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.  

Kolkata, India

I made it back after another great trip with Operation Smile to Kolkata India.  I had a near kidnapping by taxi episode, flat tire changing on a dark highway in the fast lane, 5 sutures repaired by team plastic surgeon in my hotel room, and we helped make 138 new smiles.  The trip was amazing and I am even more in love with India this time around. More to come soon! Peace

This is Haiti

 

My trip to Haiti was such a mix of emotions and I have found it difficult to convey my experience. We were warned of this during one of our many 7pm, porch team meetings. It is hard to explain the feelings, images, atmosphere, smells, sounds, the people...the lives that continue to go on, full of hope and love in the mist of the brutal devastation and death...and so I will try to answer the question I have been asked again and again…How was Haiti?

March 1st, an email landed in my inbox, the subject line was simple… “Haiti?” A brief message followed, “I hear that despite having just returned from an exhausting mission you may be interested in going to Haiti. I am putting together a team of nurses to go in just a few days. If there is any way you would be able to go, please give me a call so I can tell you about it. Mark”

The exhausting mission that he was referencing was my 2nd Operation Smile mission to Guwahati, in North India. We were able to successfully complete, with 2 back to back teams, close to 1000 surgeries in less then 2 weeks of surgery, the largest OpSmile mission to date. I had just gotten home late on February 28th after 2 weeks of hard work in Assam, several days in Nepal (flying around Everest) and then a few more days traveling solo around Amsterdam. As soon as I read the email, my mind started racing. Would it be possible? I still had to recover from jet lag with only 2 days off and then work 3 12+ hour shifts in a row in the busy ER, with a departure day of March 7th to Miami. I also had to find a way to get my shifts covered while I was gone. As much as I love being a part of Operation Smile missions, this felt different. It felt like something I would regret if I didn’t try. Yes, I was exhausted, yes I was tired, yes I was even sick….I had to fit in a quick trip to the Dr. after having a fever only 2 days before heading to Haiti. But, I’m a nurse, an ER nurse in a busy county trauma center, and I have always had a desire to serve in a disaster response setting. This was an opportunity, my opportunity, and I was and am so extremely grateful for the simple, short email from Mark, allowing me the chance to go.

The following days were a blur. I had malaria meds to get, 99% DEET to find, which I’m sure that one item alone necessitates the need for me to do an extensive detox. I had food to buy, my suitcase from India to unpack, and then repack, rides to the airport to secure, and my ER shifts to get covered. I had made a deal of sorts with myself, saying that if it was ment to be, it would all come together and it did!  Thanks to the ER director, charge nurses and my co-workers I was able to get all my shifts covered…I was a go and on March 6th, my flight itinerary arrived in my inbox.

March 7th, I headed to the airport. I was meeting up with 2 other Operation Smile nurses in Miami where we would spend the night and then leave early the following morning to Port au Prince. I had no idea who these nurses were and had only a photo to go by that was sent in an email from Barb. I touched down in Miami, rounded up my suitcase and then ran to the other side of the airport, hoping to catch up with Barb and share a ride to the hotel, her flight was minutes behind mine. She was easy to spot, just as described via email, carrying a big, blue backpack. She had a warm smile and we both chatted a bit about what we were signed up for, missions we had been on, and talked about some of our worries. We made our way to the hotel by shuttle and then walked to IHOP to grab a bite to eat. Our third partner in crime, Linda, was not to arrive until later. On our way “home” from dinner, we stopped at the gas station and found some single serving, plastic bottles of wine, which we of course scooped up for late night debriefing sessions after work in Haiti. This solved our dilemma about locating a wine bottle opener. When we got back to the hotel, I went up to Barb’s room to meet her roomie, Linda. As soon as I opened the door and saw her I yelled and ran for a hug. It was the same Linda that I had just left in India! I couldn’t believe it. We both said “What are you doing here?” It was such a comfort to know that we were going to be together for our journey, to know one of the faces. After our hugging and hollering, I showed Linda the path to the plastic, single serving wine at the gas station around the corner and then we hit the hay. I took what would be my last, relaxing, hot bath complete with hotel shampoo poured under the faucet for some bubbles prior to bedtime.

Barb & Linda after we landed in Haiti

March 8th- We had a 4-am-something wake up call, loaded up and then headed to the airport. The airport was fairly quiet, most of the foodie type places had yet to open.  We were flying direct to Port au Prince on Insel Air. I noticed that the check-in desks didn’t have any luggage conveyor belts, they simpley loaded our bags on rolling carts after a pile of bags accumulated. I eyed my bag as it was loaded on the silver cart with wheels and hoped it would get where I was going. At the terminal, people wearing all sorts of NPO shirts and carrying all sorts of survival type packs were sleeping on the floor. Many of the travelers appeared tired, exhausted and in the bathroom, I ran into a girl filling up her camel water pack in the sink. She looked at me and said “I’m not sure if there’s water where I’m going.” I replied, “I think we are all headed to the same place.” We boarded, I was able to sit by Barb, Linda was closer to the front of the plane. We chatted a little, read, ate (delicious cream cheese and croissants with jelly and coffee) and tried to nap during the short, less then 2 hour flight. As we neared Haiti, I looked out the window. The ocean was beautiful, hues of greens and blues, the warm sun reflecting off of the water. I could see lush hills smattered with what would soon come into view and what would be a common, almost familiar site by the time we headed home a week later. White, camo green and blue tops of tents. Dozens and dozens in groups. We prepared for landing, and I saw what looked to be little military camps inside the airport fence line, also tents.

 

One of the many tent communities we passed on the drive to the hospital

 

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.