “What job do you want to have when you are a grown man Alfred?” There was no pause. Alfred held up three fingers. “Three things I want to do:

One: Go to college.
Two: Find the medicine for AIDS.
Three: Get married.”

How absolutely appropriate. What else would he want to do with his life?

But hearing him say it touched me immensely. Partially because hearing him say it sounded so normal. Sounded like the dreams I remember having at fourteen. But there exists a very real disparity between my dreams at fourteen and his. I think that maybe on this side of the world, the world really isn’t at your fingertips. Or maybe God just has to work an even bigger miracle in order for a 14-year-old’s dreams to come true. I truly hope that Alfred’s dreams come true. It would be amazing if he could contribute somehow to finding a cure for AIDS. As I dug a little deeper, I learned that his passion started when he was a young child and he came into contact with his first person with AIDS. “It pained my heart and I wanted to find the medicine to help him”.

The reality that most likely, Alfred (or at least the entire nation of children that Alfred represents) will not get to realize his dreams is devastating to me. Hearing him pour out his uncensored heart made it impossible to ignore that he is not just one of masses. He is not different than me or less deserving of a purposeful future. He is a unique individual with unique dreams that just happened to be born in Liberia. I want him to be able to bring into reality the life that he has planned for himself. I wanted to be able to wholeheartedly encourage him that determination and commitment alone would be enough to allow him to make it happen for himself. Until this moment in my life, I would have unreservedly spewed out to him my naïve sense of assurance that one can make whatever one wants happen. I couldn’t do it with Alfred. I couldn’t lie to him. I told him I hoped so. I told him that he had an excellent goal. I told him that if he allows God to be his strength then God will help him accomplish amazing things.

I guess that is all any of us can dream for our lives. Wherever you are born, there is no guarantee that the specifics you desire will come into realization. Details change. There are worldly limitations. Sometimes we realize we want the things we want for the wrong reasons. But, I like to believe that if God is truly the center of my plan then I can’t go wrong. That whatever becomes of me and this life will be beyond my wildest dreams. And I like to believe that the same is true for Alfred.

Sonnie

2008-04-17T12:00:00.002-04:00

This is my Sonnie. She has gone home now, but I just uploaded these pictures from my camera and they make me laugh and I wanted to share the laughter around. She definitely thinks I am crazy.

Music

2008-04-17T11:19:00.002-04:00

I would have liked to be a singer. Unfortunately, unless perfecting Ariel’s “Part of your World” in perfect harmony with your best friend qualifies you to make your livelihood by singing, I think that my dream to be the next Kelly Clarkson may never come true. As it is, I possess very little musical talent. Rhythm, yes. Fifteen years of dance lessons and I can confidently clap on time. Sometimes I can even predict how Randy and Simon will judge wannabe pop stars. And I think that Jared and Aislin are for real the “next big thing”. My musical “ear” stops there. I have never been one of those people who found a whole lot of meaning or purpose in the music they listen to. Being in Africa has changed that for me. Music is everywhere. Pure, whole-hearted, lively, purposeful, perfectly fabricated music. Music that you can’t hear without appreciating the talent and emotion behind it.

Sunday morning, at ward church, I started to cry. Ward church is when we get all the patients together in one ward (which, yes, is a huge violation of every infection-control precaution, but, this is Africa!). The patients, nurses, doctors, and other crew have “church”. We squeeze anyone that wants to be there into one tiny ward and pack as many people as possible onto the 10 beds. Like most African church, it consists of a lot of singing. Some preaching. Patients tell testimonies of how their lives have been transformed. Then more singing. That’s when I cry. I can’t really explain why, except that I am a “happy-crier”. Happy movies, triumphant moments, ceremonies of great accomplishment, reflecting on wonderful memories, or anything that stirs up overwhelming feelings of joy are all successful in bringing me to tears. It has happened on more than one occasion here. I can’t exactly pinpoint the common factor that causes me to melt, but, I know that when the ward fills with the radiant sound of joyous, broken people celebrating their source of hope, it is literally “music to my ears”.

I am trying now to think about what makes the music so incredibly unique and wonderful. A lot of it has to do with the fact that Africans have an inherent sense of rhythm and musicality that probably rivals any other group. It is ironic that in the ward of a hospital ship off the coast of Liberia, with simply a set of bongos, one sasa, and about a hundred incredible talented voices comes potentially the most wonderful sound I have experienced in my short life. How much money, time, energy goes into creating albums and songs that will never even begin to compare with what they have going on here? But anyways, the point: some of it is just raw talent.

