It Takes A Village

I thought I was stuck for good, that the Galloper had enjoyed its last ride into the sunset. Certainly its destiny was to be a curb-display for the rest of its rusting years as passerby's stripped it of anything valuable and left it to rot on the corner.

Last night, I took the Galloper for a ride to the guesthouse. Silvy and Jerome had gotten news that FINALLY, after almost 4 months, Kristanor's visa had been approved. All the paperwork was done. They were free, free to go home whenever they wanted. Kristanor was theirs officially, legally theirs and given wings to fly. And tonight they were celebrating.

Patrick was fighting a little GI bug, and needed to give a raincheck on celebrations, so it was I and the Galloper who trotted off in the night. We bounced and jostled over the deeply rutted rocky roads through the neighborhood. Driving at night always carries with it its own unique challenges as pedestrians seem to melt into the night, and road hazards blur in the darkness.

But the Galloper has proven itself to be as durable as the Energizer Bunny. In the last month the muffler has fallen off, a headlight has popped from its socket and crashed against the side leaving nothing but a dangling bulb in the socket, and the entire inside of the driver's side door came off leaving nothing but the window-roller-upper box dangling from wires. But the Galloper keeps galloping.

And then with a giant CLUNK, and a drastic change in the horizon, the Galloper came lurching to a halt in the darkness of night, next to a corner I was slowly turning.

Picture a manhole without a manhole cover. But bigger. Picture a pot hole without a floor, an opening in the street to the underground below. Then picture one of the Galloper's tires dangling in such a whole, the frame of the car resting on the street boarding the vast abyss.

I had hit the ultimate of road-hazards on the Port-au-Prince streets.... a sewer hole. These holes are 2-3 feet in width and length, and aren't covered by a protective curb or grate. They lie like boobie traps long the sides of the streets waiting for a wrong turn, a glance in the wrong direction at precisely the right time. And I drove the Galloper RIGHT INTO one of these openings in the earth.

There is no backing out of the hole. As I got out to survey the damage, my mind raced. How was I going to tell Patrick? How was I going to get home? Do I just LEAVE the car here and hoof it back? What were my options?

A man met me on the curb, his eyes wide, but not as horrified as mine. I imagine this happens from time to time, especially with blans at the wheel. "We'll need a lot of people" he said to me matter of factly. And almost as if he had pulled out a bullhorn or whispered his telepathic thoughts to everyone on the bustling street, the people came. As a crowd was forming around the Galloper, the man instructed me to get behind the wheel and throw the car into reverse.

With the massive collective strength of a dozen men, the Galloper was gently lifted out of the whole and allowed to back up onto the solid pavement without as much as a squealing tire.

And my moment of panic was absolved. Thanks gushed out like a geyser. The community of men seemed embarrassed, smiled, thinking nothing of it (pa gen pwoblem), and continued about their business on the street. Silly white girl.

And thus was my quintessential Haitian moment. Just when you think you are done in, that you will gallop no further, the community surrounds you, lifts you up out of the whole, and sends you on your way with a wave and a smile.

Fro of Power

Solomon had to have an IV to replace some fluids lost after a bout of diarrhea. As the diligent nurses went searching for a vein, they had to shave one side of his head. This was over 2 weeks ago. He still sports the 1/2 mohawk. And his hair, growing at lightening speed, is starting to really exaggerate the asymmetric style.

I asked one of the women at the orphanage if they were going to cut his hair to even out the 1/2-hawk. "Oh NO," she said with surprise. "If you cut his hair, you take away his FORCE."

Little fro of power.

We had a lovely, relaxed morning at the orphanage holding Solomon, letting him fall instantly asleep on our chest. We have to hold him away from us, on our knee if we want to look at those beautiful browns for any period of time. He seems most content curled up next to our heartbeat, and sinking into the comfort of human touch. And we easily ablige.

While Patrick had his turn, the director of the orphanage asked me to see a new baby they recently received. He was only 15 days old, tiny and fragile looking in the large nursery with stacked cribs of children aged 2 months to 2 years.

He was found in a toilet after his mother gave birth to him there and left him. He had been dropped twice during the rescue efforts. When he arrived to the orphanage directly, the pediatrician on staff startied him on 3 different antibiotics as will as IV fluids. After a week on medicines, the little one has graduated to the main nursery. His face is still swollen--likely from the IV meds--but he is eating on his own free will, and fighting each day. He is in a very fragile time in his life, yet has already made it past the biggest hurdle. I sat holding him, thinking about his traumatic beginnings, hoping that the orphanage would give him a fresh start, a new opportunity to take a life that started in the sewer and move it to one where he can grow, excell and be loved.

I thought a lot about his mother. Haiti isn't the only country where children are discarded. I remember stories of babies being found in dumpsters in the States. I wonder if the woman felt like she had no options and couldn't care for a baby. I wondered if she had other kids at home, or what her family said after she emerged from the toilet, unpregnant and without child. Maybe she thought he was dead at birth. Maybe she is still crying for him now. There are as many possibilities as the imagination can hold.

But this little boy is a fighter, and I found myself willing him to keep fighting.

Someone asked us if it is hard to go to the orphanage and leave Solomon there time after time. Yes, it requires a tremendous act of will. But what is even harder is fighting down the bubbling up dialogue in our brains that tries to justify ways we could bring this little boy, that little girl home with us as well. It is hard to put reigns on the fierce protective love that is sparked when looking into the eyes of children whose lives already hold more challenges than their years aught to allow. We fight the American urge to solve the world's problems, one human at a time. What we can do, have free reign to do, is love. And that we do with abandon.

Announcement

Feb 22, 2009

We have some big news. It actually all happened faster than we expected which is so un-Haiti-like. However Friday we found out that we will be granted the opportunity to be foster parents to a 3-month-old Haitian boy. We will proceed with adoption paperwork while having the opportunity to love and care for him in the meantime. Our hearts are full of expectant joy. His name is Solomon. He has beautiful almond shaped eyes, so serene, such pools of thought. He looks up at us with his soul-filled gaze and seems to have a million stories swimming in those brown depths. Holding him is a slice of heaven. His cheeks are 100% smoochable.

