Monday, September 4, 2017

This One's For Me

This One’s For Me

This trip was for me. I was so excited to take a trip and spend some time in total solitude and relaxation along with much exploratory adventure and readying for the changing of gears.

As many of you know, I love to travel. I feel more at home being dropped in a foreign country alone and without direction where I don’t speak the language. I am most comfortable in the unknown. And although I don’t particularly like writing, something about travel pulls it out of me. I can’t help but think strange, little, poetic lines. Many of you have followed along as I tend to post them on Facebook and my blog as I go along. I use it as a way to keep track of pictures, memories, and impressions. But, I realize that Facebook is a public post and any one can see but I don’t store my memories for them. Certainly my posts become more personal while traveling because I don’t necessarily think about who or if someone is reading; I just document it. And while I don’t mind at all if people follow along, it’s amazing how many people get vehemently offended when I have a bad day or post something they deem unworthy “me” or something that ruins their idea of what I should be feeling in their vicarious adventure. I realize it’s more of a virtual, fictionalized version of me, that’s been created in their minds, but it still surprises me how “un-me” they accuse me of being.

I once remember complaining about a bad haircut on Facebook and getting more than one message/comment about it: something along the time lines of, “How dare you, after all that you’ve seen?” Or “You’ve been so many places and seen so much it’s maddening that you can be so shallow”. Well, guess what. I’m a girl, and I get sad when I get a bad haircut (especially when you consider I probably get one or two haircuts a year). And yes, I realize it’s not the end of the world and I realize there are much worse problems-I realize more than those posting those comments do. I remember thinking: How silly to think that I would be devoid of all personal feeling because I have seen more than many? Let me tell you something, girls in the places I’ve visited, even the poorest and most distressed, also still get bummed about bad haircuts. And I am no saint.

Anyway, you get the point.

I have a pretty big change coming up in my life in a few weeks. A big change that is full of a lot of encompassing little changes. After about 10 years of nursing-about 7 of that as a traveling nurse, which afforded me a lot of free time and income, I have accepted a permanent job. I will be changing specialties, working in a completely unknown department (the Emergency Department). Not only will this cost me extended lengths of as much time of as I desire, it is also in one of the lowest paying states for nurses, like embarrassingly low. Like I’m going to be really poor. But it will hopefully help me get to where I want to go. And I’m pretty excited about it. Not the being poor part though.

When my contract got unexpectedly, but thankfully, short I didn’t want to waste the month gap I had before starting my permanent job. Knowing that such extended amounts of time would not be possible with my new job, I decided that even though I couldn’t go for months at time, like I had hoped, and the medical volunteer opportunities I had set up fell through, I was going to go to India. I have wanted to go to India for a very long time but something else always came up. So I bought a plane ticket and jumped at the longest stretch of time I’d have off and headed off to my white whale.

But if I’m honest, India isn’t quite what I thought and it’s a lot more expensive here that I realized, food and lodging is cheap enough but most of what I want to do and see is both outrageously priced (relative to other developing countries) and not an option at the time of year I am here. It’s quite disappointing. I’m sure I’ll get lectures about “at least you’re there” and “it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity” crap (In fact, I already have). This trip is for me; and if I’m honest I feel a bit like I’m just killing time and I find myself more anxious to just get started on the things I’m excited about that will come with this next chapter.

I guess that’s how I know I’m ready for this next chapter because even as I sit here typing this, listening to cheesy Michael Bolton playing over the pretend western restaurant at my super lux, super expensive, so-not-worth-it hotel, I am looking out of what is likely some of the most beautiful landscape in the world, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. That enjoyment was finally able to come after trying to force myself to enjoy the sunset when I wasn’t in a calm, sit and watch the sunset mood. I was antsy and just wanted to start studying ED protocol and find a gym near my new place and I wanted to start running again was near impossible to sit and pretend to be super chill and into it-like I usually am. Then I reminded myself that this is my trip and it is for me. And even if it isn’t going the way I had hoped and I’m not in same spirit I usually am in while traveling, it is for me. And I am not perfect. I cry over bad haircuts fully understanding that it is a very small problem to have. And this trip is not for those living vicariously through me on Facebook fantasizing about how romantic and adventurous my life is and falsely imagining me as a benevolent and perfectly charitable person. And tonight I am going to have a “chocolate lava cake,” which likely tastes nothing like I expect it to, for dinner because as good as Indian food is, I don’t want it right now.  (I’ve had it for every mean for a week straight.) And forcing myself or pretending to enjoy it, isn’t going to make that feeling real.

