Harsh Realities Up Close

Yesterday was an taxing day.

The morning started with a mobile clinic assignment to a small little neighborhood not to far from our house. I had to weave the awkward Galloper through tiny streets, markets and around sharp turns to end up in a place I could drive no further, wedged as a street narrowed to only a foot and motorbike path. We got out with boxes of supplies in our arms and marched single file through a labyrinth of concrete, squeezing between homes and shops, walking along a water sewer line (I had to at times hold my breath the smell was so intense), past all sorts of life-in-motion until that narrow route ended at the door of the teeny tiny church we were to have clinic in. The pastor had moved all the benches to the side, and thrown up some sheets to make a division. My "consultation table" was an old fashioned school desk with a mickey mouse blanket thrown on the seat for cushion. Of course they had the consultation area tucked so deep in the church that there wasn't a chance a breath of air could make it past all the sheets and people to carry life and coolness into the morning.

We had a steady stream of patients. Although we ask for 50 gds for consultation and medications (eqiv of $1 US), we had many who couldn't pay. Miss Fano would usher through those she thought needed an exam regardless of ability to pay. Of course they were the sickest folks of the bunch. I saw a lot of severe malnutrition... something that doesn't fail to leave me disconcerted when folks are living in an active, bustling city with fresh food markets at every turn. Another woman had one whole half of her lung sounds occluded by something that prompted her to complain of "weakness." Pneumonia? TB? Cancer? Who knows... but the fact she looked as good as she did with what the exam revealed told me a lot about her strength of spirit.

We finally emerged early afternoon from the depths of the miniature church, hauling all the mobile clinic supplies back through the foot path. Passing houses, you couldn't help but see people congregated to talk, children playing with rocks, women wrapped in towels after their bath, dominos played, naps taken, and wash water dumped along the gutter that we so carefully teetered along.

I then drove to pick up Patrick, Solomon and two girls from CONASPEH to go on a hospital visit. The director of the seminary recently suffered a stroke, and has spent the last week in a hospital. We had just learned of his stroke Monday after hearing he was "sick" over the weekend. We all smooshed in the car and drove out to a catholic hospital nestled in a community on the outskirts of the city. The hospital was beautiful, well taken care of, clean, and boasted lush tropical vegetation creating an almost resort-looking atmosphere.

We found the pastor sitting in a room, face drooping, being spoon fed from his brother who was attending to him. Other family members crowded around. They family is in charge of bringing in food to the patient, attending to basic needs. The pastor, who we have known as a jovial man full of laughter, sat sadly on the bed looking forlorn. I offered him my best words of encouragement, the CONASPEH girls asked the details of what he felt, what the doctors said, and finally Patrick got him to laugh by telling him what he REALLY needs is a beautiful Haitian nurse to attend to his every need.

This afternoon I witnessed EXACTLY what Patrick does with everyone everyday: he makes smiles out of gloom, he connects with humor and genuine care. You can't measure that, you can't describe it in a job description, but it is beautiful to witness. Patrick has a way with people. And watching the pastor's face break into a half grin (battling the partial paralysis) for the first time all day was evidence.

But the visit left Patrick and I haunted. Haiti isn't a place for the old and the sick, not a place for the lame. The pastor is getting good care in the hospital, but will soon have to return home to live with his ancient and tiny mother. Rehab hospitals, intensive physical and occupational therapy aren't an option, if they exist. Not for the common man in Haiti making $2-5 a day. You could almost see the worry over what to do next on the pastor's gloomy face. Will he loose his job? A job that he seemingly loved and that kept him active in the networking of pastors and churches across the country? Will he be able to make it? Dreams of his strong, young life have hit a brick wall, and now this man, only in his mid 40's, likely is battling how he will survive long when half of his body doesn't move. I wonder this as well.

I delayed the evening's run until the very last minute due to the breathless day, the hot overhead sun and my own fatigue from being out in the elements all day. Uh. what a run. Even the leaves on the tallest trees were deathly still. Nothing moved. Nothing. Not the dog sprawled out at turn two, not the goat staring at blades of grass too tired to munch, not a single leaf. Even the children on the rooftops were quiet. A large fire burned near the track outside the walls, and the smoke hung in the air, anchored to the ground, crawling along and choking any oxygen around it. Of course it happened to sink right over half of the track. The first mile I thought I was going to throw up. I eventually sank into a limp around the track motored only by the power of will. It was not my most inspired and refreshing runs, despite the fact the sun sank from overhead and darkness fell, the cool did not come with it.

