By the time I arrived at CONASPEH this morning, the clinic bench was full. I'm starting to recognize faces as they come back promptly for follow-ups. The woman with unrelenting hypertension was back with eyes hopeful I wouldn't stock her purse with new fists full of pills. The young man with alcoholic hepatitis voiced concern over a new bout of stomach pain. A little girl who had suffered a nasty scalp infection showed me her new hair growing in with a toothy smile. Fresh faces introduced themselves to me through the course of a busy morning including a newly pregnant woman who hopes to get part of her prenatal care through our simple clinic.
The atmosphere of the clinic is now charged with the sounds of the CONASPEH school in full swing. Class songs, lessons chanted and the shrieks and laugher of students serve as happy background music to a clinic day. Folks from the community saunter in with their urgent and chronic issues while kids from the school wander down with headaches, tummy pains, bumps and bruises. Pastors coming in for a CONASPEH meeting greet me through the open window. My 88 year-old "VIP" patient who sees me every 2 weeks came by today just for a kiss on the cheek and a hug, calling me "petit mwen" (my child) and reminding me that she prays for me every day. Even the teenagers, who gave us a run for our money last year as they tested us for cool points, seem to be a bit more respectful and friendly (although the year is still fresh and new).
The bravery award of the day goes to my 9 year-old friend Jean. While running an errand up to one of the classrooms, I was distracted by Jean calling to me from his desk. He declared matter of factly, "I have a cut." Jean is well known to me, frequenting the clinic for a little conversation, a drive-by English lesson or a hug. I breezed in thinking it was just another call for attention, but when he uncovered a filleted palm, I gasped and dragged his scrawny legs down to the clinic for a proper inspection.
He'd cut open his palm on a broken bottle no less than a week and a half ago. After bravely sitting and allowing me clean and inspect the wound without so much as a peep, I discovered that the slowly healing laceration went all the way down to the muscle. Yet not so much as a Band-Aid had covered it all this time. The real miracle was that it didn't appear to be infected, despite lack of stitches and the exposure entailed in a little boy's life.
Patrick and I arrived home this afternoon to a jovial Silvia and her daughter. I imagine its fun for them to spend the day together after a long time of living apart. They described to us the silly things Solomon did today, gave me feedback on what they thought of my leftovers (I'm not so sure they are recommending me as chef of the year), and insisted on fixing Patrick and I a late lunch treat (maybe to show me what food is SUPPOSED to taste like?). While Silvia proudly stood by, her daughter whipped up plantains and eggs with a side salad, and topped it off with grenadine and lime juice. She laid out a place for us at the table, and served the juice in wine glasses. I felt like a guest in my own house! We shared a Haitian treat together, chatting over the yummy food at our tiny wooden table reminding me of family meals around the round table on my parent's farm.
Now the thunder clouds are rolling in this evening, showering the neighborhood with a gentle mist of rain. Patrick is off to the gym and Solomon sits with me munching a cracker and spackling his face and hair and arms and shirt and MY shirt with the shrapnel of soggy brown goo. "AHHH!" he squawks, grinning and flashing me his new exaggerated BLINK. We just finished Skyping Nana where Solomon clapped in time to her "patty cake" song. I can't help but laugh at our silly boy as I wait for the cool air that follows the rain to breeze in the window and get us settled for evening.
A good day-in-the-life. And now I wish you a good night.
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