It Does Matter.

Beautiful India...I left a part of my heart there.  I do each and every time, to every place I travel to. 

     One last story from Silchar, Assam.... I was working in post-op one day, discharging the kiddos from the day before and getting ready for the first ones to come out of surgery. I heard loud screaming coming from the ward next to us. It was a large ward of men. The room was filled with men recovering from surgery, sick, healing or dying, a sea of beds and mats on the floor. I walked by the ward each time I went down the long hall and would peek in and wave to the patients sitting up or walking in the halls. I saw chest tubes draining into old, used saline bottle or water bottles, rusty IV poles, and children playing between and under the beds while visiting their families. I continued to hear the screaming for hours. The screaming continued. 10/10 pain screaming. I sometimes tell my own patients as they are eating McDonalds and laughing that that 10 out of 10 is like being caught on fire and having your arm ripped off and then drug by a car at highways speed and that perhaps they could reconsider their 10/10 pain number they just gave me. This sound was that, 10/10. 

     At some point, I came to the conclusion that I could not listen to this man suffering any longer. I was torn. A part of me was worried that I shouldnt get involved, scared of what I would find. But, I realized that all of that didn't matter. I didnt care. I was a person and I knew that I could help and he was a man that needed help. I asked my favorite translator to join me. And we went. All eyes were on me as I walked in and asked, well...sort of demanded to know what was going on. I walked up to the man and placed my hand on his chest and for a moment,the screaming quieted. I asked the translator to talk to him and she walked up to the head of his bed and turned her face away, saying "I cant do this." I told her she could and she did. I looked up at his face and saw. He had been struck by lightning the night before. The left side of his face had been completely burned, his left eye burned and looked as if it had been ruptured. It was draining clear/yellowish fluid down his face, part of the fluid dripping, partially dried, leaving a white trail down his cheek. He had burns to his legs. All exposed, not cleaned or wrapped and weeping fluid. 

     Through translation, I discovered that the patients families are the ones that go to get the patients medications filled. This man had no one, he had been dropped off. I glanced at the chart and saw only mild pain meds ordered only twice a day. I asked the translator why the other families with their small children playing in the room and around the screaming man allowed this to continue. I asked why they didn't help. I was told that they all had their own patients to attend to. I felt anger. I told her to go get the nurse or the doctor and that I wanted to speak with them. I then told her to find someone to go get the medicine and that I would pay for it. The nurse arrived and I ended up not having to pay for the meds. Someone went to get them. The nurse medicated him and then cleaned and bandaged the burns. I had to return to post-op to take care of the kiddos coming off the OR table but I went back that day, and everyday the rest of the time I was there to check in on him. I would walk up to him, put my hand on his chest and comfort him for just a minute, say a silent prayer. I would stop by another man in the ward that had been burned and visit him and say hi to the man on the bed by the door with his chest tube draining in the plastic, used water bottle. 

     If not me or you, then who. One person, one tiny seed of hope. It does matter. 

The Wee-ist Ones

33 tiny ones with room for 50 and 2 nurses. This is what I saw when we entered the NICU in the hospital in Silchar.  Little tiny ones...with sticky, transparent skin. So thin that I could see their blue veins and their little hearts beating in their chests.  Many were so sick that I knew they wouldn't be there the next day.  A few, I was certain, were taking their last breaths right there in front of us, irregular respirations and unable to cry, their mouths open in an weak attempt with tearless eyes.  The NICU was a far cry from what we would see in the US. There was only one ventilator, a lack of equipment and not many Mothers.  A group of Mothers sat in a small room right in front of the entry door.  Holding their babies and feeding them.  To enter, we had to remove our shoes and the nurses or Moms would give us some sandals, sometimes their very own, that were allowed in the ward, "for infection." I met a young Doctor that chose to work there. I asked him if he was a resident and had to work there in the government hospital and he answered "No. I want to work here."

The great Dr. that keeps an eye on all the babies in the NICU

 And so, we added a trip by the NICU to our daily rounds that included the men and women in the burn unit and other wards.  Bed by bed, we walked with him as he told us their stories. There were sets of twins, septic workups, malnourished, and "brain injuries during birth."  They had handwritten tags attached to them and were doubled up in the beds.  Many, many times, he would get to a baby and say that they were abandoned and almost all of the abandoned were baby girls. I started to ask questions. The ones with a Mother, why weren't the mothers there to hold them as they died?  He explained that the mothers came every 2 hours and were allowed to breast feed but that they didn't understand due to their lack of education. I asked, talking about the ones that were near death, "Im sure they want to be here, Im sure they care." Then he said something that I cannot get out of my mind or heart. He said to me, "Its not that they don't care. They cant care."  As he explained the differences in a government hospital and a private one, I started to think of the situation there.  What it means to have a girl baby.  For the most part, girls cant grow up and and make money, and in fact, a girl costs the family money in the form of a large dowery once it is time for her to marry.  Add this to the stress of daily life without shelter, money, health care, or enough food to feed the mouths that are already starving and one can see why abandoning a tiny girl is a choice for many parents in the area.