I enjoy a lot of sunsets. I love being outside, I love sunsets, I love making the most of every moment. I try to make the most of what I’ve been given. But I’ll let you in on a secret, sometimes I skip the sunset and watch tv. All day. So here’s to finally enjoying the sunset and my fake chocolate cake and to enjoying my time in India, even if it is spent looking up stuff I want to know and learn for the next chapter.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Syrian Refugees in Jordan

Thank you for your donation.
    It went directly to the refugee camps in Jordan. These camps are full of God’s children who need to be reminded that they are loved and that there are those out there, like you, who remember them and love them and are willing to make sacrifices in your own lives to improve theirs.  Generally when people ask if they can give me money I try to use it on a specific person and hand deliver it.  Such as the set up of the camps and the extensive amount of travel time and limited resources in the area I was not able to hand things out personally as I usually do.  I am happy to let you know that if you donated goods (like underwear, scarves, or baby carriers) then I was able to distribute these to people either through social workers, or by sliding them into the pockets, scarves or secret handshakes with those that seemed in most need of them.  We often took two to three people into our little closet triage room where they were separated from the masses.  This is where I did most of the subtle distribution of goods ;).
    If you donated cash, whereas there were a million things I could have tried to procure and distribute, there was very little time and very little resources available to me due to travel time and work in the camps. The biggest need we found was medications for those with chronic conditions like high blood pressure, diabetes, and even those who had received transplants (kidney and heart) prior to having to flee. As a group, we pooled our money with SAMS and these connections to supply these medications to the people.  There were pharmacists in our group originally from Jordan and Syria who had family member who worked in distribution. I know this is likely slightly different than how you thought your money might be spent but through these connections we able to get medications at a very good price and supply these people with 3 months worth of medications. If you are unhappy about how your money was spent, I am happy to reimburse you out of my own pocket.
    The Lord is performing miracles and granting kindnesses to people all over the world and He allows us to be a part of it, if we want to be. And let me tell you, we will be witnesses to immense miracles if we look for them, even in the worst of circumstances.

It is difficult to write something like simply because of the magnitude of it. I wish I could tell each person’s story because surely each person’s story deserves to be told. Because of the language barrier and massive amount of people that needed to be seen I know very few details of each person’s story but I can also tell you that there are miracles taking place and that there are incomprehensibly good people working hard to alleviate suffering. Meeting, getting to know, and working along side these people reminds me that despite how much evil and consequent suffering there is in this world, that there is still light. That there is still good. It is quieter than the evil, but it is stronger, and it is changing lives.

One such miracle occurred in the last minute arrival of two unexpected donors. A company entitled, Medtronics that makes medical supplies and LDS charities. Somehow these donors quietly got connected to SAMS (Syrian American Medical Society-the group I went with). I do not know the details of how Medtronics became involved but I do know that of LDS charities. It seems quite happenstance but the results of their last minute involvement changed everything.

I happen to belong to the LDS church (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) but I did not have any affiliation with the church for this particular project, but recognized another “Mormon” when I saw one.  On night one of our arrival in Jordan (where we would be visiting the Al Za’atari Syrian refugee camp) I walked in to our first official meeting and saw two people who I had a suspicion were also LDS. As the meeting went on they were introduced and spoke a few words. They told of how just a week (or two??) before they had seen the local Jordanian office for SAMS and had decided to stop in. The organizer and chair of our group, Majd Isreb, was in Jordan for just one day and was in the office that day. It turns out these two LDS persons were service missionaries. Their primary responsibility is to seek out those in need and to evaluate what needs to be done and determine if the church can help. The missionaries recognized the amount of good SAMS was doing and asked how they could help. With the donation of heart stents supplied by Medtronics and miraculous assembling of an instant cardiac team of physicians the only thing left was lots of money. The LDS missionaries asked SAMS to draft a proposal, which was submitted and approved in a matter of days.

You guys, paperwork doesn’t go through that fast. It did. The money came through and while my  team was in Jordan, over 100 life-saving heart surgeries were performed for refugees. Over 100!

Generally, if people ask if they can send money to me I think of it as me being an on ground proxy for them.  Basically, it is them doing the good, I am just the messenger. I use it kind of in a nickel and dime sort of way to provide for needs I see along the way on a very small, individual scale basis. This time, because of the last minute miracle of heart surgeries and overload of work we were doing within the camp itself, as well as the difficulty of obtaining and more extreme difficulty of distributing goods, I wasn’t able to do that exactly.

