1 year

Patrick and I on the morning of our departure to Haiti 10/28/2008

Exactly one year ago, Patrick and I stepped off the plane into hot, heavy Haitian air ready to start a new chapter of our lives. Today is our one-year-in-Haiti anniversary. In some ways, we feel like we’ve just started, in others it feels like we’ve been here for years. When thinking of what we were doing over a year ago--residency, living in Denver, stomping through snow, doing church itineration, pulling extra shifts at the psych hospital, packing up, living out of a suitcase, giving last hugs goodbye to family and friends--life feels like it has taken us millions of miles away.

Is it possible so much can be packed into a year? Learning a language, navigating a city, learning to drive shift, treading in a new culture, becoming a parent, trying, failing, trying again, laughing--so much laughing, crying, witnessing, observing and trying to tell the story as we go along. Its enough to make my head spin.

A good friend of ours in the school told me yesterday that my face had changed since our arrival. I found that to be an interesting comment. "Prettier or uglier" I teasingly asked. "More Haitian," was her reply.

Interesting to think that this year might already be read on my face. Sure I'm a little more tan than I was before, although my Irish complexion makes me more of a "wouj" (red). Maybe its resolve in my eyes, experience tinting my reactions, patience working a bit of relaxation through muscles that used to be hyper alert in ready-to-go-ness. Are the things I've seen treading the pools in my eyes? Marionnette-ing the expressions on my face and the way I move? Likely it was just V's way of saying we're one of the gang now. And I'm glad for the inclusion.

Certainly we are changed in a year. And I'm glad to be where I am now, some of the biggest hurdles behind us in this Haitian adventure. I'll never forget how alone one feels when finding yourself in a place where you can't speak the language, don't have a clear idea of the job you are expected to do, get lost going home from work, and don't know where to find a mechanic or a plummer. I'm glad that our feet our wet, our initiation over and the work underway.

What did I do on my anniversary day?

I got up early, made extra-strong coffee to shake the fogginess from my mind. I got in the Monty and drove to Carrefour for my clinic day. I sang out loud to music along the drive and was glad to see some of the trash from last week's rain being cleared with dozers and dozens of street workers.

Walking along the alley to the clinic, I passed a goat, hung by its neck being skinned and cleaned. I didn’t even dry heave. Last week it had been a pig.

I had a meeting with the Carrefour clinic staff about setting up a small lab there as they finally found a technician willing to put in hours sans pay for a little while. All were happy and energetic with the plans. We start next week.

The doctor there and I commenced to see a waiting room full of patients with the true family-practice array of symptoms. I saw my last tiny patient in the mid-afternoon, congratulating mom on a happy, chunky baby which is such a treat and a joy to see here. Great last patient of the day.

I drove to CONASPEH to pick up Patrick who has been solicited to teach more classes through the week and to commence on a physical education (basetball) class that will evolve into a school team. Go Coach P.

We came home this afternoon to a happy little face waving to us on our balcony, the happiest welcome ever. After taking Silvia home, we lit candles around the house since the electricity hadn't yet blinked on for the night. We then spent the evening playing with blocks on the porch with Mr. Solomon who was amazing us with his streaming baby talk, his incredible upper arm strength as he pulls himself up to look over the balcony wall (thank goodness for a higher wall iron lattice that will keep our toddler from tipping over for a few more months), his contagious giggle, and his fascinations with tiny ants crawling on the floor (picture baby sprawled out on his stomach tracing an ant's path with his pudgy finger). He tries to eat them, of course, but so far, the ants (and Mom) are a little too quick. :)

A year in a life. A big year. And tonight I set an alarm to wake me up for the beginning of the next.

Cloudy reflections

This morning I woke delighted in an overcast morning that promised to delay the onslaught of my home-made sweat bath for a few hours. The last few days have been kind with grey skies blocking out the direct overhead rays, allowing breezes to blow cool. Although still in the high 80’s, I can’t help but be thankful for the “fall-like” change in the weather.

Yesterday I accompanied Patrick to Leogane, and volunteered some time in the orphanage he works with while he taught his classes in the CONASPEH seminary there. Patrick goes to the orphanage on Wednesday afternoons to play with the children, to teach them a language, to interact with several of the severely handicapped kids there and teach staff that they need love and attention as much or more as the other kids. His time there is valuable.

The orphanage is relatively new, started by a well-meaning man and wife who raised money from friends in the community and opened their doors to 50 orphaned children ages 2 to 12. They have a school and a community clinic with a Haitian doctor who works Monday through Friday. They’ve been forth-coming with Patrick, admitting that their funds are running low and finding money for food for the children has been difficult as of late. They have big dreams of expanding services, increasing the number of children served, but such dreams have a long way to go.

I agreed to see the kids after meeting them on a visit last week, recognizing the distended bellies and flat affects of kids suffering malnutrition and likely worm-infected bellies. Upon arrival today I was ushered straight into the clinic and all 50 children of the orphanage took their turn standing before me. Most were shy, slow to smile. There was not a single tear, no screaming, no crying. For doctors and nurses reading this, you'll know just how odd that is: fifty children and not ONE cried with a physician's exam.

