Going Home

I sit on a flight to Denver... finally. I am heading home for the first time since our departure to Haiti. I've been looking forward to this trip for so long that it seems surreal to actually be here listening to the stewardess give directions in English about emergency exits and oxygen masks.

Yesterday I awoke, and for the first time since our first few weeks in Port-au-Prince, felt anxiety. I hadn’t realized that the last months in Haiti have been essentially anxiety-free. Frustration? Yes. Exhaustion? Yes. Moments of depression? Absolutely. But no anxiety. Not since the first week of clinic and the first month of trying to navigate around the city who spoke a language we didn’t understand. Suddenly, unexpectedly, getting ready to fly back to the US brought that twist of the stomach, pounding of the heart, racing thoughts and emotion.

The anxiety wore so many faces. Separation anxiety: worry over my family's safety while I went away, worry over Patrick’s first challenge of single-parenthood with a baby and his every-three-hour feeding needs. Anxiety about heading home and my possible reaction after living all this time in Haiti. Worry about how time would be allotted to each friend, each family member--would it be enough? Would I seem changed to them? Would I want to abandon ship and stay in the US?

I have been worried about and anticipating the dreaded phenomena of reverse culture shock. Yet on my first trip home after nearly 5 months in Haiti, I won’t have time for it. Too many people to see, too many places to go. In order to try to de-escalate the emotions that come from a drastic change of scenery and lifestyle, I’ve worked on visualizing life in America. In my mind's eye, I've taken drives down the highway, have walked the isles of Target, played in the park with my dogs, had conversations about houses and cars, new hairstyles and the latest reality TV shows. I worked on remembering all the details of what a day in the life in America looked, smelled and felt like so they wouldn’t suddenly shock me after being away for a while.

This trip is the first time I’ve been away from Patrick in 5 months. What a turn-around we’ve done! Our lives in America had no such regularity of face-time, no such dependency on each other during a daily routine. I was constantly on call or we were taking separate trips due to our very different schedules. Add to all this a goodbye to Solomon after a heart-swelling week of falling deeply in love with him and thus sets the tone behind my anxiety as we drove to the airport yesterday.

I remember the US being easy, functional, and punctual. With every blunder that happens in Haiti, Patrick and I often turn and say, "in the US we could do this in 15 minutes." Funny how quickly we forget how imperfect situations happen even in a country whose language you understand, whose systems are familiar, whose culture is your own. On re-entry, when my plane was 2 hours late leaving Port-au-Prince, I missed my connecting flight to Denver. My bags were in limbo, I had to give away my gifts purchased from duty-free because of bomb risk, and I couldn’t find a phone. My Haitian cell phone didn’t work, and the quest to find a pay phone was like a hunt for a new model T. Communication is one modern convenience Patrick and I haven’t had to give up in Haiti, and in sudden lack of it, I was shaken. There I was, in the Miami airport feeling cut off, scattered, disappointed and alone; the challenge just to call someone broke my composure. The anxiety of the day melted into the exhaustion and disappointment of the turn in events, and all got the better of my sense of humor. I was the girl walking through the airport with tear-stained cheeks. And honestly, I think the experience helped balance all the beautiful, organized, structured, plentiful things about the country around me.

The airlines flew me to Chicago in efforts to get me home faster. Despite promises, my bags didn’t follow. At 1 am, I stood outside the airport bag-less, tired, shivering in my flip-flops in the cold night air waiting for the hotel shuttle. The cavernous Chicago airport was virtually empty at 1am; such an odd experience in comparison to the hot, crowded Haitian streets. I had considered sleeping the short 5 hours in the airport but knew a bed and a shower would likely benefit the kick-off to vacation in Denver. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a hotel more. The bed was a cloud, the warm shower with excessive water renewing. Carpet seemed the stuff for kings. After being cold on arrival to the windy city, the hotel was a warm, comfortable, welcoming oasis.

Now in the air, after a short but luxurious night's sleep, I am finally back on track. My perspective has returned and despite the break down yesterday, I’m glad for what it taught me.

My first experiences back State-side have not been as shocking as I feared. Maybe meditation has helped to dissipate the shock. Instead, I have been happily surprised at re-discoveries. I had forgotten how many lights light up our cities in the night. Flying over Chicago last night looking at an earth covered with tiny lights was awe-inspiring. I had fogotten how clean and sterile the air smells. I have delighted in how helpful people have been, everyone from the shuttle driver to the airport security guard who patted me on the back during my late-night melt down. On the shuttle this morning, the neighborhoods we passed seemed so tidy, so put together. This morning, sitting in the waiting room waiting to board the flight, the seats around me were filled with a room full of fellow travelers. However none of them talked to each other; each person was deeply tucked into to their solitary world and were texting, talking on the phone, working on the computer, reading. Everyone was plugged in. So many people in one space, yet interactions weren’t happening with the faces of neighbors, but with people in places far away with their own phones, receiving their own texts, at the other end of the e-mail. It was strange to be in a room full of people and experience a sense of solitude, to hear a shushed air. I have become accustomed to being in public and being engaged in conversation. In Port-au-Prince, we can’t even drive down the street without greeting many of the street vendors and street children who’ve now become familiar. In fact, our home is our refuge because it is the one place quiet dominates. I’ve gotten used to the community banter. And the odd silence in a room full of people struck me as strange.

In this moment, I sit in the quiet airplane, now an observer of my own culture. I revel in the beauty and the strangeness of it all rediscovered, refraining from judgment, but taking note of differences, of blessings and shortcomings, taking stock in each moment. Life will likely fly by in a blur of activity with family and friends, reunions, and laughter in the next stretch of days. I intend to take note of every moment, soak in every hug, and embark on a new experience of a long-familiar place. Home.