tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11723923953041932692024-03-12T20:49:15.276-04:00Nursing adventures in faith...around the world!Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.comBlogger142125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-24590950236882862452015-01-25T12:35:00.000-05:002015-01-25T12:35:22.634-05:00Intentional<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
How would life look differently
if each of us lived every moment intentionally, making the most of every
opportunity in a life of love?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How
would my life and interactions be different?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I don’t usually make New Years
resolutions, mainly because (for me) it could easily develop into an excuse for
laziness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While examining
lifestyle and habits yearly can be helpful and healthy, something more like
weekly or monthly would look more realistic in my life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Because when I choose to make a
change, I really want to mean it, not just for today or this month or this year</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Because I inevitably get tired,
fall short, and fail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
If we are meant to live our
moments intentionally, I don’t want to waste them with empty entertainment,
useless worrying, or even just a harmless time-waster, like packing peanuts
filling the holes in a chest of priceless treasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My times are in God’s hands, and each one is a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
This New Year is a reminder to
soak of the moments of joy, and not to take them for granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A call to praise when I am exhausted
and frustrated and desperately in need of wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A step towards continued excellence when mediocrity begins
to look tempting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
I will live, and God will be
glorified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But how will I live in
pursuit of that glory?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
Not on my own…never on my own –
this much is certain.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-outline-level: 1;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be imitators of God, therefore, as dearly loved children, and <b>live a
life of love</b>, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant
offering and sacrifice to God…be very careful then, how you live – not as
unwise but as wise, <b>making the most of every opportunity</b>, because the days are
evil. Eph 5: 1-2, 15-16<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-36881899662684242212014-08-10T16:52:00.001-04:002014-08-10T16:52:43.869-04:00my dreams were too small<div class="MsoNormal">
I entered my fourth decade this summer…a subtle shift that
crept up on me; one I’m not quite sure how to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Society tells me I’m a career woman now
that I’ve turned 30, an adult, a responsible person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely there should have been fireworks, or a gray hair, or
something to indicate a momentous change?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead I had an explosion of balloons and young Berea staffers,
thoughtfully throwing me a surprise party in my own camp infirmary waiting
room, in the same place I celebrated a twenty-second birthday and an NCLEX exam
passed eight years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time
stopped for a moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like nothing has changed in ten years – I am still
giving my time in overflowing handfuls of packed summer weeks spent fixing
others, still wandering through markets in search of bookshelves to furnish yet
another apartment, still (if you would believe the hospital secretaries)
looking no older than the college students I teach.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing has changed, and at the same time everything has
changed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had someone told my twenty-year-old self what to expect of
the next ten years, I would not have mocked or scoffed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I might have gaped a bit,
incredulous, at the wild tale spun out before me, at the bits and handfuls I’ve
gathered to share on this blog, and so much more that never made it onto the
web but are instead carved permanently on the corners of my soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not in me to doubt or deny, but
there are threads of the unknown and almost insane that I never would have
thought to weave in on my own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was shy and quiet and driven then, and my North Country
rugged values met Asian culture and dress standards in the deliberate grace of
a Sundanese dance, and in the awkward realizations that my eyes and hair and
identity documents would never match the culture of my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had only just begun wearing clothes
that actually showed my figure, only glimpsed the realization that I was
expected to look people in the eye rather than stare at their feet
in a modest respect they could never understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was finding the balance of my own rhythm in a world I had
finally started to accept, even to call comfortable, but never to claim as
mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mine were the barefoot walks of forests and streams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine were the muddied footpaths between
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sawah</i> and glittering sunsets in a
thousand nuanced colors, where the call to prayer echoed off volcanoes on every
side.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was barely a hint of the emergency nurse in my college
student mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No dreams of Africa,
of sailing the high seas, or of muddied land rover expeditions in search of
surgical patients.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew two
languages, two lands, and my heart was already divided between two continents
and cultures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the call of
God on my heart, and I stubbornly tried to hold what I found familiar along
with that call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have
settled, with no idea of the wonder and blessings I would have missed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wonderful adventures of life I have
wholeheartedly embraced these last few years would have whispered past, unseen
and unknown.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I dreamed with the shy exuberance of youth, vivid and
uninformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not that my