I inspected scalps, looked into ears, scanned teeth. I listened to hearts, lungs and tummies, scanned the skin looking for rashes, fat distribution, infections. I took weights and wrote notes.

In most of the children, skin stretched tight around bony rib cages, shoulder blades and nobby knees. I could circle my fingers around scrawny upper arms despite tummies protruding like beer bellies on old men. Bite marks of scabies and flees marked many hands, feet and waist-lines, fungal infections crept through scalps. Pale gums and nail beds hinted of anemia. Heart murmurs suggested possible heart conditions, anemia or infectious conditions. Rotting teeth betrayed poor hygiene.

I began to wonder why I was asked to come. Recommendations for true change in health sounded too basic: nutrition, hygiene, clean water and sanitation. I could dose all kids with worm medicine. I could hand over safe medication to treat fevers. I could write prescriptions for antifungals, for antibiotics for the few kids who had bacterial infections complicating their health, for shampoos to kill the scabies and lice. I could remind the leaders of the orphanage of the importance of boiling sheets, brushing teeth, offering the children vitamins each day and providing protein in their meals. I was told lab work wasn’t an option at this time, referrals not within the capabilities of the overworked staff. And I wasn’t sure how many of the prescriptions I wrote would feasibly be filled. As one child's face followed another, I began to wonder what individual exams would accomplish. If I found an anomaly, a potentially seriously ill kid, would anything change? These are the moments in medicine where my heart sinks, my anger flares at injustices in the system, my maternal instincts screaming for a way to protect the children from the world they are living in.

I can't help but question why this orphanage is holding 50 children that they can’t feed, can’t provide health care for, can’t ensure basic care? In the private sector, I'm just as frustrated by a couple who continue to have children when they can’t afford to take care of themselves or the family they have, but I find myself judging more harshly institutions—no matter how big or small—who advertise a service but take on more than they can handle. Especially when children are involved.

But what is worse? A child starving on a street corner without even a flea-bitten bed to sleep in? A kid living with his family who can’t offer a bite of rice a day? Or a shelter for children that offers a little education, at least one starchy meal a day and a few staff to help give hugs and hygiene, even though beds are shared and there is no space to run and play?

It is not my place to judge, especially here, so I battle such tendencies when I find outreach sorely inadequate or when I find myself disagreeing with methods. After 2 weeks of seeing several ill-supported “orphanages” for children, I’m not at all convinced this is the best way to care for kids. I’m tempted to back away completely, not aiding and abbeding an organization that has overstretched itself beyond the ability to provide basic care for children. Where is the social services agent to come condemn the building?

Or should I instead be glad that people are willing to do the best they can in the midst of a horrible situation? Am I projecting my own frustrations at having to do the best I can in a hard situation? Where are the lines of justice drawn? When are good intentions enough? When will the leaders of this country, the people of the world get sick and tired of kids suffering the consequences of systemic disease, political games, oppression and corruption?

I'm glad for the overcast day. Cloudy days always help me feel reflective. I don’t have the answers, and sometimes the questions overwhelm. I do know that I need to step a way for a minute, let the observations and thoughts of the week simmer. I need to pray. I look forward to re-immersing myself in my community clinics where children are brought in by their mothers, where education can be given one family at a time. I look forward to tomorrow's school day and seeing the kindergarten children being walked to school by their moms and dads. Families. Healthy children. Laughter. Hope.

I welcome your thoughts, your experiences, suggestions and prayers.

Lull

I feel like I have been sleep-walking through the week, struggling with happiness and perspective. I'm not sure if there is a single cause for the dip in spirit or if its a combination of a lot of things: harsh situations observed recently, homesickness, job disillusionment, adoption-process frustration, doubt, and feelings of inadequacy. Maybe it is simply just one of the natural "ebbs" in the ebb and flow of life, a normal reaction to living in a challenging environment.

There have been times this week where I've struggled with moments of internal anxiety and claustrophobia where I yearn to break free of situations out of my control. I want to escape the traffic, the heat, the city, the onslaught of pollution. I want to run from clinics that have felt more and more hopelessly repetitive with the same superficial interventions and BandAid medicine, from the faces of hunger and neglect I can't immediately help. I want to break out of Haiti, flee from duties and labels that don't fit well, from itchy feet and wander lust, from dissatisfaction with our outreach, from the feeling of inability to change certain situations. I yearn for the open fields of Kansas, the fragrant forests of the Rocky Mountains, for friends and family, for fall leaves and apple cider on the stove, for crisp air and open parks, for evening walks with the dogs and long runs through neighborhoods and the countryside.

