A Day

            “Good Morning! Wake up to a brand new day…” I groan and fumble under my pillow to find my phone and shut the alarm off. It’s 5:00, waaaayyy too early to be waking up today. David and Sarah came up from Bendilay to make ice cream last night, and as a result I was up until midnight. I roll over and go back to sleep. I wake up again at 5:30. The roosters have begun filling the air with their morning cries and even my earplugs can’t drown them out. I still don’t want to get up, but going back to sleep isn’t an option. Thankfully, I’m not being serenaded by Justin Bieber singing “Baby, Baby, Baby” over the radio like I was yesterday morning.

            Abria brings me my breakfast when I finally convince myself to get out of bed. The rest of the family has already eaten and most of the kids have already headed off to school. I sit down to eat. Emmanuel, my house dad, motions me over to where he is sitting with Sedonnie and Batama. I get back up and walk over to see what he wants. Batama is sick. I don’t know why. I have to explain to Emmanuel, I’m not a doctor. It seems that all white people are automatically supposed to be doctors. When I leave to go to the hospital, Sedonnie has tied Batama on her back as if he were a baby. He is limp against her, definitely not the active three-year old with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes that he normally is.

           

            My eyes sparkle as I read the email from my sister. It’s full of random news and I love it. Parts of it make me laugh out loud. I wonder if Charis thinks I’m crazy as I sit there laughing at my computer. It feels good to hear from my family and friends. It’s easy to feel disconnected and alone out here.

            “Madame?” I turn to see who is speaking. A patient with a box of pills starts speaking to me. I have no idea what he is saying. I look at him helplessly and tell him “Je suis ne pas docteur.” I think he gets what I’m saying, even if it’s all mispronounced and grammatically incorrect. I don’t understand where they got the idea that just because I’m white I’m medically inclined. Sure I’m wearing scrub pants, but I have a tank top on, and I’m working on stenciling a Bible verse on the wall.

            “Ugh.” I groan. A second ago I was fine, rinsing the paintbrushes out with gasoline. Now my stomach is rebelling against itself and I feel like I am going to hurl. I’m beginning to think that the fumes from the gasoline make me feel sick, which is bad because gasoline is the best way to clean up the oil-based paint that I’ve been using. I might have to resort to using masks if I keep feeling sick when I use the gasoline. I hate masks.  

           

            I head to my house to get lunch. I walk past a baby sheep. It’s tiny and new enough that the umbilical cord is still attached, hanging like a piece of string from its belly. I caught a chick yesterday. The mom wasn’t very happy and tried attacking me, but I’ve been watching the little balls of fluff run around my house for the last few days, and I had to hold one. When I put it down, the mom tried attacking me again, and would have been successful but I managed to jump back in time.

            I walk in the gate of my house. There’s a lady I don’t remember ever seeing before. There’s so many people coming in and out of my house I guess I’m not too surprised. Batama  looks so much better than he did this morning. Before I leave to go back to the hospital he has found a pair of glasses somewhere that fit him perfectly and is modeling them. The sparkle that reminds me of Joey has returned to his eyes, and though he is still a little more reserved than normal, I’m glad to see that he is feeling better.