As the group would meet and discuss what was going on and what was needed we found ourselves with more needs created by the miracle of being able to perform so many heart surgeries. You may or may not know that basically any heart surgery requires one to be on life long medications. SAMS, not wanting to be irresponsible or short-sighted in their care (a major thing I respect about this organization) knew that these people would need follow up care and medications. One of the volunteers-and a great force for good-was a physician who had come to volunteer with SAMS. She is originally from Jordan and has family there. One family member in particular who was a pharmacist and could get medications at a wholesale price. I took all of the money I received and donated it to SAMS in order to provide these medications and other long term medications needed to keep people safe and insure they got real, proper care. I hope that you feel as ecstatic about how long-reaching and real the affects of your charity will go with how I used it. Given the circumstances, I knew that in this case, SAMS and its volunteers and connections, in this particular case could do more with it than I could on my lonesome this time. Although I plan to continue to do as much as I can within my small sphere of influence, I feel that God took my small sphere and combined with just the right people at the right time and magnified both mine and your contributions to make it have much more far-reaching effects than I could have on my own in this instance. And I am grateful to Him for it.

If for any reason you are unsatisfied with how this money was spent, please let me know and I will pay you out of my own pocket to reimburse your gift.

Other places where you money/donations went

Because of the conditions and number of patients we were seeing this wasn’t possible. I had no time to discuss much of anything other than main medical complaints and their vital signs.  Unfortunately, the camp life culture and scarcity of supplies has made it difficult to help.

Two places where items were given away.

We quickly learned that we couldn’t give anything out to children, particularly young children because they would flaunt what they had been given and get hurt (sometimes badly) and have it taken from them.  We would be overwhelmingly swarmed by children wanting something too, (which also often resulted in children being hurt).  It came down to either having to hand things out to people who happened to be carrying a bag or large pockets that day that had extra room we could slip things into and that we felt off intuition could be discreet. I would estimate that approximately 2/3 of the items donated were distributed through the psych-social program set up by SAMs.
After spending my first day with this program I felt very comfortable allowing this.  The program is set up very much like a referral visiting teaching program. (For those of you unfamiliar with this idea it is a program implemented by the LDS church. Members of the church go and visit each other to offer support, friendship and resources when needed.)  Because 80% of Syrian refugees living in Jordan actually live outside the camps along side of the Jordanians, there are massive needs there that also go unnoticed. Those volunteering for, or employed by, the SAMs outreach clinic will visit Syrians they know about and ask them if they know of any refugees.  They will also ask Jordanians on the streets if they know of any Syrians living in the area.  It felt quite a bit like “tracting” or knocking doors, as missionaries often do. I was impressed with the great amount of effort put into finding and helping refugees.  Because they do house visits and professional needs assessments and because of the difficulty of distributing in the camps, I felt more than comfortable sending a lot of your physical items donated with those doing the outreach within cities. They could distribute to those most in need. The other 1/3 were handed out by myself and other people I worked with within the small clinic inside the camp.

I spent my time at camp Al Zaatari, which is the biggest camp.  In fact, it has now become the fourth largest populated “city” in all of Jordan-even though it is not even technically a city-or a permanent residence. But other volunteers found the items useful and also took some items to various camps they were working in to hand out when needed.

Scarves.  They scarves were beautiful.  Thank you Saratoga stake. I am not a scarf connoisseur, but one of the muslim women volunteering along side of me mentioned that they were all very high quality, exceptionally beautiful scarves.  I commend you on your taste and generosity ;). I gave these out mostly to young women that I felt likely had a desire to feel more beautiful and fashionable in such gloomy circumstances.  I also found one girl, who was clearly new to wearing a hijab. (Hijab: the scarves worn over their heads for modesty.  The hair is covered because it is thought to be one of a woman’s most beautiful features.  Girls begin wearing the hijab once their menstrual cycle begins-many choose to start wearing it around age 10-12 at the beginning of the new year so as not to be embarrassed by the obvious announcing of receiving a first period with the sudden appearance of the hijab right after.) I thought it was unlikely this 12-ish old girl had a wide variety and I hope it made her feel special and beautiful.  I have to tell you, she was sweetly humble and very excited to receive it.  Both because she was chosen out of everyone to receive a gift, but most especially because I could tell she actually loved the gift itself. I gave her two :).

Underwear/hygiene products:  These items were handed out through the psych/social program set up by the group I went with and by myself and fellow volunteers in the camps themselves.  We were limited to being able to give them out to those we were felt could be discreet and were lucky enough to be carrying bags that had extra space that we could slip things into. 

Soccer Balls/Frisbees.
I somehow ended up with two hidden away in my luggage. (Guess that means I’ll have to go back.)

I also really like to provide pictures, but partly due to religious reasons, and partly because I am sure people want to maintain their dignity and do not want to look helpless and thirdly for security reasons.  If their picture were to surface they may be located and targeted, or more painfully, their families who have either not been able to escape or who have chosen to stay in Syria could be punished.

the kids. oh the kids.
Hug line.

