Hello again from Liberia,
I hope you are enjoying the august sunshine wherever you are today. So it's been awhile. But I'm hoping to make up for it now. You might want to get cozy if you have a few minutes to spare. It's a long one. Here goes...
In the Hospital.
The hospital is bustling with recovering post-op patients. We are on our third round of VVF patients, and are also still doing orthopedics as well. In the next few weeks our maxillofacial surgeon will arrive, and we will be fixing cleft lip and palates and removing facial tumors from a horrible condition called Noma, which is caused by malnutrition. But for now, clubbed feet are being turned forward, lingering bullets are being removed, unhealed fractures are being repaired, and chronic leaking is being stopped. I spend most of my days at work caring for the VVF ladies, but occasionally am assigned to the orthopedic unit, which is filled primarily with children. This means that I get to hold adorable babies with casts on their legs - for my job! I can't complain.
Two of our VVF patients surprised us when they arrived a few weeks ago, ready to be admitted for surgery, with their babies on their backs. Baby James and Baby Junior were born just a few days apart in January of this year, but looking at them you would never know it. Baby James was a solid, healthy African boy, while baby Junior looked underfed and much younger than his age of seven months. He lacked the ability to hold up his head, and his eyes wandered in different directions. Both of the boys' prolonged deliveries were the cause of their mother's incontinence. Baby Junior's mom, twenty one year old Amelia, was very sick for the month after his birth, making her unable to breastfeed. Her body never caught up in milk production, so she was forced to supplement. But formula was out of the budget. Baby Junior was raised on a powdered product similar to coffee creamer with very little nutritional value.
I first cared for these two beautiful babies last Friday night. Baby James' mom cuddled him in her bed through the night and nursed him when he cried. Baby Junior's mom turned her back to him through the night and pretended not to hear when he cried. He laid in his dirty diapers until someone else intervened. A crying baby is not exactly ideal in a ward filled with twenty women recovering from surgery who are trying to sleep.
We brainstormed at the nurses' station. Why wouldn't Amelia care for her baby? Baby Junior is the reason Amelia leaks, the reason she was shunned from her society, the reason she nearly died. Is it possible that she resented him? Also, African mothers tend to keep more distance between themselves and their babies than western women do. They must protect their hearts. Infant mortality rates are horrendous in underdeveloped countries. Baby Junior was not well. And as a mother of three, Amelia knew it.
So we, the nursing staff, were forced to intervene. We asked Amelia to feed her baby. She would nod her head in agreement as she accepted the warm bottle, then put it down and go back to sleep the moment we walked away. She sighed and moaned and looked inconvenienced when we would hand her a diaper upon noticing that the junior's was soaked. "You take him," she would say. Finally, we told Amelia she must feed her baby. She was far enough out of surgery to look after for his needs. And we weren't going to be there to take care of Junior when they went home. The charge nurse created a feeding schedule. We picked up the crying baby and placed him in his mother's arms again and again until it became natural. We talked to Amelia about the importance of loving her baby in order for him to grow healthy. Eventually, something clicked.
Today has been a week since the first frustrating shift that I listened to baby Junior cry throughout the night. His formerly frail limbs are getting meaty, and he grown has a double chin! His eyes seem to focus perfectly now. And he is gradually holding up his own neck a little more each day. Apparently these abnormalities were symptoms of malnutrition.
Amelia smiles now, with good reason. She is no longer leaking and her son is becoming healthy. She asks for diapers when Junior's is dirty. She feeds him when it's time. She looks him in the eye. She kisses him. She holds her baby with no prompting at all.
I am awed at the difference one week made. I thank God that Junior has a mother who loves him and a body that is growing strong.
We pity our patients when we hear that many have three and four children before reaching the age of twenty. The irony? They pity us when they hear that we are in our twenties and don't have any babies! A couple of the ladies have told us they will pray that we can start having babies soon. I hope not too soon! It seems that bearing many children here is a sign of success for a woman, of pride for a man, and a promise of prosperity for the future of both parents, because with no social security checks coming to the elderly their descendants become their only source of income.
[This is baby James. You can see by the size of him that he is the one who was clearly well fed from the start. And, yes, I did intervene before he strangled himself with my stethoscope.]
I hope you are enjoying the august sunshine wherever you are today. So it's been awhile. But I'm hoping to make up for it now. You might want to get cozy if you have a few minutes to spare. It's a long one. Here goes...
In the Hospital.
The hospital is bustling with recovering post-op patients. We are on our third round of VVF patients, and are also still doing orthopedics as well. In the next few weeks our maxillofacial surgeon will arrive, and we will be fixing cleft lip and palates and removing facial tumors from a horrible condition called Noma, which is caused by malnutrition. But for now, clubbed feet are being turned forward, lingering bullets are being removed, unhealed fractures are being repaired, and chronic leaking is being stopped. I spend most of my days at work caring for the VVF ladies, but occasionally am assigned to the orthopedic unit, which is filled primarily with children. This means that I get to hold adorable babies with casts on their legs - for my job! I can't complain.
