I hate that nightmares linger long after the alarm clock goes off. I don’t remember my dream; I only remember my heart pounding in fear that accompanied my waking from sleep.
A morning cup of hot coffee did little to calm my nerves. Today was our day to head to Karfou, to work in the clinic while a group taught in a seminary nearby. My last experience there had left me completely exasperated, feeling like I had just taken part in an exercise in futility. Instead of health, I felt I had delivered false hope to people who had lined up outside the clinic waiting for hours for the doctor of the day who could offer little else than a hand on the shoulder and a smile. Communication had been painful; the translator spoke about as much English as I spoke Creole. Yet the need was great. I was expecting to walk into another powerless situation, and my morning mantra of “love first” was not breaking through the dread.
Most of the group piled into the van for Karfou. Some stayed back to teach at CONASPEH. Nestled in the back of the van, we took the bumpy, curvy, traffic-filled ride to Karfou. The route took us by some of the poorest, most desperate places in Port-Au-Prince. The cinder block neighborhood that surrounds CONASPEH looks rich in the face of the tin lean-tos and trash of the villages we passed. Waterways were clogged with garbage, the air stunk of rotting fish and smoke. People bustled about through it all, living amidst conditions that left me feeling tired and incredibly sad. Sad for the earth, heartbroken for the suffering, helpless in the vastness of need. Suddenly it all became too much. The line of patients I was about to see without any medicines or diagnostics to give them for free, the desperate situation they lived in rose up around me and choked my hope. Tears fell. Maybe it was the presence of a new little community that allowed my barriers to fall, but the pain found its way to the surface. And as arms wrapped around me in comfort, in shared witness of such conditions of life, I wept.
On some level I was embarrassed. I was supposed to be a leader in the trip, inspiring courage and hope in the face of such devastation. Instead, visitors, new friends were reaching out to comfort me. Why isn’t my courage more substantial? The injustice should empower me, should motivate me instead of making me feel weak. But its hard to look the inhumanity of some life situations in the face; its hard to see suffering spelled out in black and white. And sometimes you have to let the pain out in order to allow the courage in.
The clinic day at Karfou turned out to be a gratifying experience. My translator was a gem; he spoke beautiful English and handled the sensitivity of the questions I posed with maturity well beyond his years. His easy smile and warm spirit made all in the room feel at ease. My first patient of the day I had seen on my last visit. She came back to tell me the medicines had curried her diarrhea and stomach cramps, and that she hoped I could give her more wonderful medicines so that she could feel even stronger. I smiled. My first follow-up. I wanted to hug her.
The rest of the day chugged along smoothly. The gift of clear communication made all the difference in the world. I still couldn’t give the patients all the services they needed, but I was able to educate, to explain my thoughts, to teach about prevention and to let them understand I cared about their well being. Through a superb translator, I was able to convince a very sick pregnant woman accompanied by her husband to go directly to the hospital for diagnoses of the infection that was leaving her staggering in pain. And they went. I was able to point out the list of priorities on suggestions for work-up and treatment so that if the patient had money, they could spend it on the resource that would help them the most.
A woman came to me complaining of gas. She had a huge abdominal mass concerning for ovarian cancer. A man came complaining of a shock in his leg that started the day he got married. Headaches were explained by high blood pressures, and I felt confident enough in my ability to teach to prescribe some medications. Although I’m not sure I saved any more lives than before, at least I was able to communicate, able to love. I was able to care for people, validate their complaints, show my interest in their welfare. Even in the states, we battle with hopeless situations—having to look patients in the eye that can’t afford interventions needed to better their health. But we could be there with them, hold their hand, let them know that they weren’t alone. Today, I felt like I could be that presence. And today eyes met mine in understanding. It was a great day.
There is no substitute for good communication. Sometimes body language is all its takes. But the longer I’m here, the more I am thankful for the gift of communication. It allows us to be heard, to listen, to reach out and make connections.
We all left Karfou feeling tired. I nurtured the little butterfly of hope that I could be a loving presence in this place, even if I couldn’t change its situation.
Tonight the group came together one last time. Feedback was given on the experience. Some tears were shed, thoughts revealed, laughter shared. Members of the group reflected on meaningful moments over the last few days. One spoke of watching the children eat lunch in the school. He was surprised at how slowly the children ate each bite, as if savoring each swallow. Knowing that it could certainly be their only meal, he was taken by their restraint, their appreciation of the valuable food. Another spoke of a connection she made with a stranger without language or shared experience. She was moved by the recognition of humanity in each other. Another shared her experience during teaching. She had shared a personal story of a struggle. And the students got it, they responded, they understood. A connection happened in the classroom.
Looking around the faces of our new friends, admiring their motivation to do what they could, their willingness to open their hearts moved me. Toward the end of our sharing, Patrick and Kelly offered a prayer and a communion. Patrick offered an interpretation of communion fitting for our little gathering. He said that communion was a reminder that Jesus died because of who he chose to eat with. His death came about as a political retribution for his preaching against powers of force and oppression, discrimination and greed. He ate with tax collectors and prostitutes, lepers and foreigners in order to challenge the establishment, love unconditionally, give hope to all people. And in our communion tonight, we were reminded of Jesus’ challenge to break bread with all people, both loved and scorned, both liberated and oppressed, both rich and poor. I appreciated my husbands’ interpretation. His theology is steeped in justice, and is so pertinent when living in a place like Haiti.
The rest of the night, we toasted to hope, told jokes, and shared stores. I crawl in bed happy for this much needed fellowship with new friends that has brought renewed perspective and a fresh sense of community to our days. I’ll miss them when they leave, but am glad for the friendships we trust in, that sustain us and allow us to do our work in the spirit of love.
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