As I mentioned before it was difficult to give anything to the children. It was also difficult to really play any games with them that included an item. From soccer balls being stolen so that no one can play with them, to frisbees being thrown on roofs to ruin the game. Even handing out stickers turned to chaos and resulted in injuries. The smallest gesture of drawing funny faces on hands with a pen even became troublesome. It hurt me so much to see all of this.  I know they all want these things-along with attention, but I could not reconcile doing something the resulted in children getting hurt or abused. Lines didn’t work. In fact, they seemed to make things worse.  The bullies would just off to the side and beat up (not slightly) and take from the kids who had waited in line to receive whatever it was we were trying to gift.  All the kids new and understood the idea of a line but with the bullies and the pushing and the fights breaking out in the lines, it wasn’t working. I thought (even prayed) about what I could do and give to these kids that would not cause them to get hurt or have a game ruined seconds into it.  Hugs. They need hugs. They can’t be stolen, taken, or ruined. I swear to you, the strangest thing happened.  I know it sounds almost too cheesy to be true, but after the very first hug or two that was given out the best line you have seen formed.  There was minimal pushing and shoving, and the bit that was done did not have the same violence that seemed to occur in the other lines we had tried to establish. I gave the absolute best hugs I could give. Nice and tight and long and full of laughter. The kids would get their hug and then immediately jump right back in line for another one over and over again. One boy in particular, determined to keep a scowl on his face came back more than anyone else. He would get to the front of the line and stare me down, a bit like a dare. I would stare right back and squeeze him till the edges of his mouth cracked. After several hugs or this little guy (probably about seven years old) the stare down lasted longer than usual and his smile was trying to break through even before I hugged him. I waited. He tried to fight the creeping smile. When I waited before hugging him he started nudging me. His arms were folded. Always. He couldn't bring himself to unfold them so he would basically do a little body slam/nudge with his arms all wrapped up. He bumped into me repeated, the anticipation pulling at the corners of his mouth until the best hug I could muster wrapped around him and he'd stay there, glowing, trying to not to smile, arms folded. Then, to the back of the line again to wait his turn for another hug. It might been the most productive hour of my life to date. Remember, over half of people living in refugee camps are children. Many of them are unaccompanied, meaning they have no parents.  Some of them are known to have been killed, some are separated from them still living in Syrian or other places, and for some, we just don’t know. The other thing to remember that even the children who have parents, may not have parents who are able to fully devote themselves to their children.  These people have seen terrible things, witnessed horrific offenses and experienced crushing loss.  As a result, many have PTSD, are depressed, and have a myriad of other issues they are dealing with.  Unfortunately, what sometimes happens is that they are not able to function as they would like as parents. At best the children are left to fend for themselves because of the depression of the parent.  There are other extremes you can  imagine that include violence, abuse and impatience with the children.

Perhaps one of the most difficult things for me to see was the desire so many had to contribute, to help, to be productive. Syrians in general tend to be very well educated. The camps are full of people who are used to living very meaningful, productive lives, and in order to stay alive, they are now sitting in boxes in the middle of the desert with nothing to do. They want to move on, they want to cope and survive and overcome but with nothing to do but literally sit. and wait. and sit some more. they are fighting hard to hold on to sense of self and dignity. Seeing people come through the clinic who were once very self-sufficient and who are longing to help themselves and their people and now being forced to live like beggars is hard to watch.
After seeing so much of this, one man in particular that came through the clinic broke me. He came into our little triage area (a 4 foot by foot room that we were shove 6 people into at a time to take histories on before sending them to the doctors). I don’t even remember what his medical complaint was, for some reason I don’t think he had anything serious.  As I was taking his vital signs he said in perfect English, “Let me help you.”

“I am a literature professor. I can help. I can translate, I speak perfect English. I can speak to the people. I can help you understand each other.” He tried so hard to keep himself poised so as not to sound like he was begging. It took everything he had to present himself clearly and professionally. I can’t quite accurately describe what it is like to see a man, who truly does and wants to have so much to give, do all he can to hold on to his dignity and identity, grasping at any situation to find a purpose and something to take his mind off of the horrors he’s seen and experience. (I am sobbing as I write this-as I have done so many times before while trying to write this. This story alone is what perhaps has taken me so long to be able get this out to you-it’s difficult to relive...and to see through tears enough to get this out.)