Patrick and I have been talking about starting a family for a long time, but I'm not yet brave enough to be pregnant and/or deliver in Haiti just yet. Our hearts, in the meantime, have been ready. And we find ourselves here, surrounded by children daily, walking into neighborhoods filled with families in so much need. Patrick and I started talking shortly after arriving about adoption. Walking into an orphanage and seeing so many children without options was more than we could rationalize walking away from. We never believed in international adoption before, had those pessimistic thoughts that it was a form of child trafficking or that we would be robbing a child of its cultural heritage somehow. But when you look eye to eye into need, it is hard to not try to do something for at least one. With hearts bursting with love to share, we couldn’t justify not sharing that love with a life that is already living and breathing.

We had planned on taking our time with the process… letting things settle out as they may. We spent time investigating our partner’s views on international adoption, feeling out how it is generally perceived here. We discovered a general belief that adoption was a loving solution to a very un-ideal situation. Obviously in a perfect world a child would be able to grow up in the care of its biological family, healthily, afforded food, education and health care. But such is not the realities of Haiti today for so many families here, for so many children. Yet having our partner's support in seeking out such endeavors essentially opened the doors for us. Gave us permission.

Then one Saturday in January, after a seminar on family, a man came up to Patrick. He works as a child advocate, so they commenced a conversation on the state of families and childcare here. Patrick mentioned off hand that we were thinking of adopting, and the man got excited. Alex started showing Patrick orphanages. And as much as Patrick loves kids, he loved the exposure. He was meeting orphanage managers, learning about the process, and being swarmed by the children of the orphanage. He thought he'd found a volunteer outlet here, and still we were in no hurry. And then he met Solomon.

Patrick felt moved by this child. Something about him was different and he completely stole Patrick's heart. I'll forever remember the day he came home after meeting him. He was kind of anxious, hyper, but with a dreamy look in his eye. "I met him, I met our child," he told me. I was mad. I didn't want to "pick" our child. Felt that was too much like going to the pound. And we had just started learning about the process. I refused to walk into the orphanages for sometime, I didn't want my heart to be shredded. And I wasn’t ready to meet Solomon. I knew the adoption process, like everything in Haiti, would likely be mind-numbingly frustrating and I didn't want a face to send spears of pain through that frustration. But Patrick couldn't keep away. And his connection to Solomon was growing. We started feeling distant from each other. Patrick was a mess, and he couldn't share it with me.

So I got brave.

And it helped to have Caroline and Trish with me the first day I entered. It proved to be every bit as hard as I expected. So many children... swarming, begging for touch, flashing their most charming smiles, rushing up to feel our skin, hair. The infant room had children just lying, waiting to be held, quietly fussing. It was too much. I looked at Caro wanting to run away. But we stayed. We found our courage. And we saw the beautiful children, and let them cling to us, let them wrap their arms and legs around us as we listened to their lungs and peeked in their ears.

And after clinic, I met Solomon. I couldn't hold him that day because he was getting IV fluids after a bout of diarrhea left him pretty fluid down. He wasn't happy lying in that crib, but looking into his face, I started to realize what Patrick saw. Little pools of thought in those deep, dark eyes.

And since then we've been back a lot, to hold, to get to know this little life that has somehow captured our hearts so unexpectedly. The subsequent times of going haven’t been as hard as the first one. The older kids teach us dances and hand jives while we hold Solomon. I sit on a chair, and am quickly flanked by 10 other children squeezing in beside me for hugs, cuddles, and funny conversation exchanges. Four hands or more are immediately in my hair braiding, more hands are pushing on my skin to watch my pink skin blanch white and go pink again. This apparently is quite fascinating. And all the while I get to hold Solomon who is completely serene amidst the chaos. He doesn't so much as fuss with all the hands tickling and stroking his head, pushing at his chubby cheeks. Each time I'm there, he'll fall asleep against my chest, I think simply content to be held. When I put him down, he wakes right up. He doesn't cry, just opens his big almond eyes as if to say, "not cool. I am quite aware that you put me down." I'll put my hand on his tummy until he falls asleep again.

So I, too, fell in love.

And with it comes a desperation when we aren’t with him, a deep desire to get him in our home, away from the noise, from the snotty noses and raging diarrhea epidemics into a place where he can rediscover human touch on a regular basis.

And suddenly things seemed to speed up. We met his mother Friday. What an experience. When she found out who I was, she embraced me and we rocked back and forth in a hug for what felt like minutes. "You are the answers to my prayers," she told us. I don't think I can put into words what it is like to meet the mother of the child you are hoping to make your own. She has no options, she has no hope. She loves her children, but wants better for them than what she can give. Solomon was an "oops" after which her husband left her. Her second youngest is 10 years, and adopted to a family in the States. Her other 4 are all teens, haven't gone to school, and don't eat regularly. She asked innocently if we'd consider adopting one of her other children as well.

It makes me angry, a life situation that puts parents in such a place, a place to force them to make such ridiculous choices. And honestly, meeting her, I had a real moment when I thought we needed to back away, to step back and wait for a child who didn't have parents. But the orphanage manager assured us that this mother had no options, that we should follow through, that she liked and trusted us. We'll keep an open adoption so that Solomon knows his biological mother, knows where he comes from, and hopefully will know his brothers and sisters too.

The last month and a half has been a whirlwind of emotion, yet in a country where it takes forever to run one errand, days to solve one problem, this process has seemingly fallen right into place at a remarkably rapid rate. I have to wonder if there is a reason for it all. It will be a challenge, on so many levels. It will be life changing and it will force us to do delicate dances with our heart as we strive to raise a Haitian boy sensitive to the place he comes from, the heritage that makes up his history, the culture that he was born into. But I feel like we were meant to meet Solomon all the while.