And then some of it has to do with the passion underlying it all. There is something amazing about a completely uninhibited expression of art. It seems that they have nothing to prove. Nobody to impress. No restraints. With this comes a freedom that I believe I can hear in their music.

Lastly and probably most importantly, I think that their music makes me cry because of the emotions that drive it. When I hear a nation of people who have been brutalized and known unthinkable horrors sing that they "will give God their lifetime” and to “tell Papa God thank you”, my heart breaks. So much emotion wells up within me. They actually have no reason to be joyous or thankful. I looked at Blessing who will be in the hospital for the next few months as the doctors reconstruct her non-existent face. I looked at Edwin, who actually has no skin on his back and will most likely not make it if his skin-grafts aren't successful. I looked at Georgia who hates people in scrubs because she needed skin grafts after an African hospital experience gone-wrong. I watched all of the patients and families in the room belt out amazing expressions of love and thanksgiving to a God who, by all tangible measures, has not been evident to them. That proves to me that God’s love is bigger than the tangible things. He is not limited to expressing his love in the ways we think he should. If they can give God their lives and tell Him how they love him, then there is no way that his love is not absolutely real. Their songs are not empty. They are so clearly driven by love. I am so thankful to serve and be loved by a God who can inspire that kind of thing and I hope that I never forget the feeling of being a room where the love is so present you can actually “feel” it.

My Perfect Day

2008-04-09T16:13:00.004-04:00

Every once in a while, life feels perfect. Overall, I would say I am an optimist; however, I am very aware that usually, things aren't perfect. Life is, more often than not, a challenge. Things rarely go exactly as planned. But that fact makes the times when things feel perfect so very valuable. How important it is to recognize and appreciate times when everything falls into place with such appropriate timing and detailed perfection. I don't think we were every promised a perfect world or life. I don't think we should expect it. But I definitely think we should be thankful when it happens.

My day was a shining example of such perfection. I don't know if I am just more aware of it because these days, I feel like life has been "falling into place" for me and I am conscious of God's perfect provision and timing. Or maybe God just thought I needed a treat. Either way, in the words of pretty much every Liberian I have met, "Thanks God!"

Any nurse will understand that having that perfect balance of "just enough to do without being stressed" on a given shift is a rarity. Usually, I find myself running around feeling about 12 steps behind where I wanted to be. If that is not the case, then it is the opposite, and there are too few patients and nobody needs anything, which is boring. And then there are days like today, when the shift flies by, and you feel accomplished and competent and had plenty of time to play with the beautiful little children that have been placed in your care. My favourite little girl, Sonnie, went home today. We had a bond. She definitely hated me for her first week here. Like many Liberian children, she equated white people with needles and painful medical treatments. So, I paced myself with Sonnie. Baby steps to friendship. The first day I taught her to play catch with her one mangled hand and her "good" hand bandaged from surgery. I slowly progressed to peek-a-boo. Soon she wanted me to hold her. Yesterday I taught her to hit other nurses in the face with balloons. Now, we were in love. Yesterday, she actually chose me over her mom. Maybe it is just my youngest child, only girl in the family syndrome coming out, but I am choosing to believe that I am her favourite.

Today, I got to discharge her home. There is a song that we sing here in Liberia that anyone working on the Africa Mercy will agree is the absolute WORST song for sticking in your head for days and days and days. "I've got a very big God-O, He is always by my side.....by my side, by my side". So, I am singing it as I am getting her ready to go home today and, I swear that out of her little voice comes "by my side, by my side". I am not sure if Sonnie speaks English. I am actually not even sure if, at less than two years old, she would be able to pick-up something like that so quickly and incorporate it into her vocabulary. But, I heard it. My heart smiled.

Then this beautiful baby fell asleep in my arms and I wondered how I would ever find any other moment meaningful ever again.

Then they sold grilled cheese in the cafe when my shift was over.

Could I BE any happier???

Only in Africa

2008-04-06T20:21:00.005-04:00

It's been too long. I have no excuse. There is no justification for why I have gone so long without contact with the outside world. The thing is, at home, there are usually reasons why things don't get done. But, I am living on a ship in Liberia, so the "things to do" are fairly limited. I am either working in the ward, out in Monrovia (which can only ever be for 4 hours, and I require to be fairly well spaced throughout the week, due to the extreme overstimulation that accompanies any trip to the "big city"), watching pirated DVDs we bought in the city, reading, or (occasionally) sleeping. It's actually one of the things that I truly appreciate about my life here. For a brief season, however emotionally draining things can get, I am free from the worries of bills, errands, appointments, commuting, and essentially all the stress involved with scheduling and time management. Even when something is scheduled, it is on "Africa time", which means at starts at least 10 minutes late, and then only follows a given itinerary very loosely. That being said, I really have no excuse for not blogging. I guess except that sometimes life here is so vastly different from everything I have ever known, and the significant moments that make me smile, laugh, or break my heart are so frequent that it is hard to choose just a few and know how to accurately portray them.