The truth of it is. He could have been very useful to us. We needed translators, perhaps more than anything. But because of the organization and the difficulty of keeping order in an impromptu, what was supposed to be temporary housing for a few, that has turned into 100,000+ people the camp is very strict about who helps in the clinics (they came by and checked out credentials from time to time).  They have their own local staff that we have to work with on their terms, by their rules.  We weren’t allowed to let this man help. Watching hope for a purpose drain from his eyes as we told him he couldn’t help broke me. Broke me in places so deep I feel the broken pieces every day. Now I sounded like I was begging as I told this man that we do need him. He would be useful and I wish we could use him. I frantically searched and asked those around me what could be done, how can this man with so much to give not be allowed to help us in our (and his) time of need. I tried to convey to him...everything: that I saw him. that I understood him. That I had so much respect for him and his fight to persevere.  I don’t know that I conveyed anything other than a helpless girl that was of less use in the camp than he could have been. The only difference being that I didn’t live there, I’m not trapped. And I happen to have a passport from a different country. As he walked out, with a little more of the light he’d been fighting to hold on to draining from his eyes, I broke down and sobbed-much like I’m doing now. The only other nurse on the trip, Barbara-who had been many times, simply closed the door to the triage room and let me cry.  When I finally managed to put myself back together, we opened the door to the triage room and went back to work. The man was already lost in the crowd. It’s not right. It’s not fair. And I will do anything I can to make sure that these people are seen and fought for.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Day 2 Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

It’s amazing how good I feel here.  How different I am.  How much  At least I hope this is the real me.  I’m much more calm, confident, kind, humble.  I know this is all starting to sound very yogi of me, which believe me after taking a beginner’s yoga class today it again proves that I’m not.  But I am much more myself. 

I got up and went for a run this morning.  I credit the jet lag for allowing me to be up early enough to go before the sun got too warm.  Aside from being confronted with still being out of shape (although, I’m getting there), it was a great run.  Gusti, the owner of the guest house showed me a few runs to try out that would be quieter and with much less traffic.  It was perfect. 

I guess now that I think about it was a mind, body, spirt, kind of day, which I guess are the main components of a human and where all this need for nourishment and  “balance” among them comes from. 

After my run I came home to Pratama House (I lucked out here with it being kind of tucked out of the way from the hustle and bustle in a quiet little neighborhood really just 5 minutes from the business but worlds apart), I came home and read about Christ teaching the Samaritan women about the well the difference between needing water (body) that you need to drink but will always need again and the living water (spirit) that comes from Jesus Christ and his teachings.  These teachings, when applied, transcend the physical need for thirst and are everlasting.  After that I did a lot of homework (mind)-very uninteresting stuff at the moment.  I’m actually a little concerned, okay a lot,  about one of the professors being able to understand how places outside of the USA function and how the things I teach here might need to be addressed differently than if I were to teach people working in the US system about healthcare.

After a grueling morning of homework, I rented a scooter and became all too comfortable weaving in and out of traffic.  I went to a yoga class at a way too trendy and overpriced studio.  However, the class itself was good and the best part was that as you face the front of the studio, it looks out over a small stream and lush, wild greenery.  The whole front of the studio is glass with floor to ceiling windows that open.  The minute class started the sky tore open and a huge storm broke loose.  The rain was so loud we could barely hear the instructor speaking.  It went on the whole time. It was suuuuuuper cool. 

I drove around for hours and finally was able to recognize my street.  At first I wasn’t sure if I was recognizing my turn off or just other streets I’d been lost on before.  Either way I was happy on my little scooter and felt pretty cool, although I likely didn’t go about 25 mph all day :).

I’m hoping to drive the hour or so to Kuta, the island town where the LDS church branch is located for services tomorrow.  I’ll have to ask Gusti what he thinks of the drive as some of the areas he says police wait for, I forget the word for white people-but for white people-and pull them over forcing ridiculous bribes from them.  I may have to find an alternate way of getting there if it isn’t too expensive.  I would love the ride though, plus then I could check out Kuta to see if want to spend any real time down there.

I have my little room and most excellent porch at Pratama house for the next two weeks, then I have a flight to Malaysia that I had to buy to prove to immigration that I would eventually leave, that I may take, or I may just wait another 2 weeks until I’m required to leave to renew my visa.  I bought that one because it was half the price of the others ($40-ish dollars) and I could change it if necessary when I get here or if I decide to go somewhere else for a while I could do that too.

the evening is coming to close and I’m going to take yet another shower to wash away the sweat of the day and then likely sip some herbal tea on my porch without the usual anxiousness and telling myself to unwind like I’ve had to do lately when back in the US, which only leads to more anxiousness and need for distraction.  It’s taking some time but after only two days here I feel much more okay with just...being, and not having to be entertained or productive.  It’s amazing actually how much more productive and entertained I am when I’m not forcing myself to be.