Two of our VVF patients surprised us when they arrived a few weeks ago, ready to be admitted for surgery, with their babies on their backs. Baby James and Baby Junior were born just a few days apart in January of this year, but looking at them you would never know it. Baby James was a solid, healthy African boy, while baby Junior looked underfed and much younger than his age of seven months. He lacked the ability to hold up his head, and his eyes wandered in different directions. Both of the boys' prolonged deliveries were the cause of their mother's incontinence. Baby Junior's mom, twenty one year old Amelia, was very sick for the month after his birth, making her unable to breastfeed. Her body never caught up in milk production, so she was forced to supplement. But formula was out of the budget. Baby Junior was raised on a powdered product similar to coffee creamer with very little nutritional value.
I first cared for these two beautiful babies last Friday night. Baby James' mom cuddled him in her bed through the night and nursed him when he cried. Baby Junior's mom turned her back to him through the night and pretended not to hear when he cried. He laid in his dirty diapers until someone else intervened. A crying baby is not exactly ideal in a ward filled with twenty women recovering from surgery who are trying to sleep.
We brainstormed at the nurses' station. Why wouldn't Amelia care for her baby? Baby Junior is the reason Amelia leaks, the reason she was shunned from her society, the reason she nearly died. Is it possible that she resented him? Also, African mothers tend to keep more distance between themselves and their babies than western women do. They must protect their hearts. Infant mortality rates are horrendous in underdeveloped countries. Baby Junior was not well. And as a mother of three, Amelia knew it.
So we, the nursing staff, were forced to intervene. We asked Amelia to feed her baby. She would nod her head in agreement as she accepted the warm bottle, then put it down and go back to sleep the moment we walked away. She sighed and moaned and looked inconvenienced when we would hand her a diaper upon noticing that the junior's was soaked. "You take him," she would say. Finally, we told Amelia she must feed her baby. She was far enough out of surgery to look after for his needs. And we weren't going to be there to take care of Junior when they went home. The charge nurse created a feeding schedule. We picked up the crying baby and placed him in his mother's arms again and again until it became natural. We talked to Amelia about the importance of loving her baby in order for him to grow healthy. Eventually, something clicked.
Today has been a week since the first frustrating shift that I listened to baby Junior cry throughout the night. His formerly frail limbs are getting meaty, and he grown has a double chin! His eyes seem to focus perfectly now. And he is gradually holding up his own neck a little more each day. Apparently these abnormalities were symptoms of malnutrition.
Amelia smiles now, with good reason. She is no longer leaking and her son is becoming healthy. She asks for diapers when Junior's is dirty. She feeds him when it's time. She looks him in the eye. She kisses him. She holds her baby with no prompting at all.
I am awed at the difference one week made. I thank God that Junior has a mother who loves him and a body that is growing strong.
We pity our patients when we hear that many have three and four children before reaching the age of twenty. The irony? They pity us when they hear that we are in our twenties and don't have any babies! A couple of the ladies have told us they will pray that we can start having babies soon. I hope not too soon! It seems that bearing many children here is a sign of success for a woman, of pride for a man, and a promise of prosperity for the future of both parents, because with no social security checks coming to the elderly their descendants become their only source of income.
[This is baby James. You can see by the size of him that he is the one who was clearly well fed from the start. And, yes, I did intervene before he strangled himself with my stethoscope.]
[Adorable orthopedic patients]
[Bird's eye view of the pediatric ward]
Monrovia, Liberia.
This city is like nothing I have experienced before. I will share with you some of my the crazy details about going into town.
Hailing a cab means racing ahead of the herd of people around you to whichever cab pulls up, then piling in like sardines with complete strangers. The cabs are small cars – usually four door Nissan Sentra's or Toyota Corolla's, and they are older. There is no guarantee of handles on the doors or fabric on the seats, much less an intact exterior. By law, a cab can hold up to seven people. Seven people! That means two in the passenger seat and four in the back. Personal space is an irrelevant concept.
Going for a ride anywhere around here is pretty much synonymous for going off-roading. I remember feeling nervous in the beginning, but it's become just another part of the adventure. The dirt roads are plagued with enormous potholes which grow into ditches and overflow with mud this time of year. Mercy Ships has SUV's that we take into town, but the cabs are only cars. I have been pleasantly surprised that we've made it out of many massive puddles when in my head I was thinking that there was just no way. Only one time on the way to the beach did we get stuck in one. In less than a minute a few local men had run over to push and we were out of the water in no time.