And then I'm immediately embarrassed, ashamed of my cowardliness when I live in such relative comfort. I am educated, employed, supported by friends and family. I eat every day, enjoy good health, sleep in a comfortable home and cruise the streets in a sturdy car. If I want to leave Haiti, I can. If I want to escape, I have the resources to do so. Yet all around me are people born into situations that leave them option-less. They wake up every day and move on, they keep working or surviving. How dare I not celebrate all I have instead of yearning for that which I miss.

I struggle with these kinds of moments of questioning and depression of spirit. I know that they can and will happen no matter where we are, what jobs we are in. I know that they happen in some fashion or another to everyone. What annoys me the most is that I'm not beyond it all, that I haven't evolved or developed myself to a place where I'm more secure, more balanced, more self-assured, more accepting, more peaceful and more consistently loving and living in the moment.

Last Monday I had an overwhelming sense of happiness with where I was and what I was doing, feeling ok with my work however limited it is because it was offering me the opportunity to sit and hold the hands of people who suffer, giving me the chance to interact with incredibly brave, funny, inspiring students, patients and people, allowing me to be a very present mom, granting me time to read and write, time that I can use to better myself in other ways. Then suddenly I find myself in a slump, fatigued by observations and situations I'm helpless to change, drained from hands held open in my direction, asking for money, aid, scholarships, food. The fact that my patience and perspective, my outlook and presence-in-the-moment is so fragile just drives me nutty. I hate that my perspective isn't more fixed, doesn't pass forward with consistence in my life after previous reflections, work and discoveries got me to those points. Why must they be so fleeting?

I just finished a book by Kira Salak about her kayaking trip down the Niger River to Timbuktu. I identified with a lot of what she wrote regarding taking risky adventures, about her interactions with foreign people and cultures in villages along the river, her struggles as a "have" in a "have not" country, and her constantly fluctuating state of perspective. I particularly liked the following excerpt:

"I wonder what we look for when we embark on these kinds of trips. There is the pat answer that you tell the people you don't know: that you're interested in seeing a place, learning about its people. But then the trip begins and the hardship comes, and the hardship is more honest: it tells us that we don't have enough patience yet, nor humility, nor gratitude. And we thought that we did. Hardship brings us closer to truth, and thus is more difficult to bear, but from it alone comes compassion. And so I've told the world that it can do what it wants with me during this trip if only, by the end, I have learned something more. A bargain, then. The journey, my teacher."

I think the passage speaks to what Patrick and I have been going in and out of over the last 11 months in various degrees of passion and dispassion, inspiration and frustration. I tolerate the yo-yo'ing emotional roller coaster we are on trusting that it is bringing us to a better place, a stronger self, a more compassionate heart, a more patient presence in the world, a more evolved state of being. At the very least, we are learning.

The evolution of "character," of the spirit is in constant flux. Ultimately, I'm glad to be in a place that doesn't allow me to get comfortable for long, that continually drudges up emotions, contemplations, and weakness, bringing them to the center stage and forcing me to reconcile, to change, to adapt, to grow. So recognizing a slump serves to remind me to slow down, breath deep, meditate, find beauty, discover balance once again.

The Challenges of Rain

*photo borrowed from 2008 footage of hurricanes: msnbc.msn.com*

We are still in the midst of the rainy season, and on the tail end of the hurricaine season. As a result, from time to time the sky opens from above emptying its watery cargo over city streets, mountain tops and country plains. Last night we had one such storm that tossed up winds, sweeping rains over the city, smacking lightening and thundering through the sky. The winds drove the rain so vertical that the kitchen floor in our 3rd story apartment was completely flooded. Nothing that a mop and a bucket couldn't handle. However the flooding on the road to Carrefour this morning was more than a little mop job could fix.

As a result of the deforestation and the urbinization of the country, heavy rains wash from mountain top to the valley, coursing their way to the sea. For neighobrhoods in hillier places, rains wash the street of its trash and debris. But the results of such street cleaning were sorely evident during our drive today.

On Wednesdays now, Patrick drives with me to Carrefour, dropping me off at the clinic and proceeding on to Leogane where he spends the morning and early afternoon teaching English in two primary schools and interacting with special needs kids in an orphanage. I enjoy having a one-on-one time with him on the hour drive to Carrefour, discussing thoughts, listening to music, and together observing the vibrant and chaotic life of the streets we drive through. Today we had an eye-full.

The route to Carrefour and Leogane follows the curve of the inner coast of Haiti. The villages that line that coast are prone to flooding due to their position at sea-level, the high water table and to the fact that a large percent of the precipitation falling at higher elevations washes down to the sea, carrying trash and refuse along with it. As a result, the villages along the coast suffer clogged and overflowing sewers, muddied and flooded streets, new mountains of trash, crumbling shoulders along the road-ways and dramatic complications for the daily routine.