Friday, April 10, 2015

On the road again....well, a ship anyway

On the bright side, the ocean IS lovely. I’ve seen schools of flying fish soaring over the waves for longer distances than you might think possible. At times I thought they must have been birds to go so far and for so long out of the water, but they are not. They are just really cool creatures doing what God created them to do.

I’m happy to report that I have excellent sea legs and tend to really miss the sway of the boat when we are docked or moving slowly in calmer waters and it can’t be felt. I am also grateful for my strong digestive system that seems to be doing just fine with the what-you-might-imagine-military-food-is-like food. Although it is neither tasty nor with much variety, it is sufficient and all part of the experience.

It is very warm, especially the higher up you go in the ship. The berths where our racks  (the living quarters and beds) lie at the very bottom of the ship are cool at the beginning of the evening and even during they day but seem to heat up as it fills with 100 or so bodies sleeping at night to the point the warmth wakes me up and it makes it difficult to sleep. 

The mess deck or galley (cafeteria) is stifling quite often. Specifically in the lines, they try to keep air moving, if not cool air, through out the tabled area where we eat. Back in the kitchen I hear it reached over 100 degrees which is why we have been using paper plates and utensils the past few days because it was too warm to add the heat from the dishwashers to it. I feel for the guys who work in the kitchen, if I’m overly warm while eating they must be dying standing over the warming plates of re-heated food. They still tend to be friendly and willing to serve (even if by force). I try to be extra nice to them. I would jump ship if I had to be in there all day.

There are a few air-conditioned areas that feel like a dream and a first breath every time I hit them. Oddly, sadly, the gym-of all places, is not one them. Not so much as a fan in that room. It’s a small, square room with three rows of equipment. And it’s very loud. I have to take a few breaths to try to regulate my breathing with the thick, sweltering air in there before I step in all the way when I go. But alas, I’m glad it’s there.

It is 82 steps from the berth to the mess deck. That’s from the bottom of the ship to the top. And although one must travel this route several times a day, one must also travel to decks in between to get from one end of the boat to the other as well. For example. I work on a deck just two decks (or floors) above the berthing. However, I must walk up three or four (I can’t quite remember and when you walk them so many times it hardly matters whether it’s three or four) and then across to go down another stairwell to get to the deck I work on. Basically, the decks don’t connect all the way through from one end of the ship to other, only on certain floors, which you must first get to to travel horizontally and then find the corresponding, color-coded stairwell the reaches to the vertical direction (up or down) that you’re going to. I walk a lot, at least half of those steps-probably much more than half-are on stairs. I hope to have a perfectly, perky bum by the time I’m finished here. It’s also great rehab for my ankle. I’m hoping my gimpy fin (my atrophied calf on the previously-bad ankle side) gets sufficient rehabilitation to balance out with it’s stronger counterpart on my other leg.

With all these details, and having been on the ship for twelve days already I am very ready for patients to finally start arriving today. I'll post what I can when I'm able. Thank you to everyone who has given support and words of encouragement. Can't wait until I am more interesting things to tell you.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

An Honest-unedited-post: to serve or not to serve?

This post is just streaming as it comes. It's not written for an audience and no thought is given as to how it will come across. It's an attempt to voice a few worries to the universe and clear my head before bed.

Last time I embarked on a journey to provide all that I could in a humanitarian effort, I was met with a lot of miracles and a lot of opportunities to serve. I was blessed (if one can use those words) in the wake of a disaster, to be put in a place where I could make a difference.

I was also met with a lot hurt and had no way to grieve. I’m sure that I appeared very cold (which is not uncommon for me to come across as I’m told, and can understand the misinterpretation) and, unfortunately maybe it even feels like I’m a little annoyed or angry to those around me.

As I’m again considering donating a significant amount of time (and money in the form of lost income and a few recurring bills that will continue while I’m gone), I find myself most conflicted over not wanting to come across this way again-as I’m sure it is confusing and hurtful to my counterparts and those I’m hoping to aide.

When the storm hit The Philippines last November I got there as soon as I could and did everything I could, to help as much as I could while there. My first sight of the destruction made me numb. Moments later it became so painful it hurt to breathe. Without an appropriate outlet, and using all my emotional resources to maintain my composure my interpersonal skills were left lacking. In my attempt to not show how broken my heart was I simply went to work. Avoiding getting to close to the people because I couldn’t bare to hear another story of loss and heart break, I poured myself into the little clinic we had built working as many hours as I could, seeing as many people as I could, helping as many people as I could....without getting too attached.