dreams were wrong or sinful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
were only small and shallow and naive; as I eagerly filled my own little cup
and looked ignorantly past the deep well God was digging for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not see that my own dreams were
too small to hold all that God was planning, the careful and eternal weaving of
the One who holds the world together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ask sometimes, why life didn’t go the way I planned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I cannot ask with the petulance of
a child, but instead with awed wonder at this lavish gift…why me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What have I done to deserve this?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the answer is…absolutely nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing more than to follow in
obedience and trust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And as I
follow and find delight in who God is, my own dreams and desires have been
molded and re-formed, and I pray they continue to change until I want nothing
more than to know Him and make Him known.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My life has not been all that I dreamed, these last ten
years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, so much more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cannot wait to see what the next ten
hold!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of
your heart. ~ Psalm 37:4</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-25627014286997323832013-12-26T18:37:00.000-05:002013-12-26T18:37:51.329-05:00Snow on bare feet<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have lived in a different sort of existence these last
months, my time filled with writing and grading papers and hospital clinicals,
with food by the handful here and there and the majority of my apartment time
spent in exhausted sleep and the occasional dish washing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere along the way my muse hibernated
away in a stained wooden crate, tucked up in quilts and waiting patiently until
my life quieted enough that I could take the time to coax him out with reflection
in sunshine through the fat snowflakes falling, a handful of dried apples and
venison jerky, and a cup of steaming spicy chai. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJt5dQHitKu1Qt3UDyfEV_JJI8xLUNKZhL3xM0BKP86ej88RF7EFzYLpD-uNJ2-N6H4cTmcHtHpqSLbvyDKP33uHcdor8olHEOq7Z31AHo88zPguB8hMoe6YoInR-8KckD-Zu-udRCAxR/s1600/IMG_20131109_132500_699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJt5dQHitKu1Qt3UDyfEV_JJI8xLUNKZhL3xM0BKP86ej88RF7EFzYLpD-uNJ2-N6H4cTmcHtHpqSLbvyDKP33uHcdor8olHEOq7Z31AHo88zPguB8hMoe6YoInR-8KckD-Zu-udRCAxR/s400/IMG_20131109_132500_699.jpg" width="400" /></a>Autumn came and went on my friendly new campus, with wind in the leaves swirling a glorious blaze of color and fog poking
tendrils up around the windows, treks through the public market, and apples of every kind by
the bushel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I graded never-ending
papers in coffee shops and on couches and on car trips, and when I wasn’t grading I wrote my own
research papers every weekend afternoon and evening, curled up under a blanket
on the couch or mainlining coffee next to the gas fireplace at Panera.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I budgeted in time with friends: 2-4 hours a week, or they
were welcome to join me with their own work in the new rhythm that had become my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because instead of life to
the rhythm of the triumphant djembe I had temporarily traded for the endless soft song of the
pianist by firelight – touching only those souls who came near enough to stop
and listen, entranced, hummingbirds in amber.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijalf6eNZT2OCAcqQ1LkwXvCL73ewQamLnprF733u69BeFgq2r6I4Q6Pl6oQMAD_dp8lQk88XA9edQeLTsjbxKjF6hhaeggJwLDICO_-Mh1ySzDSIPTc2KO9WZvMx5rqmID2Hjh7iWst-j/s1600/apple+butter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijalf6eNZT2OCAcqQ1LkwXvCL73ewQamLnprF733u69BeFgq2r6I4Q6Pl6oQMAD_dp8lQk88XA9edQeLTsjbxKjF6hhaeggJwLDICO_-Mh1ySzDSIPTc2KO9WZvMx5rqmID2Hjh7iWst-j/s1600/apple+butter.jpg" /></a>Winter came one day to lightly kiss the tips of the grass
and ends of tree branches, then dropping snow on my bare feet in a gentle
reminder that I should really start wearing some winter-appropriate shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thermals and I longed for some
outdoor adventure, but they patiently wrote papers with me instead until my
landlord finally dropped off a space heater and I could feel my fingers again. The crockpot and I became inseparable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first day of Christmas break was like waking from a busy and
tiring dream (one of those dreams where I rushed around doing CPR and saving
lives all night) and preparing to face reality only to realize that the dream
is my reality along with the waking, two sides to the same coin of my newly
changed life in transition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many have asked if I miss Africa and the Africa Mercy, why I
would leave, and if I ever would go back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The honest answer is that I do miss that life and those people, with all
my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t leave because
had lost that love – I left because it was time to go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time to go, while I still deeply love what I do. I could not wait until the frustrations of life crept in, until I lost enough patients I
could no longer grieve, and changed roommates until I could no
longer be excited for the ones I would have. Perhaps I'll be back, or not, but I know that I'll have each small thing I learned to take with me through life - whether it will be life in Rochester, back on ship, or exploring some new direction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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There are challenges and adventures prepared especially for me here and now: people
to serve, lives and hearts to touch as they grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a vastly different calling for a time, and yet really not so
different at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somehow I’ve
discovered that God can be found in America, too.</div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-41457133723505549072013-08-23T19:23:00.000-04:002013-08-23T19:23:19.379-04:00Today
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Yesterday is gone, tomorrow has not yet come. We have only today. Let us begin. ~ Teresa of Calcutta</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I wake up and realize…my room is too big. There should be at least 2 or 3 or 5
other women living in my bedroom with me (probably Canadian or German or
British or Dutch), and they’re not there.