Patrick and Solomon mercifully picked me up. We stopped to refill our water bottles, and as we were crawling back into the car (myself dreaming about vats of cold icy water) Patrick saw a young boy crying in the shadows of a tree. He went over to him, and the boy told him his story through chokes and sobs. From what we could gather, his family all lived in the countryside several hours away. He had been living in the city with a woman, but she had just threw him out and he's been sleeping in the street for the last 4 days. He begged to come stay at our house; he was so frightened of another night on the street that taking a chance on the kindness of complete strangers was a gamble he was all too willing to take.

The kids on the street are a rare breed. The ones at the intersections we see on our daily commute are toughened by life, almost jovial in their pursuits for "lajan" from cars that pass by. They "earn" coins by wiping off dust from the vehicles stopped at red lights with their filthy rags, and some days they give up the guise of earning a day's pay and resort to simple begging. They are sinewy, tough, and run in packs. They smile and joke with us at our window. But the child last night had not yet been hardened by the street. Although certainly having to deal with more "adult" situations than his 10 years should allow, he still had the softness about him of being cared for. And to see him dissolve in tears was too much. But what could we do? Patrick got on the phone and called a friend of his from the orphanage to ask for advice. He knew of an orphanage we could take him to in the morning, but suggested we find a police station now to help him find a place to sleep tonight.

The boy was too willing to jump in our car. We drove him through the dark streets, handing him some cookies from the glove box and watching him wolf them down. He bravely walked with us up to the threatening police station, tears now dry. Our situation earned us a meeting with the Police Commissioner, a friendly-faced woman who clearly was running things around the office. She greeted Patrick and I like old friends, and we told her the situation as we understood it. She then had the boy tell his story. I didn't catch it all, but the police officer clearly understood. "Did she beat you?" She asked. The boy showed her evidence of bruises and cuts under his chin. The previously relaxed and jovial cop turned cloudy with anger. She had what she needed. She thanked us for intervening and told us the boy would be taken care of.

I'm sure Patrick and I came face-to-face with a restavik situation... And clearly the police woman was infuriated with such reports.

It was hard leaving that little boy in the big police station all lit up at night, full of trouble makers and threatening men in uniform. But I was reassured that the person taking charge of his care was a big, powerful woman who exhibited some preserved passion about her job. We can only hope it wasn't an act for the concerned blans. Patrick's friend from the orphanage said the police have relationships with some shelters and that the boy will eventually have a safe place to sleep. Or maybe they'll help him return to his family in the country. And maybe the woman who had the nerve to turn a 10-year -old out on the street will have to face her ugliness. I can only hope.

We got home last night physically and emotionally spent. We didn't even have enough energy to make anything for dinner. Solomon was equally as tired after entertaining all the orphanage staff for the second time this week. We gathered as a little family on the bed after baths and showers and lots of water (and milk). Solomon seemed to know Patrick and I needed a laugh. He started doing his new trick of wide-open-mouthed screeching that dissolves Patrick and I into giggles. Solomon crawled all over us, singing and screeching and giggling. He helped melt away some of the tensions and sadness from the events that had transpired over the day.

I don't cry here often... I think I try to rise to the same willful courage of the people around me. But tears have emerged a couple of times recently. The first was when I was sinking in to that special piece of heaven which is Solomon's night time routine. After baths, and books and play on the bed, I pull him into a cuddle against my body, his head resting on my shoulder, his big round brown eyes looking up at me, blinking the slow blinks of sleepiness, binky in mouth, and cooing beneath. I then sing to him until he falls asleep. I'm always amazed how few songs I know all the words too. Each night the collection is a strange mix of camp fire songs, pop music, old show choir tunes, and Christmas hymns. But a couple of nights ago, I remembered, "You are my sunshine" and sang it to his loving face looking up at me. I was in tears by "...my only sunshine." Not sure what memory is so strongly linked to that song, but it is one of pure love. I felt overwhelmed with emotion, homesickness and adoration over this little boy in my arms.

Last night tears fell when seeing another little boy, age 10, crumble into tears over the telling of his story, under the fear of another night alone at night in a big, loud city. As I held our protected and chubby little Solomon in my arms, the injustice that a child ANYWHERE has to face such fears left me equally furious and heartbroken.

People often tell us, "Solomon is such a lucky little boy." I always poo-poo it thinking, "it is US that are lucky" for all the joy he brings us. But maybe Solomon is lucky. Maybe we ALL are... all of us who aren't lost, aren't alone in the night in a strange place without a hand to hold.