*picture borrowed from footage of 2008 hurricanes: teachafrica.net

Our drive today, which normally takes 45 minutes, took nearly 3 hours. We inched along behind bulldozers trying to free gutters clogged with plastic bottles, styrofoam plates, fruit peels and sludge. We joined a procession of vehicles entering lake-like flood plains over the road, watching the muddy water reach over wheel-wells and obscuring rocks, pot-holes and other such dangers in the murky depths. Along the side of the road, parades of people did their best to get to and from on their routes to work, climbing walls in order to avoid drenched feet. We watched some gentlemen giving woman piggy-back rides across flooded stretches of sidewalk; others rolled up pant legs and hiked up skirts before trudging through in unavoidable mess.

Thankfully thus far, Haiti hasn't had a repeat of the hurricane devastation that they suffered last year. But along the drive today, after a simple heavy thunderstorm, I got a hint of what the country must have suffered. Rain makes life hard here, even when its not hurricane-grade. Life goes on, but its harder. Just when I thought that wasn't possible.

Later that afternoon we heard a public education message on the radio that urged listeners not to throw their trash in the gutter because the people along the coast suffer the consequence after the rains. You can say that again.

Class Resumes

The nursing school officially kicked into gear last week, but we had the opportunity to welcome a visiting dentist from the States to give a 3 day seminar to the nurses on dental hygeine, prevention, and disease recognition. It was a procrastinating professor's DREAM!

This year we have 23 students in the probation class (pre-nursing school), 26 students are starting their first year, and 25 students continue on into their second year. Although the numbers are semi-fluid, we are all happy for the continued participation year after year.

Yesterday I found myself back at the black board in front of a new class of students. Much preferring one-on-one style of teaching to a classroom setting, I had been slightly dreading the return to lectures. The new first-year class had me especially worried since a couple of the students had been ornery for Patrick during their English class last semester. I don't know if it was the fact that I saw one of the biggest trouble makers in clinic and sent her home (cause she was SICK!) with medicines and advice for taking care of self OR if it was the beginning-of-the-year optimism, but my first day with the new class offered me attentive students, not ONE snoozer, and good questions in both the child development and pharmacology classes.

Today I greeted the second year students, a class that will always have a special place in my heart as they served as my "training wheels" as a teacher here. They've given me a heaping pile of patience as with them I've learned Creole, started to learn to gauge what they know within the context of their cultural experience in health care, and attempted to together move forward. Although there are less students than when they started, the faces sitting in my second year class reflect a year of study, an introduction to clinics, and the success of having made it this far. Their questions are more sophisticated, the wheels of their brains chugging along and processing information at a much faster pace. Such observations--student advancement--must be why teachers do it. You can't but help but be proud of the evolution. This year I'm teaching their class Obstetrics. They seemed happy to have me back, patient as always, and quite entertained with the subject material. We had a great 2 hours.

At the end of class, just as focus was teetering off into more racy subjects of sex, Patrick and Solomon arrived to pick me up from school. The students all were overjoyed to see their favorite tiny student who had sat with them most of last semester. Although much too independent and mobile to be expected to sit through any more classes for awhile, Solomon entertained all by cruising across the classroom on his own two feet, and then clapping for himself winning him wild applause.

The CONASPEH leadership states time and time again that education is their primary goal, the one way they believe they can truly change the quality of life of the Haitian people and the coarse of the country's progress. Although education doesn't fill bellies in the present, it works to equip individuals to not only eat in the future, but establish a better lifestyle. And although I much prefer hiding away in a clinic, putting on Band-Aids, treating illness and counseling on disease prevention, my time in front of the classroom may be the most valuable thing I can do in the long run. So I work to get over my shyness, find creative tools for teaching, and celebrate the fact that I have two classes full of good students to work with. I look forward to giving them my own round of applause at the end of their study when they are running on their own two feet.

Missing a Family

Tonight I've been reflecting on family and how much it means to me on so many different levels, how lucky I am to have the family I was born into, how blessed I am to have the family we are creating now. Today has been an emotional day, and one that makes me aching to be snuggled up on the couch with everyone I cherish in my life, holding them close, thanking them for their presence and loyalty through my life.

Today we accompanied our visiting group to tour two orphanages that CONASPEH partner churches are running. Patrick and I hadn't visited them before. The pastors heading up the efforts were trying to work with minimal resources in order to provide very basic services for abandoned children. They were difficult places to see.

While touring the first building we encountered a beautiful little girl who about 2 years-old. Her hair was in braids, her long eyelashes framed dark and sad eyes. She sat alone in a hallway, flies swarming around her little body; she didn't move in the hour we were there. I tried to play with her, but she didn't acknowledge my touch, so deep was her depression. Near by, a 7-month-old was sleeping on the floor in an empty dormitory on some pee-soaked blankets. The whole room reeked of urine. Most of the children were in "school" and quietly acknowledged us as we walked through and greeted them. Two 2 year-olds were sitting in the "cafeteria" waiting for food; they didn't smile, look scared, or show emotion when I tried to tickle them. They had dried breakfast on their cheeks and gnats swarming on their eyelashes. One of the women in the group cried through the whole tour. I waited until I got home. Haiti has hardened me like that. But I've been haunted all day. The second orphanage had at least all the kids together in a room. They sang a song that lacked the luster of well-fed, energetic childhood. The conditions felt so harsh at both places: cold, hard, muddy. There were no clear places for children to relax, to play, to be kids. Bony arms and legs told of infrequent meals; rashes, protruding bellies, runny noses and coughs reminded me how little basic health care these kids were likely getting. Mattress-less wire bedframes were what the children slept on. Although the pastor assured us that they laid blankets down on the frames before the children went to sleep, the lack of a soft place for a child to lay his head hit us all hard.