Double bunked with handwritten tag

      I grew fond of a chunky little girl, she was healthy and was going to be discharged to a state orphanage in the following days. Abandoned. I would hover a bit longer by her bed, touching her arms and fat legs, praying, racking my brain and for a split second trying to think if it would be possible for me or a friend to adopt her.  Just this one.  What future would she have if she had a family. Would she grow up in Assam and be adopted, would she change the world? And then one morning, I was searching for her and I asked him, "Where is my baby?" He said, "She expired last night, she had convulsions." On that same morning, I looked around the room and saw more then one "expired" baby still in their beds or moved to a metal shelf, ones that did not survive the night. I think of her and them often.

     We were lucky enough to also visit the L & D ward and even met a brand new baby, minutes old. Women are not allowed to have anyone with her during birth except for the doctor.  They deliver alone, on a cold metal bed of sorts.  I hope one day this will change.  We also checked in on the mothers with babies that were not sick enough for the NICU but were not able to go home. Full of smiles, they would proudly unwrap their wee ones for us to see each and every morning.  Growing them up, hopeful for discharge home. 

I will never forget the alone, beautiful, abandoned, precious girl babies.  They DID leave their mark in this world.  As small as they were and as short of a life many of them lived, they changed someone. Me. The translators. The nurses. The doctors. Their Mothers. I think about how, simply because of where they were born, they will never have the chance to become what they could have been.  I am grateful that I can do and become whatever I would like. This, I will not take for granted.

Happy Birthday, today is your day!

The Burn Unit- Round 2

After the first day or two of lunch, I realized we had alot of left-overs. I couldn't bear the thought of all of it going in the trash and so a sign was made.  Food was saved and I decided to take it around the hospital to share to those that were hungry. We didn't have enough for a large group and in the male ward of the burn unit there were only 3 patients. One was a small boy that had spilled something hot in his lap, resulting in a burned penis. One was an older man that had been electrocuted. His wounds were almost healed, you could track the path of the current. His palms and feet had large wounds and a wound on his abdomen looked like an exit of sorts. He was going home soon and would hold his palms up to me when I arrived and asked how he was. The third is a man that is seared into my mind and heart. He was in his mid to late twenties. His entire body was burned.  Even his face and neck.  He had an infection and a mosquito net hanging over him to keep the flies from landing in his open, draining wounds. At his side was what I think was his wife and Mother.  On maybe the third or fourth day, his family wanted to speak with me. With the translator,  they told me that they needed money. His doctors had said that he would die if he didn't go to a better, more equipped hospital in the city. One that could possible help him.  They looked at me and I knew at that moment if I could, I would have done anything to save him. However, the cost was tens of thousands. And I knew, that even with the money, he possibly wouldn't have even lived long enough to make the trip.  The man looked at me, really looked at me. With his pleading, desperate bright eyes holding mine, he said in perfect English with a hoarse, quiet voice, "Please help me. I will die." I will never forget that. How it feels to know that kind of raw truth. To see what it looks like in someones face to know that they are out of options. To look at his family, scared and helpless.  To feel so frustrated.  To feel like sometimes, things are just effffing unfair.  I touched to crook of his arm, perhaps to not only comfort him but myself, and said "I will be praying for you." I did and I do.  I felt my heart breaking when I had to leave the room that day.  I felt defeated but grateful that I had been granted the chance to meet them.  I was changed. The translator, walking down the long hall of death back to post-op said to me, "I cant do this.  It is too hard.  Ive never seen things like this before."  I stopped and put my arm on a shoulder and said, "Just because it isn't seen doesn't mean that it is not real.  You live here, you can change this and you must."  And so we both continued on.  Offering what we could give...words of encouragement, hugs, smiles, tears, nail polish, prayers, and love.
  

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.  

Im working on it.

It has been a while since I have blogged. It's on my list of projects for 2010...Is it really May already? Things have been busy. I have managed to make time for trips to Ethiopia, back to India, Mongolia, Denver x2, and Haiti, with pit-stops in Nepal, Turkey, and Amsterdam...all since May 2009. I promise to post some pictures and stories from my travels. I am currently working on sorting through how to describe my Haiti trip, it has been difficult to convey.