Thus, I have been compiling a list in my head. A list of some (definitely not all) of the things that happen that make me wish I could capture in my head to relive over and over. As much as I can't stand the overuse and misuse of the word, most of the occurrences of the last two months could be described as nothing less than random. I can't even count the number of situations that I regret occurring when I have been alone because recounting funny events is always better when someone experienced it first hand with you. So, here it is: my list of Wish-Katie-was-here-with-me-because-everything-is-more-fun- when-we-experience-it-together, "random", would-only-ever-happen-in-Africa compilation:

- Upon arrival at an intersection, the driver of our vehicle, in all seriousness asked aloud "Where's my policeman?" Traffic lights being essentially non-existent, police officers serve to direct traffic in congested areas. Seriously. All the time. So, what do we do when he goes for lunch?

- Following the Ceilidh dance on the dock last night (definitely then highlight of the weekend), my friends and I soaked our feet in hydrogen peroxide so we didn't get any diseases from our open blisters

- Instead of placing the fresh post-op child I received today on a monitor and putting her to bed, I advised her mother to strap her to her back with a lapa and take her to the ward church. I watched to make sure she stayed "pink"

-Last Sunday night we watched "The Sound of Music" and close to 50 twenty-something-year-olds belted out every song, word for word. It started out as a casual idea of a movie that we could watch on the "big screen" because it is MSA (Mercy Ships Appropriate) and turned into a full-blown production with multiple-part harmonies and show-stopping choreography.

- It rained again on Friday, on our way to the beach. My second African rain experience. Our cab didn't have windows, so we really didn't even need to swim once we got to the beach

- A U.S. Navy Ship was docked in our port for a couple of days. They hadn't had Starbucks in a while and apparently Americans have the type of codependent relationship with Starbucks that we have with Tim Horton's. So, we got to tour their ship in exchange for free coffee. A real live functioning military ship. Made me feel all patriotic and proud to be an American....if only I was American

- We recently visited a local hospital. Although I work in hospital that is currently located in Africa, I by no means have a true concept of what it is like to work in an African hospital. My favourite part was the health teaching resources: hand drawn & coloured posters about how to feed your baby ("bottle feeding is wrong: breastfeeding is right"), how your baby will be circumcised, and how HIV is contracted. Whatever works!

- UNMIL photo-shoot....an international fashion revolution....enough said: http://www.flickr.com/photos/65504858@N00/sets/72157604318855514/

My Crazy Dreams

2008-03-19T15:58:00.003-04:00

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!!!!!

Abraham

2008-03-15T05:51:00.004-04:00

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.

Babies

2008-03-09T20:47:00.008-04:00

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.

Mrs.Beckett is pregnant!

2008-03-05T05:58:00.002-05:00

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.

Rainstorms and Witchcraft

2008-03-03T16:08:00.002-05:00

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.

Intensive Care

2008-03-02T14:38:00.003-05:00

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.

Some love lasts forever

2008-02-25T18:53:00.003-05:00

Today I lost my flip flops to the ocean. In comparison to the grand epiphanies that have been gracing my thoughts and blog as of late, this may seem insignificant; however, today being my day off, losing my flip flops may be the most significant occurance for me to share. Yesterday I got to take care of beautiful African children and help them get ready for life-altering surgery. I potentially have never been happier to be a nurse. Since I have been here, I have been getting progressively more and more anxious & excited to have patients and do the thing I came to Africa to do. I loved finally "working" (loosely-used term, considering the fact that, instead of getting a paycheck, we are paying to provide service). If I wasn't such a hyperactive productivity junkie, I might be able to appreciate the time we are getting to relax and enjoy life, before surgeries are in full swing. As it is, I just cannot wait to be overworked and exhausted from being a nurse.