The adoption process itself will be tough. Solomon can't leave Haiti until he is legally ours, has a passport and a visa. This process will require 16-24 months. There is no rushing that. That means that Patrick and I won't be able to go home together for 2 years, and that Solomon won't be able to meet his grandparents, visit the farm or his cousins until he is over 2-years-old. We knew this going in, and its just one of the sacrifices we'll have to make, but we believe it is worth it.

We look forward to the unique experience of raising a Haitian boy, to love this child and give him the opportunity to grow strong, educated, to teach him pride in his culture, to know his language, and to continue a relationship with his biological family. We hope to honor his heritage, his culture, his identity through our love for him and through our love of the country of Haiti. Si bondye vle.

Morning Song

Feb 21st

It is a beautifully quiet Saturday morning. Even though today was the first morning since we've arrived that we could sleep in, the 4am roosters and my internal alarm had me up by 6. But the tradeoff to watch the sunrise on the porch with a steaming cup of Joe was worth foregoing the luxury of sleeping in until mid-day. The roosters are still crowing. I’m surprised they don't crow themselves into laryngitis after hours on end starting at o'dark hundred before the sun has even packed its bags to hit the horizon. If I could bottle up the peace of this morning, I would send it to my family who’ve spent an endless vigil in Grandma’s hospital room over the last 4 days and nights after my grandmother fell, broke her hip and went through subsequent replacement surgery this week. I’ve had my family on my mind endlessly since word of Gram’s accident reached me. And in the morning, I feel particularly close to them, as if any second, one of them will come padding around the corner, hunting for a cup of coffee and a chat. Now a morning dove adds its call to the music of morning, offering a more peaceful musical strain in comparison to the rooster’s bracing call. The dove sits on a wire outside my window. I am reminded of early mornings on the farm, when the coo of the dove was always the most distinct, the gentlest of wake-up calls amongst the birds of daybreak. And the dove was always the most faithful, sending its gentle song out in the early morning hours even on the foggiest of mornings. I find it fitting this morning, seeing my favorite of morning songbirds staring at me from its perch outside of our balcony. In this morning when I want more than anything to feel close to my family, to help them in some way, the dove seems to bring me closer to them in song, bringing an air of familiar to the tropical, making my thoughts of family more vivid, tangible. Maybe this morning they’ll feel my love for them with the same intensity I feel.

A salesman just walked down the street hollering that he has fresh bread for sale. A man with a little hand-bell is walking not far behind ringing that he is available for a shoeshine if needed. The weekend mornings are quieter than the weekdays... and I'm grateful for that... for the slightly gentler introduction to the day. The world wakes early here... maybe because the morning is the coolest part of day, maybe because the daily work is so labor intensive or because transportation just takes longer thus demanding an earlier start.

Yesterday we waved good-bye to the group from Kansas City after a busy week of painting and building, lectures and meetings, touring museums and artisan colonies, sharing meals together and conversations about the internal and external work of the spirit and the gift of partnering American and Haitian communities for a mutual exchange of learning and service. As always, the groups come down to serve, yet leave feeling their hearts packed more full than when they arrived, their spirits spilling over with the gifts that the Haitian people give. And yet again, despite Patrick’s and my attempt to cater to the groups, they managed to rain words of encouragement on us, hug us with their support and inspire us with their own vision of service and partnership.

The morning seems so quiet after the happy hustle and bustle of the week’s activities. I am grateful for the time we had with our friends from Kansas City. After news of Grandma’s fall hit me mid-week, the group offered their gentle support and words of encouragement. I find it funny, that in our most difficulty moments here, a well of support bubbles up from unexpected places, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I pray that my family finds similar unexpected wells of support, whether from a particularly attentive nurse, a phone call from a friend, or from an understanding coworker. I wish I had more to give them than thoughts today, I wish I could take a shift at Grandma’s bedside, give a shoulder massage, or offer an ear or a shoulder. Our choice to move far away isn’t without sacrifice, and it is when the family goes through such times of celebration and suffering that that distance feels the most great.

So I focus on the morning dove, letting its song transport me to the farm on the Kansas prairie. I let that song settle in my heart. The cold Kansas winter likely didn’t allow for my parents to wake to a similar sound this morning, but I can pretend. Pretend that this familiar song carries across the ocean and miles between us, waking us this morning together, offering a communion of spirit at daybreak.

Good News

Feb 19th, 2009

I had a nightmare last night, about planes going into tailspins, loosing engine power and doing nose-dives from the sky.

I begged out of an afternoon toting our visiting group to the mountain top. My stomach is too volcanic to handle a windy trip up the mountain in a van, and I don't want to venture out of cell-phone reach. Patrick has been completely lovely and supportive and actually encouraged me to head home after lunch. Didn't have electricity for most of the afternoon (our generator is getting fixed), so forced to read while I waited for the phone to ring, or the internet to spring to life.

This evening I called just in time to hear Grandma’s voice before she was carted off to surgery. She sounded more clear than before, and in her typical style seemed to be working to comfort me when I had called to do the same for her. The physical relief in being able to tell her that I loved her and knowing she heard was welcome.

Mom called a few hours later to report she made it through the surgery well. She was a trooper and had no complications.

And now the hard part begins. She’ll have to rehab for the next weeks to come. I’m grateful for her fighting spirit, for her zest, for her sparkle and I pray she has enough stubborn will left to pull her through. I wish I could be reprieve to my family who sounds so tired from the emotional and physical roller-coaster they’ve been on over the last few days.

In a weeks time, our family has celebrated the birth of Caden and despaired in Grandma’s fall and subsequent suffering. And I’m not much more help that what a phone call can offer, words of encouragement can bring, prayers can give and love sent intensely from a far. For this hands-on girl, it makes the distance feel vast. Yet it forces me to put faith into action, and trust to work.

Bad News

Feb 18th, 2009

This morning, I happily walked with my cup of coffee to the computer to check mail. On it I found news that last night my gram had pulled her "life line" (that she made a big fuss about having) after she lost her balance and fell with her tray full of dinner on the way to the TV room last night. She couldn't get up, and pulled the line for help. Don Westphal got there first and broke through the chain lock. My parents arrived shortly thereafter. The ambulance took her to the hospital to find that she fractured her hip.

