The Burn Unit

The post-op ward was down a long hallway. A long hallway that other team member referred to as the walk of death. You left the operating theatre and playroom with what felt like loads of fans and smiling playing beautiful children, and made a right than another right. Through the young hospital security guys, always smiling and loudly blowing their whistles with an occasional hollar to get the crowd to separate and allow us by with the abbreviation P.I.S.S. on the lapels of their uniforms.

Our friendly neighborhood PISS security

Down a long, often dark hallway, past several large wards separated into men and women. Filled with people laying in beds...skinny, sick, screaming in pain. People with large wounds and dirty dressings. People with tubes draining in to cut up used water bottles, improvised drainage bags...tubes from everywhere...arms, noses, chests, and abdomens.  People just trying to pass the time in the heat, chatting and often laughing in a noisy room. People with a caregiver and children playing between the beds and mats on the floors.  Rusty IV poles with all kinds of unknown things hanging from them like chandeliers.  People with bright smiles, warm welcomes and hope in their eyes.  I walked that path so many times a day that I couldn't begin to count.  You were often overtaken with smells, mostly walking past the bathrooms.  We became professionals at holding our breath for extended time in certain parts of the walk. If you look left, instead of just going right and down the hallway, you see the Burn Unit. In a almost humorous twisted way, the sign was made to look like it was on fire. There is 2 doors, the windows have long since been broken, just a door with a hole in it. Again, separated into ladies and gents.  Im not sure why it happened, I was walking up the hall to the OR and looked up, straight ahead. I saw her there, in the frame of the broken out window, a young girl, with gauze and bandages, looking straight at me, smiling.  And so, I waved. Her young face lit up and she waved back in this excited style that I grew quite fond of and I continued on. As did a new ritual. Every time we walked down the hall and she saw us we would wave, blow kisses and smile.

After the first cases went in to the OR, in post-op we would have a bit of time after discharging our patients. On the second day, my partner in crime on what would become our daily rounds in the hospital said, "Lets go and see the girl in the burn unit and visit the pedi unit." And so, I packed up my glittery pink nail polish, some bubbles and stickers, talked a translator into joining us and off we went. As I walled down the hall, I felt fear creeping into my heart. A small voice inside told me that this would change me.  I knew it would would be hard,  seeing and meeting the patients covered in burns with such limited resources, many would die from things that could have been fixed in the US.  I also knew that I had to go. If not us, then who would paint the little girls nails?  We walked in and patient by patient, bed by bed, we went.  It was a room with 2 rows of beds. I asked each one of the women why they were there and what had happened to them as I sat there trying not to hurt them while I painted their fingernails.  Most had been burned by fire during cooking. 2 had been caught on fire by their husbands for unpaid dowery.  Most had full body burns. Burns that were oozing, painful, wrapped in gauze that was dirty, discolored and moist. Patients without monitors or oxygen, exposed burns, infected burns. Women trying to fight for life, next to the ones that were dying or screaming in pain while dressings were changed, blood drawn, IV started, or even just repositioned.  As I was sitting or kneeling next to each bed, I asked the translator to tell them to be strong, that I would be praying for them, and that I would not forget them. I listened as they shared their stories. I looked for a small piece of skin on each woman to touch while I said a silent prayer and I searched for unburned foreheads to lean over and kiss.  I had to stop myself more then once when I tried to hug them. Sometimes, all I could do was to lightly touch an ankle or shin with one finger. I talked with one of the younger ladies, about what happened next, would she have to go back to the husband that had set her on fire?  She was going to be going home with her father. He stood by her side, taking care of her. I encouraged her to get up and walk, she wasn't eating, had lost weight and had a horrible cough.  Her burns made it difficult for her to turn her head or sit up to cough.  I met each one of their gaze and without words, they always would attempt a smile. I will never forget the small perfect voice that I heard when I stood next to the little girl. "Good Morning, Madame." and "Thank You" after we glittered her tiny nails up with polish and covered her in bright stickers.  I continued to go. Every single day. I visited these ladies, the mens burn unit, the NICU, and the room of babies that were premature but stable.  

And as promised, I have not forgotten them. What I learned is that I didn't need to tell them to be strong.  They are the strongest group of ladies that I had ever had the gift of meeting.  They continue on, with inconceivable pain, lacking basic medical supplies and knowing that is very possible that they wouldn't survive. They are still able to hold on to hope. Even able to comfort me in the 148 degree, difficult working conditions and help soothe my breaking heart from the knowledge of extreme poverty with their beautiful smiles, laughs, words and love.  I left them a piece of me and in return, they taught me that I am strong, that I must continue on even when it seems impossible, scary or hard.  