Today though, I slept in until 10:00, drank a starbucks latte, and layed on the dock with my friend Stephanie (again, the term "dock" needs to be used loosely, because, although it is the term we use on the ship, and technically a "dock" is the place where the boat goes, I fear that saying we were laying on the dock might conjure up images of a far too idyllic setting. In Canada, saying "laying on the dock" means tanning in my bikini on a floating wooden dock at a cottage in Muskoka. Our dock here is concrete, with somewhat protective guardrails in select spots, and UN soldiers with guns strolling casually up and down, or sleeping, depending on the time of day...just to give an accurate visual). Back to my relaxing day; Stephanie and I are perfect "chilling" friends, because we share an identical taste in music and a mutual belief that Grey's anatomy and it's soundtrack is therapy for health care workers. Our shared love for Jack Johnson and pretending we are at the beach led us to the dock this afternoon. If you close your eyes and feel the wind in your hair, and listen to the waves and feel the sun on your skin you can almost convince yourself for a moment that you are not in the poorest country in the world. You might actually think that you are lying somewhere beautiful. Although the last thing I would want right now is to be anywhere but here, for a breif moment, the chance to mentally escape from this world is a treat.

So I am lying there: happy, content, relaxed, daydreaming about the number of babies I want to have (JUST KIDDING!!!), when a very strong magnetic force from the ocean stealthily creeps up the wall of the dock and tears my flip flop from my foot. I was left completely dumbfounded, wondering where Jack Bower was in moment of complete helplessness. Shocked, I sat up and looked down into the ocean far below where my stray flip flip floated. All alone. Stephanie suggested that I throw the other one in, so that when it finally washed up on shore, at least whoever finds them will have a pair. Stephanie has a couple years on me, and plenty plenty Mercy Ships experience behind her. If she thought my flip flops needed to be together in the ocean, then I trust her advice. I am not sure why Jesus wanted my flip flops today, but I sure hope He has fun with them!

TIA

2008-02-24T19:04:00.002-05:00

I like Africa.

It is hot. Everything is dirty. The is a whole lot of garbage. Evidence of the war is everywhere. Buildings are demolished. Streetlights are pretty much non-existant. There are bulletholes in most structures, if they managed to make it through the war. It is muggy and moist. Apparently you can get Malaria. A lot of the time it smells bad. There is no such thing as personal space in the city. Traffic laws are a suggestion at best. Ditches are often smoother and a better option for driving than roads. People yell at you and ask you for money. Everyone tries to find out some token of personal information about you in hopes of you being their ticket to "America". Vehicles are sketchy. You wonder how many years of your life gas emissions are taking off.

A few people in my life have taken to calling me "Princess". I don't think I came by this name by being the most tolerant of uncomfortable or unfortunate circumstances. Yet, in this land where every external factor I can think of is at best "unfortunate", I feel such joy and appreciation for getting to experience, if just for a while, a phenomenal culture. I have been out in Monrovia numerous times now, and each time it takes me a few minutes to adjust. I spend the first few princess moments wishing that the sweat on my forehead wasn't going to permanently glue my bangs to my face, or that deoderant wasn't such a luxery for African people, or that people would stop rubbing their dirty skin against mine. And then I realize that none of these things are going to happen. And my entire perspective changes, as I open my eyes to the wonder of the place I am in.

My new friend Liz is from NYC, and one day, while we were discussing how cool this place really is, she made the comment that it somehow reminds her of New York. I get it. There is this energy and spirit that is unique and that I have never experienced anywhere else I have lived. I am the last person you would describe as "artsy" but even my scientific, methodical brain cannot help but be in awe of the colours and the musicality that are so present all around. The sense of community is amazing. I have had the opportunity through working in the hospital with local day workers to hear what they love about their country and the resounding theme is how Liberians have pulled together and overcome their circumstances as a community. In another blog, I will have to elaborate on what that really means for Liberians, because their history and circumstances make this type of perspective literally a miracle. But, another time. Tonight, I just feel like writing how appreciative I am to be in Monrovia. Every trip to the city is such an adventure. There is continual energy and action and relationship. It is like a dream-world for creepy people-watchers like me.

Another one of my new friends calls it "going to Africa" when we go into the city. I couldn't agree more. I have talked in the past about how life on the ship is very Western and very Unafrican. But going to "Africa" at night or the weekends or on time-off is a completely different world. Before I came here, I had my preconceived notions about what Africa would be like. Although I always wanted to be a part of this world, I could never have anticipated loving it so much. I wanted to be a missionary because I feel like God wants us to love the poor and the sick and the needy and the unloved and those who the world forgot. To be honest, I anticipated this experience being a complete sacrifice of my comfort, my pleasure, and my selfish ambitions. I had no idea that Africa would exceed my wildest expectations and provide me with such delight. Don't get me wrong, I definately miss the pleasure of having nice hair, the assurance of knowing that you will be able to get home without having to push start your vehicle, and the peace of walking across the street without having to reject 5 marriage proposals, but, overall, I like this Africa!