I called her this morning. She mumbled something I couldn't understand. Mom was at her bedside and explained that she was in a lot of pain, and doped with IV pain meds--seemed to make her goofy but not completely comfortable.

And then I had to resume my day at work, completely helpless in altering the chain of events that was impacting my Grandmother’s life, health and comfort. I’m used to feeling helpless these days, but never comfortable with such feelings when it comes to my family.

I had clinic, which helped me focus on the here and now, except when a little old Haitian woman would walk in, and I would get a little teary and insistant that she needed to have a cane, and to find a child to live with, etc. I'm sure my nurse wondered why the extra fervor this morning.

I feel so far away and so helpless.

With with my stupid medical "too much information" knowledge, I keep fearing for the worse. Often a hip fracture is the means to the end for the elderly, especially those who were already sort of incapacitated to begin with. Yet I trust in Grandma's fire.

And so I wait. Wait for information. Wait for hope. Wait for bad news. I just keep thinking about her, willing her to keep fighting, for my own selfish need to see her one more time.

And I feel so disconnected, because in Haiti, someone who lives to 84 years is a miracle in and of itself. So when I tell my Haitian coworkers about my grams accident, they say straightforwardly, "so she is dying?" There is no cushion here. People live, they suffer, they die. And if they lived for 84 years, it has been more than most. So my tears are a puzzle to them.

This is exactly the repercussion I most feared in my decision to come here. In less than a week, I've missed two huge family events. And although I don't feel like I'm in the wrong place in my life, am satisfied with the work at hand, moments like these I have a hard time convincing my heart that screams, “you should BE there” even if I couldn’t change anything. So I have to trust in all the times I told my Grandmother that I love her, trust in the doctors that have charge of her care and the nurses who lay on their hands. I pray for my family who reside there in the heart of it, holding grandma’s hand, trying to help her find a comfortable position, keeping her company, loving her up close.

CONASPEH Congress

Feb 13,14, 15, 16th.

This weekend has been a whirlwind of activity. In the wake of it all, Patrick and I are left tired, but happy and nurturing a renewed inspiration and love for the organization we’ve chosen to partner with for the next 4 years.

After months of hard work by the CONASPEH board, congress was a well-attended, huge success. CONASPEH welcomed thousands of pastors and church members from communities all over the country to the National Theater for 3 days of lectures, sermons, singing, worshiping, marching, discussing, and celebrating. They also welcomed 2 groups from Kansas City, a group from Wisconsin and a group from Global Ministries made up of ministers from the Disciples of Christ regional churches around the country. CONASPEH wove our visiting guests into the program, creating an atmosphere of shared community, of visible solidarity and a communion of worship.

In three days, Patrick and I as well as all in attendence were reminded of the depth and breadth of CONASPEH’s outreach and vision. Primary and secondary schools, a nursing school full of new graduates, a seminary with a stage full of new ministers to ordain, orphanages and micro-loan programs, emergency relief, community centers, housing projects, food for learning programs, clinics and unification of denominations and churches around the country. CONASPEH also has risen its voice toward political notice and change, challenging the systems in place, demanding justice for the people of the country, calling out for equality in representation and support.

Friday was filled with lectures both by visiting guests and CONASPEH pastors, music and dancing, a massive shared meal with thousands. Saturday after the crowd was rallied by passionate speeches from popular ministers, the congress took the street in a peaceful political march, calling out for equality of representation in the Haitian government. I was overcome walking hand-in-hand with my nursing students, shaking the hands of pastors marching by, their faces radiant with the power of such a moment, waving to our American friends who came to march alongside our partners, and chanting in Creole calls to action and change directed to the people and the leaders of the country. A car leading the march energized the massive movement of people with Kompa music that inspired a dance-like rhythm to the march, a musical tone to the chants. The energy was positive, peaceful, full of joy and hope, yet demanding to be heard by the powers that be. And in a country that teeters so easily toward violence and riots, we celebrated the miracle of a peace march, of a movement of people exercising their freedoms and letting their voices be heard. I’ll never never forget that day.

Sunday after a massive shared Sunday church service, a new class of nurses were introduced and capped, a graduating class of nurses were honored, and a stage full of future pastors were ordained, prayed for and blessed by all in attendance. Hours were filled with prayer, with lectures, with song and celebration.

Monday we traveled to Pointe Sonde, northward up the coast, to participate in a school dedication program for a new community center built by CONASPEH and with the financial support of the Wisconsin Southeast Association of Churches. In the rural, impoverished community, we celebrated with the people the hope that comes in a new place for learning, for healthcare, for weddings and meetings. We shared in a simple meal fellowship of sandwiches with all in attendence, a beautiful experience when food is recognized as such a precious gift.

Patrick and I have had the honor and priveledge to help host the groups here, to enter discussions with our friends from Kansas City, Wisconsin, various Disciples of Christ churches and Global Ministries, all of whom have had long relationships with CONASPEH over the years and watched amazing things unfold before their eyes during their partnership.

Our Creole teacher once said, “Haiti is a place where the possible is impossible, yet the impossible is possible.” He’s right. Sometimes things as simple as filling your car with gas or going to the bank take hours and Herculean patience, where finding clean water to drink or a flushable toilet require some searching. But this weekend we were reminded what mountains can be moved by an organization with a vision that looks beyond the possible and into the impossible. And regardless of what seems like insurmountable challenges, with minimal resources, amazing things happen here.

We’ve had a beautiful weekend of learning, of sharing and of inspiration. We are amazed at what our partners have accomplished here, what they continue to work for, and are honored to be apart of the work at hand.

Welcome Caden!

Feb 13, 2009

Oh Happy Day. Today I was made an aunt again! My brother Chris just had a second little boy, Caden James Dunback.