Going out to eat means taking a risk of course, and waiting and waiting and waiting for your food. Time is a relative concept here, like in most warm climated cultures. At one restaurant the waiter said that our food would be five minutes and it actually took another hour! And I've heard much worse horror stories. There are a few restaurants that serve food for internationals rather than the typical Liberian cuisine. Some are on the beach, with palm trees! Again, I really can't complain. It is refreshing to get off the ship and of course to eat food that is a little bit closer to normal.
Going to the market means making your way through massive crowds until you find the item you are after, running from the vendors that harass you to buy their products if you should even glance at them too long, bartering like your life depends on it if you hope to get a reasonable price in spite of the fact that you are white, and doing your best to ignore the overly zealous local men all the while. It doesn't matter what your age or how long it's been since you've showered, if you are a white woman, you will be proposed to in the market. The way men approach women is a little different here. Last week I heard my favorite quote so far, "I am talking to you white woman. You speak to me now." Something tells me this kind of behavior wouldn't go over so well back home!
Sounds crazy here, I know. But it's amazing at the same time. I wouldn't trade my time in this place for the whole world if I could.
[A market downtown]Life onboard the Africa Mercy.
Neighbors are co-workers. Co-workers are friends. Friends become family as we eat, sleep, and live under one roof (deck?). I am thankful to be a part of this community.
People come from all corners of the world to be here. English is not everyone's first language, but is the official language of the ship. This means I get to hear phrases like "I am plenty running in a hurry" and "that is rubbish!" on a regular basis. The Africans like to add the letter "o" to the end of any word, so terms like "sorry-o", "hi-o," and "thank you-o," are common as well. This boat is an incredible collision of languages, of cultures, of values, of passions. It is both entertaining and educational.
[Dutchies. Minus that one on the right.]
Everything we need is here on our air conditioned vessel: a laundromat, a dining hall, a library, a post office, a bank, a hospital, a hair salon, a convenient store with the bare ssentials, a modified Starbucks café, and a second hand "boutique" where one crewmember's trash becomes another crewmember's treasure. We are limited to one load of laundry a week and two minutes in the shower each day. The plumbing system works on good days. The internet connection is turtle speed. We watch movies gathered around the largest screened laptop computer we can find.
This might not sound too luxurious in comparison to American standards, but in comparison to what lies beyond the gates of our port we are actually living in a palace. So much so that I think our lofty accommodations create a barrier between us and the African people, as if there weren't enough differences already. They see us as being filthy rich. And in comparison, we are. It hinders relationships between us and the community.
There are days when I long to live outside the comforts of this boat. I want to sleep in a grass hut and carry buckets of water on my head. I want to connect with the Liberian people. But how much does a white girl from the South Jersey 'burbs reallly have to offer in such a place? Maybe one day...Who knows.
Collin Carroll.
I appreciate the many apologies I received about Collin's death. I should've clarified in my last email that although I was sad, I was holding up okay. There are over three hundred people living on board, and Collin was really an acquaintance to me. A few days before he passed away Collin overheard me say that I had never tried a mango before at lunch. Next thing I knew, a piece of his was lying on my plate. We were friendly but I don't remember ever having a full conversation with him.
There was a memorial service held for Collin on board two weeks ago. His co-worker shared about his dedication to the dental team here, and how Collin would arrive to work early to ensure the team was equipped to treat as many patients as possible. His friend Hilary spoke about how Collin shared with her his passion for spending Saturday mornings at a local orphanage. This was something she never thought she would do, but found herself hooked after going with Collin just one time. Collin's supervisor shared about how Collin had completed a five year pre-med degree in just three and a half years, not wasting any time or money. Because of his dedication to his studies, his father offered to send him anywhere in the world. Collin chose Africa.
I pray for God's grace for Collin's parents and two sisters, to uphold them through this tragic loss. I would be grateful if you would try to lift them up in your prayers as well.
Billy Joel had a valid point when he declared that "only the good die young." I wonder if people whose lives will end early somehow intrinsically know this fact deep inside of them. They usually seem to be the ones that live the hardest and love the most in their time here. I am sad to see another beautiful soul leave the earth so early. But there is peace to be found in knowing that Collin will live forever in Heaven. Not because he was in Liberia to serve, and not because he did more good deeds than bad over the span of his short life. The Bible tells us that no one of us could ever do enough good things to earn our way to heaven, because we are all sinful by nature. Jesus' sacrifice on the cross is the only payment worthy enough to get us there. Collin professed to believe that, and did his best to live accordingly. And that is why we can rest assured that he is in a better place now.
The Orphanage.