I told Silvia about my morning when I got home, and couldn't avoid getting a little tearful when talking about it. Her face got very serious (she is usually a walking smile). She then went into a rant about how it isn't right for people to give their children to orphanages, that they should take responsibility for their children or not have them. This coming from a woman who had 9 children and raised them on her own after her husband died. From what I can tell, her children are really great people, and I'm sure Silvia had to fight through her life to raise them, given her minimal education and lack of resources. She is a wonder woman. And she expects her fellow mothers to be so too. The stories of the children that fill the orphanages are extensive: mothers dead, fathers dead, families starving, parents overwhelmed. The homeless children are not simply a result of a mother and father getting tired and giving up. But I understand Silvia’s protective and responsible point of view.

I also understand that for some families an extra mouth to feed may simply be impossible, some think their children might be better off somewhere else. Depending on how you look at it, some are. I hope Solomon sees it that way someday. Certainly there are orphanages and crèches that are well run full of staff that love on kids, volunteers who help and a system that does its best to feed, protect, educate and tuck its kids in at night. Today we saw people that are trying to do a good thing without the proper resources. For these kids, the pastors assured us, it was here or on the street.

I spent the afternoon at home, using the excuse of a mountain of paperwork and class prep to do to allow time for regrouping. I felt for the group who had already had an intense week meeting Haiti for the first time and having to see such living conditions amidst the fresh exposure. All I wanted to do was to grab Solomon when we got home. I spent the whole afternoon with him, letting him take the ENTIRETY of his 1 1/2 hour afternoon nap on my chest. It was that kind of horrible day and I needed the perfect peace of him, the cuddly warmth of his body, the sweet smell of his neck, his happy smile when he woke in my arms. I needed to delight in the way he giggles, in his simple happiness. I needed to nurture him, this one child in the world whose life I have the power to affect.

I think we need our children sometimes as much as they need us. I know the relationships change as we age--children needing their parents as they grow, parents needing their children more as they age. Sometimes its unbalanced as we cross various milestones in life, yet other times mutual need comes at the exact same time. Although I feed him, cloth him and sooth his tears when he has a tumble, today my little boy saved me from despair.

I can't imagine loving any child of mine more than I love Solomon. We certain didn't bring him into our home to "save" him, but I’m not going to lie... there were children I wanted to rescue today. I'll be haunted by their faces for awhile. And lucky for me teething Solomon was all about cuddling his mommy this afternoon. So we had a lovely time playing, giggling, dancing and napping together.

Haiti is a beautiful country in so many ways and I see hope in a lot of places. The CONASPEH school reminds me of what can happen when interventions fully reach into the lives of children and their families as daily it bustles with children acting the way children should--playing, studying, singing, joking, getting into trouble, giggling, shrieking, running. I know there is hopelessness, sadness in dark corners all over the world as well as in my own country. Regardless of location, looking suffering directly in the face is hard and heartbreaking, especially when that face is so little. So to cope, I focus on that which I can control--the care of my son, the work we’ve been brought here to do, and being a loving presence in the lives of those who suffer. Being simply present in the face of not having solutions for suffering is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Just a hard day. One that I want to grab my son and the entirety of my family and kiss all until they can't stand another. One that I wanted to multiply my family by 5 or more, one that left me feeling helpless in the face of innocent suffering. One that reminds me our work has just begun.

I hope the merlot helps.

Look Mom, No Hands!

Sensorial Experiences

First impression from friends remind us to look anew at our surroundings. I love the reminder.

This week we welcome a lovely group from Kansas City, MIssouri here to visit and learn about Haiti, teach in the CONASPEH Seminary and nursing school, play with and feed children in our partner orphanages and get a taste of what a day in the life looks like in this chaotically beautiful country.

We always enjoy visitors. Not only do they bring a little piece of the spirit of home with them, they allow us to see Haiti afresh as we watch and listen to their impressions. Emotional and physical reactions to the sensorial experience of Haiti are easy to read and remind us of our own first impressions not so long ago.

As a friend of ours put it, "you can read all about something in colorful words, you can look at pictures that cause even deeper reactions, but nothing really brings you into an experience like the smell of a place."