Although I’d love to be there, I can’t escape the joy that comes from a happy, healthy birth, from an expansion of family, from a new little face to fall in love with.

Celebrate with me.

Moving In

**view from our balcony**

We have arrived! After several weeks of working through the details of rental agreements, hauling a million-ton generator as well as inverter and bank of batteries, going shoping for such home necessities as a bed, pots and pans, we are finally settled into our new apartment.

From my perch in our office, I look out a big window, over a tall coconut palm tree to the mountains. The chimes I brought from home (managed to pack chimes, but forgot the tool box), color the wind with song as it blows in the open door to the balcony. Our space is roomy and simple, comfortable and quiet. We are in a third story apartment, so enjoy being a bit removed from the dust and heat from the street.

Felix told us that when we move to Haiti, our home will be our refuge, our sanctuary to collect ourself after long, hard days. And I know exactly what he means.

The guesthouse offered a beautiful beginning. It introduced us to our first community, we met so many people and learned about amazing projects going on around the country.

But today, sipping a cup of coffee in the lesiurly hours of morning, listening to the roosters outside my window and the song of the chimes carried on the morning breeze, padding around the apartment in my pajamas for a while before getting ready for work, I am thankful for the luxury of privacy, the beauty of a peaceful place to call your own.

I am thankful for the apartment knowing to so many people here don’t have the indulgence of such a place, of privacy, of electricity and running water, of tiled floors and a room with a view. So I am grateful for the luxuries afforded to us, the privileges we are graced with. May we use our gifts to work even harder for those without.

Bon Voyage

Feb 9,
Bon Voyage

Yesterday we said good-bye to Caroline and Trish. But not before taking them to a 2 hours church service followed by a 3-hour clinic where we saw over 100 people in the countryside outside of Port-au-Prince. Nothing like leaving a couple of people dirty, sweaty and tired at the airport doors, milking every last second of their time in Haiti for what it was worth.

I can’t help fighting the quiet in their wake. They were the first friends to come to visit with whom I have previous history. There is comfort in being around people who know you well, to share experiences that translate easily between friends. We shared many a conversation on the roof-top over the past week that I’ve been yearning for for months. There is nothing like your girlfriends.

The truth is, Patrick and I are community people. It is hard to have an experience of such magnitude like living and working in Haiti without friends and family to share it with. We yearn to share the experience of Haiti, for the people we love to know what it tastes like, smells like, feels like, and sounds like. We attempt to reach out in words, but know the senses that largely make up this experience get lost over the internet wire. So to have a friend smell the stink of the sewers and the smoke on the air, hear the crow of the rooster, the roar of traffic and the sound of classrooms reverberating in song, to taste the sweet of coconut water, the starch of plaintains and the salty sweat of hard work, to see the piles of trash and the smiles of children, to feel the sweat in the afternoon heat, wiping dirt off our hands in between tasks, to experience the internal struggle that comes from facing a different culture, lifestyle and reality from which we come…. That is the gift beyond compare. We cried together, laughed together, fell into the conversations that come from being challenged, moved and shaken, from inspired introspective moments and from turning our perspective outwards.

The hardest part of this missionary experience will always be how difficult it is to share it with others, how to convey the sorrow and the joy that creates a colorful mix to our days. How do you explain the unique flavor of love and hate, dispair and hope, and perpetual entertainment that is life here? Regardless of the trash, of the stink, of the heat and the heart-break, of the constant ache that comes from missing family and friends, we love living here. Our work has a unique purpose, the people have an incredible perspective, our days are filled with reflection and self-discovery.

So thank you for reading, for sharing with me in this experience of life. I welcome to share your own thoughts, your own passions and struggles as you are so inspired. Because what is life if we can’t share it, if we can’t learn from each other, laugh with each other, teach each other and hold each other up.

And for those of you so inspired to travel, we will greet you with open arms.

Beach-side Healing

Feb 7, 2008

Haiti has the capacity to challenge, to entertain, to frustrate, to open your eyes, to leave you hurting, and to heal.

Today we let the blue Caribbean surf give space to process a week full of activity and discovery. With freshly cracked open coconuts and the sweet water within, with a hot sun overhead and salty water cooling our skin, we opened ourselves to the healing quiet of a day lounging by the ocean. There is something medicinal in the sound of waves licking the beach, in the rustling of palm leaves in a tropical breeze. Meditation comes effortlessly as we let go of everything and give into the peace of the moment.

The capacity of this island continues to amaze me. The capacity of our selves is equally as interesting, but we must nurture the peace to tackle the chaos. In the company of friends and the atmosphere of sun and sand, a lot of healing was done today.

The Orphanage

Feb 6th, 2008

For several weeks now, Patrick has been volunteering on his days off at an orphanage. He stumbled into the volunteer opportunity through a connection made during a CONASPEH function, and decided it was yet another way he could learn about the culture. He has always been passionate about children and in every job he’s had, he advocates for their health, rights and well-being. Up until today I have been hesitant to go to the orphanage. The situation of the Haitian family here and the harsh realities that exist are hard enough to witness as we face them at work and on the streets. Every day we encounter parents who can’t afford to buy their sick children medicine, school children whose family can’t afford to feed them 3 squares a day, street children hanging on the windows of our car as we drive down the street, begging with hallow eyes and hungry stomachs, and bare-footed, big-bellied children with red hair and the flat affect of malnutrition walking through the poorest of neighborhoods. I wasn’t sure my heart could survive walking into a home with hundreds of hands reaching out, hundreds of eyes looking for attention.

But the heart is stronger than I give it credit for.

Trish and Caro have helped me with two clinic days at CONASPEH administering consultations to the students and professors there, a clinic day at Carrefour practicing true family medicine to patients of all ages with their assortment of wide-ranging complaints, and today Patrick had arranged a time for us to do some medical consultation for the kids at the orphanage. It was a way to show Trish and Caro a very real part of Haiti while allowing some good work to be done in the process.

I was glad to be going to the orphanage with good friends, good FEMALE friends who I could count on to react and feel the same way I would.