I’m sure there was more than one person I could have confided in while there, but I’m not really a talker and at the time my ankle was still so messed up that I couldn’t run it out (actually I was in a decent amount of pain/discomfort while I was there the entire time...later diagnosed as the funky autoimmune disorder that was also attacking all the connective tissue in my body, specifically my ankle and foot; my entire body was swollen, sore and tight for weeks. I found out when I got home that I had three ligaments that were completely ruptured, something that was also aggravated while working there). I wanted to just be alone and have an ugly, shameless, therapeutic cry.  We were working quite a bit, and living in a chapel with several wonderful people who had lost their homes, and and friends. Plus is was not safe. There simply wasn’t a moment for solace, let alone space enough to be had in our close quarters, that would enable my release of emotions. I tried a few times to find some space and some quiet, only to be met by the smiling playfulness of children who wanted to make sure I had company :).

On top of that, it seems a little odd to be the one crying over a devastated country filled with millions of individual stories attached to millions of individual lives that were torn apart, when those who were devastated are smiling and doing all they can to ensure my comfort, happiness and inclusion.

It’s like at work, some times I start to get teary-eyed and more emotional than my incredibly strong, coping, dying patients. Or that time I felt awful for crying at a friend's father's funeral when my friend did not cry. It’s kind of rule, you can’t cry or be more than person who’s actual problem it is.  

I worry that by going, despite my good intentions, my coldness may be counterproductive to my desire to bring love, light, and blessings to the lives of these people. And it gets in my way of being able to be a witness to such beautiful moments as I spend my time oppositionally guarded and hurting.

I promise you that many of these people, even with heartache, deformity, and injury are genuinely happier than you and me (generally speaking as a population, concerning satisfaction with life).

It reminds me of a sudden, startling moment of intense jealousy I felt while visiting Cambodia. While looking out my air-conditioned bus window, I saw a man working peacefully, joyfully, late into the evening. I wanted to be out there working. I wanted to be doing something necessary and rewarding. His life mattered, what he spent his time doing mattered.

The people in these places have smiles that are big from the inside out. I know that I will find the same thing if I were to go on this next adventure.

If I’m honest, (hoping this doesn’t sound too self-deprecating or like a self-esteem crisis), I worry about subjecting others to my close-mouthed emotions that when they do spill over, come out all wrong.

And, I guiltily worry about what I had planned to accomplish before this opportunity came up. I was planning on going to school this whole year. Hmm, go to school or change someone's life?

I am more than happy and excited to help. This opportunity would be huge. But I tend to be more realistic about situations the most. And the reality is, I like my alone time. It’s how I cope. It’s how I release. And I like space, and autonomy.

This would be six months. On a boat. In close quarters. No alone time. Lots of rules. Hmm. Rules. Yeah.....I think we just found the biggest problem of all right there.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Update from Sikatuna Ward (Cebu City, Philippines)

I got this message not too long ago from one of my first friend’s in The Philippines.
When I arrived in The Philippines, a friend who served an LDS mission there arranged for a local LDS church member to pick me up from my hotel (as mentioned in my earlier post, her name was Doris). She took me to the Sikatuna Mormon chapel in Cebu City, where the refugees who were lucky enough to get off the island of Leyte (where typhoon Yolanda hit hardest), --some of which waited in line for 5 days without food after having walked several days to find any help and to eventually get in line--were being housed. This is where I spent my first few days in The Philippines. When I got to the chapel they had a Filipina nurse who had spent long, long days there caring for the refugees. She was nine months pregnant and happy to give me a quick run down of how things were going and headed home to take a nap. She later came back that night to sleep on the floor next to me so I wouldn’t be alone. (Although I am plenty used to being alone and may have been more comfortable that way because I can’t handle the sweetness of such gestures without getting teary.)

Her message is as follows:

We're good. All the survivors went back to their homes except for 2 families which we adopted. The one with the wheel chair's family and the one who lost his family is with us. They are our adopted families.

I would like to ask: Where can we find the organic rice that you brought because there is none here and we need it.

I remember the story of every single person she is talking about. I remember their kindness and strength in the midst of their greatest sorrow.

The “one with the wheelchair was a woman in her 70’s who had been paralyzed for (I think) 13 ish years. Somehow, out of all the people who survived this awful storm, she and her 7 year old grandson made it through. This is the woman whom I bought a camping sleeping pad to sleep on with the $15 my friend Jobetta Hedelman sent me (even the littlest bit changes/saves lives y’all), because she was getting bed sores from being wet for so many days and from sleeping on the hard tile floor of the chapel.