And oh the smells there are. Composting vegetation chokes the air with a sickly sweet smell as we drive past markets mid afternoon. Fish freshly caught and others cooking hours in the sun send up their pungent odors as we pass closer to the harbor. Burning trash can smell both herbal if leaves are part of the garbage or toxic if plastic bottles melt among the flames. Stagnant water sitting in clogged sewers, drying urine on pavement, and the smell of rot as we pass a dead dog on the side of the road challenge the strength of stomachs sometimes. Yet if the breeze is just right, you can catch the scent of salt of the ocean, washing the air of the its less-than-lovely smells. Cooking bread dissolves the smells of the street when we pass a bakery, allowing for a collective "ahhh" to rise up from riders in the car. Bright tropical flowers spilling over concrete walls send fragrant perfumes into the air as they warm in the hot afternoon sun. Grilled chicken on street-side bar-b-ques gets the salivary glands running, and the spices of Creole sauce paint the air around side-walk restaurants. When clouds release their cargos in a wet soaking rain, the earth smells organic as if you can almost sniff plants getting greener, dirt growing muddy, dust being knocked from the air.

The sights in a drive through the city are overwhelming and close in around us like a kaleidoscope of activity spinning past the car window as we wind through bustling streets. After 11 months, I always see something new. From our visitors, we are reminded of the physically astonishing feats observed in the people working on the streets. Men pulling wooden carts loaded high with crippling weight, pulling their cargo with sweat glistening on their faces, their feet straining in the dust to muscle another step along the bustling road. The sight of women carrying a weight-lifters load of supplies on their head sends astonished gasps from friends witnessing the elegant work for the first time. Most of all, the incredible mass of people that fill the streets, neighborhoods, markets, coastlines and communities in this country can be the most remarkable difference from the comparible wide-open feel of American life. Every second of a drive gives an eyefull of sights, faces, activities that can leave you dizzy with observation, and the smells bring a viseral feeling to the sights passing by.

But its watching the reactions of visiting friends to experiences after we step out of the car that touches me the most, reminds me of why our life here feels so emotionally raw at times. Shock, disbelief and numbness fall over us when we first come face-to-face with the realities of poverty spread out before our eyes. The surprise of Haitian hospitality dissolves our self consciousness about our foreignness and privilege. Smiles pierce through the heartbreak of seeing the brave and beautiful children filling orphanages, living lives we wish we could change. Spirit burns anew in churches filled with song, hands lifted, voices soaring, drums beating rhythms that dance with your heartbeat and force your body to move. Laughter surprises us as we get caught up in the jovial sense of humor of our Haitian hosts. We are inspired by the survivors, the innovators, the visionaries, the hard-workers that share their stories with us in the medical clinics, the classrooms, the churches, and in the the streets.

Thanks to RCC for sharing their adventure with us and awakening our own senses once again to the vivid world around us.

And He WALKS!!!

Well, we are officially done for. Nothing in the 2 foot high range is safe. Grandpa Craig came for a visit, and for him, Solomon strutted his first independent steps. Since then he has gained confidence and wobbles across the apartment, high stepping with both arms above his head, his nose wrinkled in an expression of joy and hilarity as he discovers this new higher-form of independence.

Our son has a new obsession. If he attacks studies/music/sports with the same dedication and practice ethic he demands out of his new strutting skills, we are libel to have a very capable and talented young man on our hands.

Our son is a new, drunken-sailor kind of mobile. Thanks to his short legs, falls aren't that dramatic. Who needs cable with this kind of amazing entertainment?

Just wanted to share.

Mobiling Up A Mountain

*Monty on the donkey path*

Today was Mobile Clinic day. Over the last month, our mobile clinic schedule has been off and running, taking Miss Fanor and I to two poor farming neighborhoods outside of City Solei, to a mountainous village outside of Port-au-Prince, and today to a mountain-top church in an extremely rural area in the general zone around Petionville.

The morning started slow and frustrating, leaving Miss Fanor and I with doubts that it would be a successful clinic day. The pastor was an hour and a half late to meet us at CONASPEH, and the sun started heating up the city with gusto despite the morning hours (we were to find out later that with the heat index, Haiti felt like 108 today). We were even more confused when the path to "Petionville" (where our schedule said we were going) instead took us up a rag-tag route vertically up the mountain.

Today "Monty" got initiated. I can say with a sigh of relief that the 4-wheel-drive works miraculously well and that this car will be our new trail-blazing friend.

As we climbed up a precariously steep mountain road, over loose rock and gravel, the landscape turned quickly into open, rural scenes of hills folding over each other, mountain vistas looking over flat valleys, and sparsely scattered homes tucked between cultivated and terraced fields. Despite the beauty and serenity of the surroundings, I was feeling anything BUT serene as I was steering Monty along crags and ruts, over rocks and through shifty gravel, narrowly missing wholes and cliffs as the road fell away, tumbling down the mountain. I narrowly dodged one such landfall only to spot the remnant corpse of a car not as lucky, laying rotting in the sand, picked clean by vulturous hands leaving only an iron skeleton behind much like a cow skull in death valley. The most pulse-raising moment of the drive came when we encountered a part of the road that had been hour-glassed by two cliffs, leaving just enough room for the car to traverse if I hit it EXACTLY right. I was immediately sent spinning back to my reoccuring nightmare of driving along a mountain road where the road progressively narrows until I'm skidding along a train rail, wheels spinning in the air eventually leaving me soaring over a cliff as the road dissolves into nothing. The pastor got out to help guilde my wheels on the road. We did it, but had little time to celebrate because the route marched promptly UPWARD, and the wheels spun in the sandy incline. With panic I realized that instead of FORWARD with acceleration, I was slipping backward towards the cliffs I had just narrowly missed. There came a moment when I felt paralyzed. I looked at Miss Fanor and we started laughing the laugh of crazed people. I asked her to start praying. She got out to cheer me on (praying out loud the whole time). I decided NOW was the time to try out the 4x4 action.