So we drove through the orphanage gates. We walked up the orphanage steps and were greeted by children almost immediately. Teenage children ran up to us, surrounded us on all sides, wedging in to be close, to hold our hands, our arms, to touch our skin. The toddlers waddled forward in their school room to see the new visitors, to flash us their smiles, to giggle and reach up to us in hopes of being held. A quick tour of the orphanage showed us rooms divided by age. One for infants, another for 1 year old toddlers, another for 2-4 year olds… school rooms, dorms for older kids. In a seemingly small place, one hundred and thirty children resided, went to school, were fed, got sick, got treatment, were loved by very hard working but over-extended staff. The orphanage manager tells us that they have to turn away 80 children a MONTH because they are just too full.

There is no walking into an orphanage and being introduced slowly to the realities within. Much like stepping off the plane into Haiti, the full force of the realities of the situation of the country hits you in a moment, all the beauty and heartbreak assault you on your very first ride out of the airport gates. The same could be said with walking into the orphanage. The children—like all children—were heartbreakingly beautiful. And like all children, they were hungry for love, for affection, for human touch. The close proximity to each other ensured that every cold and bout of diarrhea were shared, and therefore despite a staff constantly in motion feeding, changing, bathing, and cleaning children, there were always 10 more that needed noses wiped and diapers changed. I watched one staff member sitting on a stool. She had one baby lying in her lap, she was spoon feeding another in a chair next to her, and her foot worked to rock a third baby in a bouncer near by. Each of the staff was required to multitask as such. But they did so without an air of stress, of frustration, of fatigue. The smiled, they sang, they joked. They created an atmosphere of a huge busy family. The love the woman had for their work and for the children was clear, and the children seemed to give them patience in return.

My own reactions went from feeling overwhelmed with the assault on the senses, to feeling like I could dissolve into tears at the witnessed reality of so many children with so much need, to wanting to run away and remove myself from a situation I felt powerless in, to feeling numb. Caro turned to me, her eyes glassy with tears and said, “I have to turn off now, especially if there is any chance I can practice medicine here.” Of course I agreed. As physicians, we’ve had to learn to “turn-off" at times, to put a little emotional distance between ourselves, our brains and the very real human part of medicine. It isn’t an exercise of building walls and distance but rather an exercise in maintaining the ability to think, to work, to function without letting your very human response to life and death, suffering and sickness leave you immobilized. So we relied on that professional ability to focus on the task at hand today. It took a great exercise of will.

After holding babies, changing a few diapers, and holding many tiny hands, we commenced with clinic. The childen were brought in with snotty nose, coarse coughs, pink eyes, round tummies, and fevers. Often they would wrap their arms and legs around one of us, sinking into our arms, heads tucked in. We took the team-care approach; one would hold the child while the other listened to lungs and peeked in ears. The children allowed such invasion as long as they were cradled in our arms. We consulted on kids with a zillion kinds of rashes, questionable congenital abnormalities, sickle cell disease and HIV complications. Of course there was no shortage of common colds, ear infections and diarrhea.

We moved through the children with determination, feeling relieved to be able to do something, to offer advice, to give free care. The action helped numb the emotions that swelled within. After several hours and so many children, we left the feeling numb, shocked, and emotionally spent.

We rode in silence from the orphanage as Patrick steered the Galloper up the mountain. Our mission to show Caro and Trish more of the countryside outside of clinics had a dual function today. The route to Kenskoff through the lush mountainside offered moments of reflection, of quiet to allow the experience we’d just had settle, process, and sink in. And the mountain road wound us past mansions encircled by walls, buildings that seemed a mirage in the setting of the a country with such staggering poverty. Even a relaxing drive through the mountains in Haiti is full of food for thought. All of a sudden we are given more than simple poverty to digest, but were also forced to consider the reality of incredible wealth in the setting of such poverty. And our own relative wealth in such context is inescapable.

Tonight we ended the day with dinner at the Hotel Olofson, dinning on the grand porch of the hotel, eating Creole cuisine in the setting of old French architecture. The stark contrast of the old-but elegant hotel was not lost on us, given the fresh memories of a very different reality we had been immersed in at the orphanage. Such is Haiti.

This is the reality of the world we live in, and Haiti offers a clearly illustrated microcosm of the world's reality. Our world is a complex, interrelated mix of extreme wealth, staggering poverty and a little inbetween. To experience one without the other is to deny a part of the reality that contributes to the complexity of the situation world-wide. At what expense do we live our wealthy lives? Who is to blame for orphanages full of children, children who aren’t orphaned largely by the death of their parents, but orphaned because it is the only alternative to starving in the arms of their penniless mothers, dying of preventable disease while their job-less fathers helplessly watch. There are a lot of fingers to point in blame; Its easy to single out the corrupt Haitian government who is ill equipped to offer infrastructure to a starving country, or to the powerful international governments who continue to cripple efforts at a self-sustaining small-country economy. But let us not forget to look in the mirror and at our own involvment, regardless of intention, in the imbalance of the world. We are consumers, and we encourage a consuming society and the international economic domination that we inadvertently support.

The fact of the matter is that the world has rich and the world has poor. I personally believe we can achieve a middle ground. But it will take a lot of work, take a radical change in mentality, take a world-wide awakening. In the meantime, we continue to discover, to process, to chew on the experiences we have, the realities we face. We start with the courage to look outward, to see and hear the stories of life outside the walls of our comfortable houses and safe communities. We then choose how to process, how to be crippled or empowered, how to perpetrate or to heal, how to ignore or be changed. This is our challenge as humans on this journey of mission. Thanks for coming along with me.