Their story of survival is not all glorious and is not over yet. They, of course, lost many friends and family in the storm. And after the frightful hours and hours of horrendous flooding and 300 mile an hour winds, they emerged only to witness horrible looting and violence. The seven year old boy, watched a gunman kill several people shortly after stepping out in the world after the storm. He hadn’t spoken since. And I never saw him smile. He was numb. I don’t think it was the storm that broke his heart, I think it was seeing how ugly people can be even after the miracle of living through a storm like that. I’m glad to hear they have been adopted. I hope and pray that now being “adopted” by the saints of Sikatuna he can feel hope and peace again. If anyone can heal someone with love it is the wonderful Filipino people, specifically the enormous love generously given by the people who cared for these refugees in Cebu.

The other man, the one “who lost his family”. Was a very new father. A sweet, sweet gentle, now very quiet man, who still managed to smile and thank us every time he saw us. He was running from the storm carrying his three month old baby when it was swept from his arms by the ugly forces of typhoon Yolanda. He also relates the story of watching his wife get carried off in a giant wave created by the torrential rains and combining winds while running next to him. I’m glad to hear that he to has found a family in Cebu with the kind souls there. And that everyone else was able to return home.

The “organic rice” she is asking about is the quinoa I brought from the states (with generous help from Janelle Bentz, her Costco card, and her family). I had enough food for me and probably 3 other people for two weeks and left some of it Sikatuna when I bought other food to take with me into the disaster zone. (I brought it thinking it was much more nutritional and substantial than the white rice they traditionally eat and that was being handed out...and even what was being handed out was pathetically and shamefully very little and to very, very few people.) Needless to say, they loved it :).

I’ll tell you more about the kids, and how looking back now, I can see how perhaps I meant more to them than I realized as a mother figure. It’s odd for me to say that because I don’t see myself as very motherly. A weirdo aunt, sure, but not so motherly. The only evidence against this is the monstrous pain I feel when thinking of how any of them could be hurting so much and how I want to take it all away.

The children you'll see in the pictures are mostly all siblings. Nine of them, being raised by a father in the rural parts of Leyte Province. Their mother works in the United Arab Emirates I believe as “house help,” earning money and sending it home to The Philippines. The children were very rambunctious.

Apparently they weren’t so playful before my arrival.  “The children are so much happier now that you are here,” one woman commented to me.                   
 The boy in black, of to the side, in the 7 year old that wouldn't speak

 Miko, the youngest, I think...had an awful ear infection from the storm water. We would clean out his ears three times a day with seemingly no end to the pus and brown water. He hated it at first, but eventually would ask to have them cleaned out even when he didn't need it. He would also follow me around and just hold on to my pocket. Just to be with me.

                                                            I still have that hat.

 Quality time with the chillrens...

Initially I thought it was because they were likely in shock from the storm-which I’m sure was part of it-and because they were bored living in a chapel and I had brought silliness and games. As I look at the pictures now and think back to their reactions and affections for me, I realize I may have been a somewhat of a short term mother. Hugs and play was always available to them from me. Open heart and a bit of discipline and we were instant besties. I think leaving them hurt me a bit too much, so as to prevent me from being so open the rest of the trip if I’m honest. How could I possibly love that like again and leave...yet again. I still hurt for my babies in Ecuador, who I can’t adopt, or change the direction of their lives or protect them from a world without a mother. And here it was happening again. How cruel love is some times.

It often leaves me to lament with the line from the movie Nacho Libre, “I hate all the orphans in the whole world!” Although, I clearly am using it out of context, it is what I try to tell myself to stop from hurting so much for all the children I’ve fallen in love with.

Regardless, and back to the story at hand. I am so grateful for people with bigger hearts than mine, who’s capacity to love and welcome with open arms those who are hurting and who’s stories can hurt them. I am thankful for Agnes and Doris and all the other wonderful people of Cebu City who are taking it upon themselves to love those whom I have loved and could not help more than the little I was able in those short few days I spent there.

I aspire to have that kind of depth and compassion, although as I rummage through this world on my own, I find that I often instead come across as cold and distant because I love too much and know I cannot stay and cannot take away their pains or alter their paths. Not at this time at least. I only hope I become more like these people, the survivors and the saints I worked along side. The are the salt of the earth.

Perhaps one day I’ll fulfill my dream of going around the world and collecting all the people I love so much and building a family of those of us stretched across the continents.

*the stories told here are as I remember them and as I was able to understand them through the language and emotional barriers. I hope to have gotten them as correct as possible.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

I'm ready.

With a huge life adjustment hitting me in the face as soon as I arrived back from The Philippines and a flood of emotions every time I thought about writing about my time there, I’ve put off writing out fully or posting anything since my return. In fact, I haven’t even really shared pictures with anyone yet.

But now I think I’m ready.

I’ve decided I’m going to write individual stories and experiences rather than chronologically. I hope you enjoy them. Thank you again for everyone who helped me. From me and from the beautiful filipino people.

Watch my blog in the next week or so for continued updates and stories.