Ethiopia- Why It Matters

Day 2-

2/26/08 0345am (Ethiopian time and year)

2/26/16 2145 (US time)

     Yesterday we landed in Addis, Ethiopia.  A team of 4 rockstar ladies that had never met before touched down with a common purpose, to serve the Selamta Family Project.  My first day was spent napping after a long overnight flight and then the evening was spent having a traditional dinner in one of the forever homes. 

     Ethiopia is a beautiful, complex, and super interesting country.  For example, the year here currently is 2008 and the day starts when the sun comes up.  When I ask children what time they go to bed, they say 3 which is 9pm.  It can be very confusing when trying to make plans with the locals.  I cant really explain it fully, I suggest you google it for the full explanation because the 4 of us currently laying our bunk beds discussing the time issue and whether or not we should have taken malaria meds as we count mosquitoes can’t sort it out.

     Today we woke up at around 430am.  Jet lag takes a few days to overcome. So, we got up and had a wonderful breakfast together.  Trish made eggs for us all and during breakfast we discussed our tentative agenda, had coffee, chatted and took it easy until we met up with the in country staff for a formal staff meeting.  After nailing down our schedule, transportation needs, and soap workshop planning, we all walked to lunch.

     My favorite part of the www.nourishcollective.org website is the Why It Matters page.  That part of the website really speaks to my heart about why I pack up and head halfway around the globe to teach soap making. Today, we had the honor of doing two home visits to meet a couple of the ladies that will be attending our soap workshop next week.  As the days pass and our trip unfolds, I hope to learn more of their stories.  But today, I was deeply humbled and reminded Why It Matters.

     We parked in front a government assisted community. The family that we visited lives up a small dirt and stone hill.  The front door did not open or close all the way.  It was difficult to open the uneven wooden door enough to enter without turning our bodies sideways.  The grandmother greeted us once inside the door, smothering us with hugs and the traditional cheek air kisses. The home measures 6 foot by 6 foot and that’s being generous. It is without running water, there are two mattresses and a chair in the room. Sitting on the bed is one of the most delicate, gorgeous Ethiopians I have ever seen.  This young girl is the one attending our soap making workshop.  She is thin and tiny, only 18 years old and holding a plump baby boy with big brown eyes.  He is 9 months old.  We were all introduced and I asked to hold the little boy.  He smiled and chattered.  His mother pointed to a large abdominal hernia and asked if he was ok. 

     Later I would come to find out that this young mother has HIV and the only one working in the family is the grandmother. The grandmother is an alcoholic and drinks her income.  The young girl was forced to quit school after grade 4 to help support the family.  This family is in the Selamta outreach program, the assistance they are given helps to ensure that the 13 year old brother can remain in school and that the daughter has nutrition to help her anti-viral medications be most effective.

     The second family we met was a wonderful Mother that was supporting 6 children after her husband died. 4 girls and 2 boys, the neighbor said that the neighborhood was very worried about the family since the father died but now the Selamta supports the family they don’t worry any longer.

This is Why It Matters.

http://www.nourishcollective.org/AboutUs/WhyItMatters.aspx

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.