Haitian Wisdom

Feb 5

Today I greeted Patrick Villier while he was busy getting some paperwork done for the upcoming CONASPEH congress. He and the entire CONASPEH board have been busy for months preparing for this huge event which will host thousands of Haitian pastors and congregational members from around the country, as well as 4 different visiting group partners arriving from the States who travel here to be in solidarity with CONASPEH during their convention. The congress occurs every 2 years, and serves to unite the member churches, discuss the vision, the outreach of CONASPEH, and engage in discussions of theological and political matters. It is also a time where pastors of the CONASPEH school are ordained and graduates of the CONASPEH nursing school are honored. This year, CONASPEH also endeavors to organize a march for equality under the banner, “separation of church and state.”

CONASPEH, as a representative organization for the protestant church in Haiti, has been working to attract the attention of the Haitian government to the lack of equality in the relationships the government maintains with Haitian churches. The Catholic church has long been woven into the activities of the Haitian government, and benefits from being a regular part of the national budget. With such a relationship, Catholic schools are better funded, and their outreach better supported. Now that an estimated 50% of the population is either Protestant or “other,” CONASPEH hopes to force attention to the work and outreach of the Protestant church, and to demand equality in the relationship the government has with Haitian organizations, religious or otherwise. Although a true separation of church and state likely won’t happen overnight, equality of relationships and funding is certainly something that can be worked for and accomplished.

In light of such huge goals, CONASPEH has been incredibly busy over the last few weeks planning for such an event, preparing to host a large and diverse group of people. The process would grey the most organized of American event planners, but our Haitian partners seem to take it all in stride.

Today, I asked Patrick Villier how plans for Congress were coming along. He informed me he still was unsure if the money that was promised to fund all the activities during congress would arrive in time. Yikes. My stomach automatically twisted with worry for him. Congress is less than a week away, and still the FUNDS for the huge event were uncertain. “Are you stressed?” I asked, sure that he must be a mess on the inside and hiding it well. Patrick laughed and said, “No Kim, because then I’d have TWO problems.”

Wow. Choosing not to stress in order to simply life. That’s a lesson every American needs to work on, eh? But such is the lessons on living our partners give us everyday. Their life is full of such challenges that make our own heads spin, yet they muster through with their humor, their smiles and their love of life intact. And despite choosing to not worry, to not add "stress" to their list of problems, they manage to accomplish incredible things. I imagine they are able to do so even better with their remarkable outlook, their remarkable perspective. And we attempt to learn from them, glean a little of such perspective as we navigate our days here.

May you all find such momentary perspective in the rush-and-hustle, worry-ridden American life. May you find time to slow down and recognize that fretting never gets the job solved faster, rarely affects the ultimate outcome. May you recognize life has enough problems, without adding "stres." Everything all sorts it self out in the end, regardless of worry. The truth that we all secretly know, but have a hard time accepting is that the only control we have in life is on our reaction TO it. We have only ourselves to control. We can choose to be stressed and worried or to be accepting; we control whether we are unhappy or happy; we chose to feel helpless or empowered. We have control ONLY of our response to the situations of life. Haitians have long learned to adapt to their environment, to not try control it. It is a lesson we all can stand to learn. It is a lesson I'm working on, that will take a long time to perfect, and maybe will require a couple of lifetimes. I'm just happy for good teachers.

Doctors Without Boundaries

Feb 4, 2009

This afternoon, I drove the Galloper up to the guesthouse with Caro and Trish in the car. All of us were sweaty and tired from a full clinic day at Carrefour where we saw patients of all ages, with a variety of complaints. Some were clearly exhibiting “vitamin seeking behavior,” others were hospital-worthy, and a lot of others in-between. One gentleman came in temporal wasting, a history of fevers for a month, and a chronic cough that worried me for acute active TB. The clinic had offered its usual hum of activity as we sorted through complaints, attempted to triage the sickest of the bunch, and educate with the help of Haitian nurses and translators.

As we approached the guesthouse, the usual crowd of vendors along the sidewalk had swelled and spilled into the street. One of the men pulled away from the crowd and rushed to the galloper's window, “Doctor Kim, we need your help!” Oh boy. So we three doctors emerged from the car looking quite serious, wondering what kind of situation awaited us in the heart of the mass of people. Heart attack? Hit and run? The crowd parted like the red sea to reveal a young man sitting on a chair looking quite uncomfortable. “He fell,” the crowd told us, “at 9am.” Hmm, since it was past 2pm, clearly the boy had been suffering for a while now. When asking how he fell, we heard both “while walking” and “from 3 stories.” Regardless, all he was complaining of was a knee injury, and he didn't appear to be bloodied, so our worries of full-body trauma were eased a bit. We all hovered over the knee in question to examine the site of pain. We discovered with a bit of shock a badly deformed joint. Clearly something was out of line as a bulky mass jutted out from the side of the knee. Dislocation? Compound fracture? Not as much swelling as we’d expect. Palpating around, the boy seemed very uncomfortable and jumped when we poked on the part seemingly out of place, tossing his head back in a full-body moan. I had to fight down a bubbling hot lava of frustration and anger. Why hadn’t anyone taken this boy to the hospital already? Why did they think it was a better idea to wait HOURS for the doctors to arrive?

Our attempts at getting more history into the accident went unrewarded. But the most important piece was “no no, his knee did NOT look like that before the fall.” The young man was a son of one of the vendors, although his parent wasn’t part of the history giving. So we relied on the information of helpful neighbors and put our heads together working on a plan of “attack” so to speak. We three doctors decided that we’d try to get the knee aligned better, put a brace on and take him to the nearest hospital for x-rays.

Trish crawled onto the young man’s lap and sat down bracing him. Caro and I positioned ourselves on either side of the man’s leg and took hold. “PUUUUUULLL” we chanted together and used our bodies to put traction on the leg attempting to relocate the tibia to a more suitable, stable position distal to the femur. “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH” our patient screamed and wiggled. Nothing, not a budge. One more time, Puuuuuuuuuuuuuull. Caro and I did our best, beads of sweat forming newly on our foreheads. But the accident was old enough that all the muscles were in true spasm and the nothing was budging. Keep in mind we were doing our heroic intervention to a swelling crowd of Haitian on-lookers truly fascinated by the street-side entertainment. Better than an episode Rescue 911.