And then a calm descended. It was a do or die moment... and I was hoping for more of the do. This was Monty and I's first test together, and I was about to see what Monty was made of. Honestly I wasn't worried about dying... more worry about getting our new, beautiful, well-functioning car horribly impailed or stuck out in the middle of Haitian nowhere, about how I'd find a donkey to hitch home, and just exactly how I would explain to Global Ministries, CONASPEH and all donors how we lasted only a week with new wheels.

But apparently life has more work for Monty and I to do. In 4x4 setting, Monty buckled down, slid for only a split second (cue heart-stopping breathlessness), then in a spray of rocks and groan of the engine, we motored UP the mountain leaving the tightrope driving scenario in our dust. Meci Senor.

Smiles all around. Applause and instant in-car celebration. I then noticed how incredibly gorgeous our surroundings were. Worth it? Absolutely. Adrenaline and Adventure. Almost as good as skydiving. "Good driver" said the back-seat pastor who had insisted all the way up the mountain that cars drive here all the time despite us not seeing a single one for 45 minutes up the donkey path.
*pastors of the church*

We arrived to the clinic of the day--a church on a mountain top with a grand view of the valley below. My knees were still shaking a little as we unloaded our supplies and got set up in the makeshift clinic space. The "neighborhood" was fields of cabbage and carrot, trees loaded with avocado and grapefruit. We parked Monty to the side of the road to allow the local traffic to pass--women and their burrows loaded with produce and supplies as they headed to market miles below. I told the pastor that next time we come, he can provide donkeys in place of wheels. :)
*make shift exam space in the corner of the church*

Despite houses scattered over the mountains, the people came. The closest medical clinic to this community was near Petionville --40 minutes away by car. We saw almost 50 patients in the heat of the afternoon, restricting numbers because we were only two and we needed to get back down the mountain before dark. But as might be expected, I met a tough breed of beautiful people in clinic today. My first patient was a toothless grandfather of a man with probable heart failure who laughed when I suggested he go to the heart specialist for some tests. He instead thanked me profusely for bandaid medicine I could offer.

One woman had hiked 2 miles from her home with a “horrible” head ache. I thought she was being overly dramatic until I checked her blood pressure and found it to be 240/120--a certain ICU admit in the states. I told her that she needed to go to the hospital. I was expecting to see her face sag before my eyes. She said, “oh yes, oh yes doctor.” I knew better. I gave her everything I had for blood pressure: nefedipine and hydrocholorothiazide. I decided to hold on the aspirin since I was fearing an impending bleed. I told her to go home and find some family to sit with her while she rested… and that she needed to find a doctor tomorrow to check her blood pressure if she wouldn’t go to the hospital. “Oh yes, oh yes doctor.” Mmm-hmmm. I’ve been around this block. An hour later, as I left the clinic exhausted, she was chattin’ it up with her neighbor. “Why aren’t you in bed?” I asked. “Oh, the walk is long…but my head is feeling so much better, thank you doctor, thank you.”

My favorite patient came at the very exhausted end-of-day when I was in task-master mode, already worrying about the trip back, feeling hungry and tired. The 3 year-old boy lay content in his mom's arm, long braids sprouting from his head and warm, dark eyes accenting his round face. I commensed in collecting information from mom while starting on my heart and lung exam. The little boy promptly sat up. I expected the normal fear and crying that my white face and touch can sometimes bring on to kids not accustomed to "blans." But instead he gave me a huge smile and leaned in for a smooch. Talk about unexpected joy breaking through exhaustion! He put a new bounce in my step as I laughed and said, "I love you too!!" The mother smiled with pleasure at her little charmer.

Beautiful people.

My day came as a welcome relief. This week in clinic, I've sunk into one of those lulls that can catch me from time to time, challening me to question what kind of good I’m really doing. I often get bored and frustrated with practicing BandAid medicine, treating gastritis and presumed anemia while bemoaning failed attack at the real issues behind the disease, unable to dive into deeper pathology and healing due to lack of patient and country resources. I'm sure I over treat the flu with chloraquin for fear of missing a potential malaria when fevers soar and patients can't afford a simple lab test. I get tired of handing out a stale set of medications when more sophisticated treatment is really indicated. But today, even though the medicine didn’t change much, even though the referrals and advice felt just as empty, today was a day where I was reminded how much I loved the people I’m working for. Today I had fun teaching, interacting, letting the charms of my patients entertain me to no end.

Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of the drive that awakened me back to the fact that I live in an incredible country full of survivors despite the odds against them. I am surrounded by rugged natural beauty and people who have a lot to teach me about perseverance, adapting to environment, and slowing down. If my time here is nothing more than getting to know some strong, amazing characters and traversing rugged terrain in the spirit of adventure, then life will be well lived.
*view from the church over the valley*

Leogane

Despite working from the same office, with the same co-workers, in the same building and seeing the same people in a day's work, Patrick and I rarely get the opportunity to see each other in action. Today I had the opportunity to see Patrick teach his Saturday class in Leogane, a small community an hour and a half drive from Port-au-Prince.

Patrick's father arrived in town last night, and so today Patrick's family fan club made a big trip to the seminary in Leogane, sporting our new shiny wheels. Solomon took his morning nap in the comfort of a car who sported the option of ALL windows down for a road-tripping breeze or all-windows up and AC to cool the ride.

The weekly trip Patrick takes traverses many communities teetering along the western coast, lining the inner curve of the country. We passed through the costal towns of Fontamara, Carrefour, Gressier, and finally arrrived in Leogane for Patrick's seminary. Along the way, we drove through urban street activity, rural cultivation and markets that bring the fruits of the country to the people of the city. A colorful display of regional produce dotted the baskets of merchants sitting along the streets, the fresh catch of the day added a fishy sent to the air, and sacks full of beans and grains were stacked between market stalls to complete the perfect Haitian dish.

After months of Creole study, Patrick is venturing out on his first semester of theology classes taught without a translator. Lesson plans are more pain-staking to prepare, but it forces new vocab into his arsenal. Today I beamed with pride at my husband, witnessing months of language practice and years of theological study coming alive in front of an eager bunch of seminary students.

Patrick has an engaging teaching style which is different from the conventional style of write-down-and-memorize-what-I-say that is implemented in many schools here. Although it took a bit of goading in the beginning, his students have quickly adapted and flourished when asked to think independently and aloud. Today's lesson covered the differences and similarities among the gospels, and what those observations might say about the authors and the time of their writing. When discussion time opened in class, the room became abuzz with students voicing their ideas about the interpretations of the bible, the wheels in their heads spinning for all to see. Ideas were well-thought, eloquently spoken, and Patrick encouraged all to take part. The room was full of energy. What I loved most of all is how much his students teased and enjoyed their teacher. When a creole word wasn't pronounced just right, a student would voice out the correct pronunciation. When another teased him about one thing, he retorted winning a class full of laughter. The atmosphere was fun, and acedemically stimulating. Just like Patrick.

On our way out of town, we stopped by an orphanage run by the sister of the director of the seminary at Leogane. Patrick works here during the week, teaching English and helping give some one-on-one attention to the kids in the under-staffed orphanage. Although run by well-meaning and hard-working women, the children of the orphanage were in dire need of medication and advanced nutrition by my first scanning glance. How many times to you see a living room full of 54 kids under the age of 7, all sitting or standing quietly? Never. Kids aren't like that. They sang a song for us, but without much gusto. I instantly saw why Patrick felt pulled to add his efforts to the care here. The kids desperately need it. They need attention, interaction, and--by my assessment--a gut full of anti-worm medication. Lots of work to do.

I enjoyed seeing where Patrick spends his Wednesdays and Saturdays, meeting the faces of the people he works with, the places where he spends his time, the situations that affect him and prompt him to bring colorful stories home at night.

GOODBYE Galloper

... hello Monty! :)

Today we joyously picked up new wheels and waved a not-too-tearful goodbye to the Galloper as she limped off into the distance.

Today we have a new (barely used) Mitsubishi Montero to blaze the rough and rugged Haitian roads. Thus I steal a beloved nic-name from a friend and dub our new fancy wheels "monty" because there is a sort of personal affection you attribute to the entity that gets you safely out and back on the roads in this country.

Her engine purrs, there are no mysterious clicks, clanks or rattles rumbling from her stomach. All windows roll down and oh-elitist-spoiled-beauty, the air conditioner feels like winter in Alaska.

She is so beautiful that we are having making a little adjustment, feeling a little more removed from life in the streets with windows rolled up and AC blazing. So if the wind is right, the sun not to sweat-soaking, we usually keep the windows down so the street kids can still wave at our familiar faces, the sounds of the street can still waft in. And now we embrace the freedom of driving without fear that something will fall off. any. time. now. :)

Thank you to all who helped donate funds for a new CONASPEH car, for a vehicle to be used for mobile medical missions and for theological seminars in partner seminaries in Leogane and Jakmel as well as for visits to CONASPEH church communities in all nooks and crannies of the country.

Thank you for our peace of mind. For our new-and-improved road safety. For Monty herself. :)