Air Conditioning

You would think that because it's so hot here the grayish water in the well would've absorbed some of the heat. I don't think it did. And also despite the heat, I shiver through my bucket shower, making faces at the flies and wondering if the murky water really gets me clean. I've almost convinced myself that it's cold outside, then I dry off and am hit with the heat again. I almost want to get wet again and skip the drying off part. Being wet is the only type of air conditioning there is here. Unfortunately that air conditioning doesn't last long in this heat, but it's heavenly while it lasts.

Naomi

Naomi is a strong woman. She's one of those people who has a sparkle that catches your eye and makes you smile. Here in Chad, where women have almost no rights she managed to get a divorce from her abusive husband and is now raising her four boys by herself.
She is always up for an adventure. When Charis and I decided to go to Lai for the fete, Naomi came with us and was the life of the party. I don't think she knows what it means to be embarrassed.
One of her most often repeated phrases is "We are together." Compliment her on a job well done, "We are together." Tell her a funny story, "We are together." Always. We are together.
There is just so much life in her it's amazing. She is dramatic, funny, easy to talk to and amazing. She is one person that I would love to take on a visit to America. It would be like taking a little kid into a toyland. She would be overwhelmed by everything and I'm pretty sure her vocabulary would consist of mostly awestruck 'Wows' and incredulous 'Whats'.
Oh, have I mentioned that she also has 10 languages under her belt including English, making her the perfect translator. Yep, she's superwoman. I want to be like her when I grow up.

Troubled

My eyes scan the room. I'm on a mission. I approach the bed where Dr. Mason is doing rounds. Plopping down on the other cement bedstead I am oblivious to what Dr. Mason is saying to the small group of nurses that are assisting with the rounds.  I lean forward with my camera, not really paying attention to how sick the baby might be, and ask if I can take a photo. Dr. Mason pauses in his explanation of the babies' problems, "I really don't think this one is a good one for a story. It's probably not going to make it." I pause, embarrassed, not quite comprehending what he's saying. The med student accompanying him on rounds tells me plainly, "The baby is too sick. It's going to die." I look at the baby, really look at her. She doesn't look that sick. She doesn't look like she's about ready to give up. Her breath though rattles in her chest. And suddenly I'm angry. Why does this baby have to die? She's so beautiful. So perfect. It's not her fault that she lives in a country ridden with malarial mosquitoes. She shouldn't have to die simply because she was born here in this messed up world. She's not even old enough to know that she's alive. And now she's going to die. And her mamma, her poor mamma, won't have a baby to hug and cuddle anymore. I wonder how many other losses her mom has experienced. How many miscarriages? How many of her children have succumbed to malaria? Or typhoid? Or any of the myriad of diseases that this country is cursed with? How many will? Will she end up like the grandma who came in with a prolapsed uterus, who had been pregnant 13 times, but only had one child living? Who elected to have the surgery that would close up her vagina making it impossible to ever have sex again because it was something she'd always been forced to do?

It's these things that make it so difficult here. It's not the dirt or the heat. It's not the food or the sickness. It's not even the distance from family and friends or the poverty I see everyday. It's the dejected look on the mother's face when there's nothing more you can do for her child who is dying of a preventable disease. It's the emotional drain you experience everyday when you see the way that the women are undervalued and abused. It's the knowledge that there is only so much you can do to fix the problems that are destroying this planet. 

Downward Slope

            I’m a little over halfway through my time here. As Kim would put it, “You’re on the downward slope now.” And maybe because I am, I should be focusing solely on what I’m doing here. But I’m not. I’m constantly catching myself dreaming about going home. About wrapping my Daddy and Mommy up in ginormous bear hugs. About scooping up Christian & Zoe and being able to tell them in person that I love them SOOOOO much! About meeting my new niece for the first time and telling her who I am.

            Yes, I’m counting down the days until I get back home.

            I’ve actually been counting them down since I first got here.

            I know I’m in Africa, I should be thrilled. And I am.

            But I miss my people, so shoot me.

            Besides, it’s possible to thoroughly enjoy being in one place even if you are longing for another, isn’t it? At least it seems to be possible for me…maybe I’m just strange. But isn’t that the type of relationship we’re supposed to have with the world as Christians? We can be living on this world and have happiness and be enjoying ourselves, but we’re also supposed to be yearning to go Home to be with God.

            I think God yearns for us to come Home too. I think he daydreams about bringing us home. About wrapping us up in His strong arms. About being able to communicate with us face to face like He did with Adam and Eve. About letting us see Him in person for the first time and helping us understand everything about who He is.

            Yes, He is counting down the days until He can bring us home.

            He’s actually been counting them down since Adam and Eve first sinned.

            I know He is in Heaven where everything should be perfect.

            But He misses His people, so it’s not. 

Privacy

There is no such thing as privacy here. Not really. The hospital wards are open, bed next to bed without any curtains between. When we go on rounds the bored family members of the other patients will openly stand and stare or eavesdrop as each patient is examined. Sometimes they will even become our translators when the patient speaks a language that the staff do not. HIPPA doesn’t exist here.

            There are two beds in the delivery room. Two hard, metal beds. Yesterday they were both occupied when a third lady came in. So we spread out some plastic on the floor and she delivered right there on the cold cement floor between the two beds.

            In the bloc at least, we try to keep things a little more private. Sometimes we even “lock” the doors by sticking the metal IV hanger from the gurney through the door handles to keep it shut.

There are beds on the porch outside the hospital. I would hate to be out there, it’s cold here at night, but the patients technically have a roof over their heads then and at least the sick are not sleeping straight on the hard ground.

Things are dirty here too. Dirt and spit are mixed together on the walls and floor. Garbage has the uncanny knack of finding its way into corners and under beds despite the trashcans that are emptied daily. The delivery room has blood dried on the walls even after being scrubbed with bleach water and the OR has cobwebs in the corners and dustbunnies under shelves.

And yet, somehow it is beautiful. It seems to illustrate the culture here. These people rely on each other. They have community even if they don’t have much else. Some parts of it may be malfunctional and confused. Maybe it’s not perfectly up to the standards of Western society. But they have a willingness to help each other that is beautiful to behold. Women who don’t know each other will hand off their babies to each other when they need both hands free for a task. Men who are here with their wives or other family will translate and explain things so the patient will understand.

            This place is both amazing and infuriating at the same time. And I love it and I hate it all at once.