We have also recently started something I have dreamed about for over 10 years. With a few like-minded, amazing women, we have started The Nourish Collective. A non-profit dedicated to empowering and educating women around the world. Be sure to check us out on Facebook and Twitter. 

http://twitter.com/nourish4life 

www.thenourishcollective.com

Nourish (v): to care for

Synonyms: attend, cherish, comfort, cultivate, encourage, foster, furnish, maintain, nurse, promote, provide, support, sustain, tend

Antonyms: abandon, deprive, neglect, starve

The Nourish Collective’s four fold mission is to:

1.Empower women through education.

2.Support and equip communities.

3.Promote hygiene, health, and sanitation.

4.Improve environmental sustainability.

Our plans for 2010 include:

•Community health education seminars on topics including the importance of hand washing in preventing disease, bloodborne pathogens, natural healthcare, women’s health, and childbirth education;

•Supporting women as they start and run small businesses;

•Conducting small business seminars for female entrepreneurs

•Fundraising for and partnering with organizations including Operation Smile, Foods Resource Bank, and The Eleanor League.

So, here we go. Superhero Style. Join us, we need you.

India May 19th-20th

We arrived late that night at our hotel in New Delhi. We checked in at the front lobby, they held our passports at the front desk and didn’t have computerized check in. I had to sign by my room number in a really large notebook. Our room was huge, actually 2 rooms and 2 bathrooms with a small kitchen area, living room, and a balcony overlooking the street. You had to have the key in this box on the wall to have electricity on in the room.
In the bathroom, I soon discovered a smell that came home with me in my suitcase. A moth ball is placed in all the drains to prevent odors from sewage with a plastic pitcher near the drain for cleaning oneself. With the heat, the bathroom was not cooled, the moth ball smell becomes intense. This occurred in both places we stayed!
We had 4 ladies rooming together for the night in Delhi, 3 to start and then one that got in from Brazil during the night. We crashed and then had to get up fairly early to get our luggage downstairs and eat breakfast because we had to catch a flight from New Delhi to Guwahati. 2 of my roomies got up early for a run and by the time I was up, they were all chatting on the couch! Even in India, I had a hard time with early mornings! I ate my first taste of fresh naan for breakfast, with toast and fruit jam, fried looking doughnut type things, and ½ of an omelet. The hotel reminded me of something from an Indian Jones movie with all of the decorations, textures, and colors. We all met in the lobby after breakfast, where many people who had been on a mission with Op Smile started trying to remember the names of all the team members. This is where I first heard rumors of the top secret, so called “Name Game”. (More elaboration to follow on this anxiety causing but super funny and fun game that had us all laughing out loud). We hopped on the buses that took us to the airport.
The airport had all kinds of cool food, lots of vegetarian snacks and sandwiches! When we went through security, all of us women had a separate, covered stall that looked like a shower with a female to search us. The airplanes were parked in rows with names that amused me….IndiGo & SpiceJet. The plane we boarded was out on a runway and just like in the movies, we had to walk across the concrete and go up a little covered staircase to board! The King Fisher plane was only air conditioned when it was running so it was fairly hot while we waited to leave. The flight attendants were beautiful and it reminded me of what the chubby Indian man told me on the plane from the US. He had said Indian airlines only hire single, young, beautiful people to work and that they have really clean, new airplanes and great service. All of which seemed to be true! We had another full, Indian meal on the plane ride and landed at around 5pm in Guwahati where once again I noticed all of the military presence.
Once we landed, we all gathered our luggage and headed to bus/van type vehicles. We took an approximately one hour drive to our final destination. We had to dodge many a people, cars, bikes, cows, goats and even tiny baby goats on a main road going at fairly high speeds without traffic lights or many signs. There was a lot of honking, a lot of stop and go and alot of poverty that could be seen as we made our way deeper into Guwahati.
We arrived at the hotel, got settled in and then headed to our first team dinner and meeting. At the team dinner there was more whispered mention of “The Name Game“. Our food options were amazing, we had a huge, fresh, Indian buffet. I had the pleasure of listening to the founder of Operation Smile, Bill Magee. Both he and his wife Kathy had come on this mission! He gave a very inspiring message that brought tears to my eyes. It was such an honor to listen to him as he talked to us about Operation Smile and said that when you have a dream, even when people say it isn’t possible, that there is a way that just hasn’t been thought of yet. It is so true! We all got to introduce ourselves and heard from each of our team leaders about the schedule and how things would run. Then we headed back to our rooms to get some sleep.
My roommate was a hysterically funny gal named Sharon who had been on 17 missions. We soon realized that the electricity was going to be intermittently off and on. It lasted only a few seconds and did make for some super exciting elevators rides during the rest of the mission. Our beds had small, flat mattresses that turned out to be very comfortable. I placed some drops of eucalyptus citriodora around our mattress to keep any bugs away, rubbed in some DEET and we hit the hay with breakfast starting a 630 am the next morning. Game On!