I would estimate that there are between thirty and forty kids at God's home orphanage down the road. The beauty in their faces outweighs the sight of their worn clothes and skinny bodies a million times. Their home leaves much to be desired. We do what we can to shed some light into their world for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings. We sing songs with them: fun songs, and songs about God. Someone tells a story from the Bible. We play games, color and read books. They like to touch our hair, which is a little different from theirs, and "plaid" (braid) it. We hug them, and hold the little ones. There are three toddlers who all jump into our laps the minute we arrive, and never fail to fall asleep there, regardless of how long its been since they slept last. They don't wear diapers, and often leave little puddles behind!
We have a club for the older girls on Tuesday afternoons. There are about ten of them: Maima, Jenne, Martha, Korlu, Marie, Bendu, Naomi and Patricia are the names I can remember. The captain's wife, Rachel, is our leader. Her goal is to reach the older kids in the orphanage, because whether or not they realize it, they are the role models that set the standards for all the kids. Rachel is a former teacher with a wealth of knowledge on relating to these kids. She comes up with activities that not only entertain them for a while, but also teach them how to take initiative and be productive using the little resources they have. Rachel, in all of her smoothness, somehow convinced the tailor down the road to save his scraps of fabric to give to the girls for free. She taught the girls to cut the fabric into very thin strands which they use to crochet into purses. The idea was brilliant and the bags are coming along so nicely. "Fine," is what the Africans would call them. They look at us like we're speaking Greek when we use the words "pretty," or "cute." Everything is "fine." If the bags look fine enough when they are complete, we are going to sell them on the ship to help the girls earn some money.
The orphanage is dark and dreary, especially in the girls' room. The walls are lined with triple decker bunk beds with bare mattresses - no pillows, no linens. There are small windows only at the tops of the walls, which allow enough sunlight in to keep the room dimly lit. The closet was filled with one large mound of clothes, which each girl rummages through to choose clothes from daily. There is no sense of personal ownership – everything belongs to everybody. On one hand it is captivating to see the sense of community cultivated amongst the girls. But on the other hand, experiencing ownership and individuality could be empowering for them.
Last week we gave the girls money to go to the market to buy hangers and told them we'd all clean out the closet together this week. When we arrived Tuesday we found the girls gathered around a closet which was already cleaned out with clothes hanging up. They had also hung the mosquito nets that Rachel had gotten them over each of their bunks. Although these are intended to be merely functional nets, they created a canopy effect over the beds, and they look pretty. We were proud of them for taking the initiative on their own and glad that they are learning to value the possessions that they do have.
At Church.
I hesitate to write this paragraph because it's another not so happy one. But I know it's only fair share the negative as well as the positive parts of my experience with you. Some people from the ship have been donating large amounts of money to Jamaica Road Church to be put towards basic upgrades on the building. We have money; they need money. Why not share it? In theory, this seems only logical. However, most mission organizations ban their volunteers from donating money to local organizations because of the issues that usually arise. Mercy Ships does not. Apparently it's acceptable in African culture to ask for something if you have a need, and know someone who could fill that need. Now they are posting new large financial burdens in the bulletin. The last Sunday that I attended church, I was asked for money twice. I told them I am a volunteer and I am here to give back to their country by working. It was awkward. This made me feel kind of crappy about something that had previously seemed so beautiful. I questioned their motives for welcoming us so warmly in the first place. My mom assured me that I can not write off their kindness as a whole, and that I must remember that there no perfect church exists simply because perfect people do not exist. She's usually right. I hope this time is no exception. I pray that we are able to really connect with the people at Jamaica Road Church in spite of our diverse backgrounds and financial situations, and that God will give us discretion about how and when and how much to give.
About Me.
Things are going really well for me. After two months I am feeling settled on the ship and getting more comfortable in the community as well. One month to go. I hope to make the most out of it.
It was easy to make the decision to come to Africa. What is harder for me? Abiding in love. Making a choice to do live selflessly on a day by day, minute by minute basis. Putting the needs of others before my own, and doing it gladly. It is not where we are at or what we are doing that is most significant, but how much love we do it with.
I had hoped being in Africa would change me into a selfless being. Au contraire, my friends. I remain far from perfect, just like always. In spite of the massive needs around me, my own miniscule needs continue to rank first in my head all day long. There are times when I am caring for my patients while the true first thought on my mind is when I will have a chance to take a coffee break. I still become irritated by my own conditions of hunger and fatigue while I live alongside a community of people who do not have meals to eat or beds to sleep in. I still desire to have new things while I am surrounded by people who have never owned a fraction of my possessions. I guess these are consequences of our human condition.
So I do my best to seek God each day, to turn my selfish desires over to Him, to ask Him to fill me with His desires for each situation that I encounter. It is only because of God's love inside of me that I am motivated me to do any good thing.
"And we have known and believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God in him." [I John 4:16, The Bible]
I'd like to thank you again for your continued love, prayers, and encouraging words while I am far from home. They mean so much.
Much Love,
Lindsay