This is what love looks like. 

Welcome Back, My Child.

I know, its been a while.....As you can see from prior posts or lack of, Im not great at this blogging stuff.  However, I feel compelled to share.  

My Cankle, after the final cast and hardware was removed. 

Heres a brief update. So much has happened over the last many months...I started playing roller derby for Dallas Derby Devils and in a near death experience ;) with a toddler at leisure skate, I rolled my ankle last Feb. This resulted in over a year of chronic issues, ending in 2 surgeries and a few internal metal bits.  I was 100% non-weight bearing, casted with a walker and crutches, and unable to walk for 10 weeks. Living alone made this one of the hardest times in my life emotionally. What I learned: How to drift my walker around the corners on my concrete floors, how to flash the neighbors when falling in the front yard in my robe, how to carry coffee/beer while rolling walker backwards (sometimes flipping it), and how to bedazzle and glitter a cast, Rack City style.  The truth is, I am stronger then I ever knew and that it is extremely hard for me to ask for help. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, that is so true.  

Our NEW logo

While I was laid  up, we did make great progress with Nourish. The Nourish Collective, a non-profit I helped to start many years ago, finally received 501c3 tax exemption after several years of dreaming, struggling, tears, help, and love.  We are a collective of sassy, passionate women that have committed our lives to putting hope on the map. From our sparkly new site, "The Nourish Collective’s Mission is to nourish individuals, families, and communities by fostering sustainable solutions to poverty, poor health and disease, and hopelessness through advocacy, education, and a network of combined resources. Over ten years in the making, The Nourish Collective, sprung from caffeine-induced, late night brainstorming about saving the world “Powerpuff Girl style.” This may or may not include glitter and a pink helicopter."  

My part in the Collective includes heading up the Soap & H20 program. We recently completed an instructional, step-by-step manual for making handmade soap for personal use or sale in developing countries. The manual, intended for use in developing nations as part of a comprehensive vocational or small business development program, includes basic education on disease prevention from use of soap and handwashing and basic business development topics including pricing, accounting, and marketing. Helping women and families become sustainable and at the same time, decreasing disease.   


All of this leads me to this.  One day, after what felt like forever, I was back.  After such a long time, just like that, I was on a jet airliner, headed back to my Dear India for the 4th time with Operation Smile.  I was asked to join a mission at a new site in Silchar, Assam.  With the help of my awesome co-coworkers, I was able to say YES.  I was on a team with several friends I have met along my journey and I made many more that will forever hold a place in my heart.  I volunteered with OpSmile, taught soap-making with Nourish, and was able to help feed the kiddos living in the slum with a wonderful non-profit called The Pratyasha Foundation.  My dear friend Leslie, a great gal that I met on my Jordan mission, was my roommate. She always bakes dozens of homemade cookies and we spent many nights in bed, laughing and eating them from the little tupperware boxes she packed them in.  

This trip was difficult as was returning home, leaving behind all I had seen and experienced.  I have had several moments in my life that have caused me to stop and question who I am, what I believe in, what I am made of and where I am going.  What will I do with this precious life I have been given? Times where I am overwhelmed with possibility and left with only more questions and at the same time, knowing I am exactly where I am suppose to be.  This trip was one of those moments.  I will write more about those experiences in a bit.  These are hard to convey. Hard to share. Hard to sort out.  Words seems to only dilute them. 

Feeding & loving the kiddos in the slums of Lakhtokia

During one of my first shifts back in the ER where I work after returning, I took care of an older man. He had bright, brown eyes and  dark chocolate skin.  I asked where he was from and he said, Congo." I said, "DRC." He looked at me as I sat down next to him to place his IV and draw his blood and with his hand in mine, he spoke to me.  He asked me how I knew about DRC and I told him of my recent journey to India, my volunteering in developing nations and even about how I was struggling.  And then, he asked "Why? Why do you go?" I immediately felt tears welling up and my heart stirring.  I sat there, without words and then after a few quiet moments, I said, "I go because I was born to go, I go because I have to, I go because I was made for this. I go because this is what has been placed in my heart and I am unsettled.  But it is hard, and at times I am angry and I often feel alone."  He asked if I was a believer and then said what I will never forget.  "You are different.  God has placed this in you. You have to tell people of your journey. What matters is sharing what you have seen and helping others to understand.  It is the legacy you leave behind. What good is what you have seen if no one else knows? What is God? God is Love. There is no denomination, no rules that man makes up, no right religion, there is only this.  It is simple, we confuse things. God is Love. You are special."  And so, I will tell.  And I will love...a fierce, vulnerable, painful, wonderful love.  And I will be grateful that God used an old, black man with a heavy accent to speak to me.