Noting that no curb-side relocation was in our stars today, we dosed our patient with pain meds, apologized for the torture, fashioned a brace out of a cardboard box and string, eased the young man into the Galloper and drove him to the nearest, “Doctors Without Borders” hospital for assessment.

Leaving him to the care of the doctors there, we left feeling pretty good about our efforts. Our relocation attempt wasn’t successful, but we gave it a good effort. And the adrenaline of doing a sidewalk trauma evaluation was a nice high for the afternoon. Slapping each other’s backs and joking about where else we could seek out lads and damsels in distress, we headed back to the guesthouse. Trish pointed out another future patient as she observed a man leaning a metal ladder against some power lines. But today was not our day to do CPR and electrical burn treatment. He seemed to have a shock-proof body.

When we got back to the guesthouse, we were greeted like heros. “OH thank you for helping, doctors.” We finally ran into the father of the boy who had just arrived and heard the story. He thanked us profusely for helping his son. And with the crowds dispersed, the father felt he could elaborate on the history. Apparently his son, as a 5-year-old boy, had a brick wall fall on his leg which fractured it badly. His son, as a child, underwent surgery to realign the bones. The second surgery recommended was too expensive for the family to afford, so the boy grew into a man with a chronically unstable knee. Hmmmm. So "falling" while walking was a common predicament his son got into, and it always caused him significant pain. This perked a few questions. We asked about the shape of his knee, describing what we saw on the street. “Yah, its been that way since he was a boy. We should have gotten the surgery, but just couldn’t afford it at the time.” Right.

Sure enough, a couple of hours later our patient was back at the guest house sporting a new ace bandage wrapped around the still-disfigured knee and toting his x-rays. He thanked us so much for our help (the torture???) and let us examine the films. Sure enough, the bones were all in tact, just bowed out in an angle that caused the impressive misalignment we noted curb-side.

We always say in medicine the diagnosis 90% of the time can come from the history alone. And TIMING of the history is everything.

So our afternoon adventure served to illustrate, once again, the challenges of cross-cultural, cross-language work and the ridiculous situations you get yourself tangled up in. Good thing we all have a healthy sense of humor and found it all quite hysterical. Trish, Caro and I decided we’d form a new international organization, specializing in foreign traveling physicians coming in and providing various interventions in health. We’d dub our new organization, “Doctors Without Boundries,” and would tote the slogan, “We tackle your chronic problems in a traumatic way.”

So we ended up not being the heroes of the moment, but students of another funny Haitian moment. Ah Haiti, keeps us humble, keeps us honest, and as always, keeps us entertained. Thank God for a patient Haitian population who seems to tolerate our invasion. I’m grateful our Haitian friends recognize that we are here with best intentions, even if the miraculous work we attempt to do ends up looking more like a comedy of errors.

Patrick's Birthday

Feb 3, 2009

Today Patrick turned another year older. And despite being in a new country, we had some familiar faces and friends to share in the celebration.

Yesterday two friends of ours from Colorado arrived to spend the week with us. Caroline—one of my dear friends and fellow residency grads, and Trish—a friend and former residency attending, left the snowy mountain peaks for the hot heavy air of Port-au-Prince. With them, they brought bags full of medicine and tools of the trade donated from my generous residency family in Colorado. Yesterday, they single-handedly helped me stock our little pharmacy and changed the breadth of conditions we can now treat enormously.

Today I put them to work in CONASPEH clinic. We saw a large number of teenagers and discussed everything from safe sex to nutrition to female problems. I was elated to be working along side my dear friends as we crammed ourselves into the clinic. What a difference it makes to have a colleague an arms length away with which to consult, to laugh, and to dream up new ideas for the health care intervention.

After clinic they helped me with the first “learning lab” for the first year nursing students. Today was vital signs day. With the extra help, we successfully taught taking temperatures, pulse and respiratory rate as well as blood pressures. The students seemed to appreciate a break in the lecture schedule for a little hands-on practice, and I enjoyed having extra hands to help ensure students understood well.

Getting back to the guesthouse, it was time to get ready for a birthday party. Last night, I had snuck into the dining room intending to decorate an area around one of the tables there to surprise Patrick for his birthday. However Veniel, the guesthouse manager, caught me in the act. He was so excited about Patrick’s birthday that he demanded I take all the decorations down, and leave it to him. “We’ll have a surprise party for dinner!” So I handed him the balloons, party hats and streamers, and promised I’d find a way to keep Patrick out of the dining room until all was ready. Tonight after encouraging Patrick to go ahead and do yoga, we dashed into the dining room to help the staff drape the entire place with tons of balloons, banners and pictures.

By the time dinner was ready and Patrick emerged, he was greeted by a dining room full of people—some he knew well, some new to him but excited about a reason to celebrate; all sang him happy birthday. Veniel put a lay around his neck, and candles on a cake were lit. The children of the guesthouse, including Kristanor, were the most excited of all and jumped up and down wishing Patrick a happy birthday. Although I could tell that initially Patrick was more mortified than surprised, it was hard not to soften with the incredible sense of community and love that the guesthouse staff and our friends provided. “Its super,” said Sylvy, tears in her eyes. And it was. Even the groups newly arrived seemed to get caught in the festive atmosphere. And Patrick was celebrity for a day. Veniel and his family were having a ball, and shaking Patrick’s hand heartily. It was one of those moments that was easy to take survey and note that after our 3 months here in the guesthouse, we had created quite the community of friends. We’d been supported by their care and patience, been uplifted by their humor. They have stuck with us as we struggled to build our Creole vocabulary, teased us mercilessly, but always with love. And tonight the aloneness we felt at the beginning of our time here seemed to be a distant memory. Tonight our friends gathered around to celebrate.

We finished the night on the roof, under a sky full of stars with Sylvie, Jerome, Mark, Trish and Caro. We toasted Patrick, dove into conversation and let the darkness around us deepen as the city grew quiet. We toasted another year in the life of Patrick under a blanket of stars.

Happy Day.