Full album can be seen here!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2024493&id=1034451463&l=7f1d9f3457

My trip to India with Operation Smile

India Day 1- May 18th

Departure. My flight left on May 18th , Monday morning. I had to have my friend Shawna take me, Jesse was at work, my brother rode with us. I had packed the night before, one full suitcase holding over 170 bars of soap and a second large suitcase (I would later realize I had WAY OVER packed). On the way to DFW, we had to make a pit stop for a cheapo watch at Target, I had left mine and needed the second hand to count heart rate and respiration the kiddos. My bubba set it for me because it was crazy hard and I couldn’t figure it out. They dropped me off at the curb and off I went.
The gate area at DFW had a couple of cute little birds that had gotten stuck inside, they were hopping around on the carpet. A lady beside me at the gate was heading with her family to Ireland. The flight to Chicago was great, I chatted most of the way to the stewardess who snuck me some crackers and cheese after I told her how I was going to India and had forgotten to request a vegetarian meal. She was so kind she said, “take this, you may need it, it will be a long flight” as she stuffed it my hands.
In Chicago, I grabbed a veggie plate and headed to the International terminal. Standing there, I looked at the terminal monitor that said DFW to Delhi. The gate was full of many types of people. Hippies, Indians, the yoga types, business men in suits, women dressed in saris, men with head wraps. I could hear many languages being spoken & there was particular smell of curry and body odor. Not a bad smell, just unique. I talked with a younger college guy that was traveling around India for a month alone. They called us for boarding. The plane was huge! 3 rows, I was lucky enough to get an aisle seat which was great for most of the trip except for the cranky flight attendant that would run her carts in to my feet if I put them out to far into the aisle while sleeping.

I had a short, stocky, chubby Indian man that would be my neighbor for the next 12+ hours. He was so nice and told me about some of India’s politics, wars and about his life. He was headed home after a long stay in the US and was looking forward to seeing his children. The man beside him was a tall business man, heading to India for a quick trip. During the night, the tall guy got on the floor in front of him and used his seat like a pillow, cramming his long legs under he seat in front of him, I wished I had a pic of that! My little neighbor said the funniest thing, he points at his neighbor sleeping in the floor and said “See…that long-man problem. Short man like me no problem on plane.” It cracked me up. The food, well, I didn’t have anything to worry about. I didn’t really think about the fact that there are alot of Hindu peeps in India and they don’t eat meat. I found this to be true the entire time I was in India, I was never worried about finding vegetarian options! It was so great! When the attendant brought us food, they asked, “veg or non-veg.”
We had a great traditional India meal…I was so excited! I was able to sleep and watched a movie. Right before we landed, a little girl in front of me started vomiting, she was maybe 6 or 7. I had my essential oils on the plane so I gave her some peppermint. He mother at first declined but the grandmother told her to try it. She did and was able to make the landing without continuing to vomit.
I stepped off the plane and as I walked down the hanger, I realized that I was in India. It was like stepping into a oven. 104, no ac. I was alone. There were lots of big men in camo with big guns all over the place. But, I was actually in freaking India! I was so grateful to meet up with an amazing lady, Tina RN, that had been with Operation Smile to Guwahaiti before. She was in line in front of me as we went into customs and I stuck close to her. She mentioned to me that there were recent bombings in December which made me a tad nervous. I thought to myself that I should have read more about what and where I had signed up to go. I had joined the team so last minute that I didn’t research anything except for buying the Lonely Traveler book about India to read on the plane (which I didn’t). I stopped to use the restroom and a restroom attendant wiped of the toilet seat for me in exchange for a tip, the restroom was spotless., she was wearing a sari. We gathered up our suit cases and headed to the exit of the terminal after changing some dollars to rupees…47 rupees to one dollar. As I walked out the door, above us was a sign that said “Namaste, Welcome to India”.
Operation Smile folks were waiting for us to arrive, they were full of warm smiles and helped to make me feel safe and comfortable. We waited in a large group for others to join us from incoming flights, introducing ourselves and then quickly made our way outside to a couple awaiting buses. The street was noisy, hot, humid, full of honking and people, it was dark, night time, alive. Men would attempt to take our bags from right out of our hands, demanding tips. Our team leader was there and helped make sure we all got on board the buses with our bags. At one point, a street man actually tried to reach into his wallet for money after grabbing at our bags. We headed to our hotel, where we would spend one night and then depart in the am for the airport to fly to Guwahaiti.