There are no drums
calling me from my office to come and dance, no brown children to borrow, and no
one understands my Krio. Also, my magnetic poetry won't stick to the walls. Somewhere here in the last two months my life changed drastically.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is strange to think that my ship has sailed, wards are
being stripped and waxed and bleached and new nurses are being trained, that surgical screenings
will be in a week or so and I won’t be there to welcome the faces of poverty
and of hope. Mercy Ships was my
yesterday, and a wonderful yesterday it was. Those responsibilities are someone else’s today.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Let me share my today with you. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Today I get to
welcome students, and share what it means to be a nurse who loves Christ. Today I teach injection technique and
cardiac assessment and med-surg clinicals. Today I am here to encourage the heart and vision of our
calling to care with tomorrow’s professionals. Today I am a clinical instructor at Roberts Wesleyan College.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I am making yogurt and kneading bread. Today I am sanding crates to make
bookshelves, and decorating my apartment with fresh flowers in canning jars and wildly African curtains. Today I am taking a walk with a friend,
or driving to meet them for coffee.
Today I am attending a new church.
Today I am exploring a new home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I have articles to read and papers to write and
classes to attend. Today I am a
graduate student.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I don’t know what my tomorrows will hold. None of us can. But I can wholly trust
the One who does.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have only today.
Let us begin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-83715929187843940852013-07-18T14:32:00.000-04:002013-07-18T14:32:15.005-04:00A special kind of grace
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I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave, but I knew I couldn't stay. It was time for the next chapter of the story, the next leg of the journey...time to follow Love as he led me away from the crazy life I had grown to love over the last three years. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I had been given grace for a time to enjoy the close
quarters and appreciate the “assisted living” environment of the Africa Mercy,
despite my fierce longing for independence. I was given grace to move countries every year, try another
new tribal language, and another, and another. Grace to patiently orient seas of new nurses, to put up with
short supplies and the challenges of working through translators all the
time…the grace to look past ugliness and superstition and abandonment to
celebrate new lives and to find my place and purpose in loving others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took a patient reminder and the exuberant joy and sorrow of an inland screening trip to remind me that this time on Mercy Ships was not meant to be forever. It was a place to learn and grow, to dig my roots deep into being grounded in Christ, a time to build and be built up, to love and be loved in return. But it was time to move to a new home - home for now with no promise of forever. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will miss Africa and my ship hospital and incredible
co-workers with all my heart, but I don’t regret the calling to life in America
again. This is a new mission for
the here and now, one that I embrace and wrestle as I did with the move
overseas – full of new challenges and new joys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place and people have changed, but the purpose has
not. Can I love the forgotten and needy of
America for Jesus too? They are
equally lost, hurt, lonely, and unloved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still serve
the same God, but I am praying for a special kind of grace. I’m praying for patience to put up with
the nuisances of adult responsibility in the Western world. For quick recall as I start work in the
hospitals again – because the hospitals and healthcare here are vastly
different from my familiar ship wards. For wisdom in where to live and how to teach well, for courage to speak out and be an agent of change for my country
and my world, to His glory...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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God, give me grace to be an American.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-8778206945247786302013-06-14T23:14:00.005-04:002013-06-14T23:14:57.292-04:00Extravagance<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAPqTLvhEUKNAg9Co3f952tQgbAxVOB_1u4M2W_DXTFrn3n9-zez5V-VXHHYx27f9_E7ZHeBkQgXcCrgA05sn0jE84mzG5ud56NQeQQovJepy75PBSfCz3H1BPFS_ros0Ur55tgpa6jWZP/s1600/sun+rays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAPqTLvhEUKNAg9Co3f952tQgbAxVOB_1u4M2W_DXTFrn3n9-zez5V-VXHHYx27f9_E7ZHeBkQgXcCrgA05sn0jE84mzG5ud56NQeQQovJepy75PBSfCz3H1BPFS_ros0Ur55tgpa6jWZP/s400/sun+rays.jpg" width="400" /></a>I love sailing. The hectic pace of life slows into final reports and meetings and handover, a time to think over all that God has done the last few months, to mentally close a chapter in the adventure I call life and plot out the next - handwritten in ink and saltwater and sea breezes and stars. It's a different challenge I face this time, because I'm not just closing the Guinea chapter and sailing on through West Africa. This time I'm closing the Mercy Ships part of the story written in sweat and blood and tears and large amounts of drool, closing that to open something new, because I'm trusting God enough to let this go for now. The extravagance of His grace and the touch of a mighty hand on my life mean a wild destiny I could never have dreamed up, a poem of life written especially for me.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfPDQOAGZXSChXOP9fsliYAMgs40rbQluM6FxDjBEJhFbYRYiRJOCGLl1bg2a95p8E4TvB9oifzMWGZ61LWJD-HtXoudYG-1cZ6SDAUrmwKPrzh-Z8Mptv-QIOBRHTzGjEUZIcdI_5Q1K/s1600/dolphins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfPDQOAGZXSChXOP9fsliYAMgs40rbQluM6FxDjBEJhFbYRYiRJOCGLl1bg2a95p8E4TvB9oifzMWGZ61LWJD-HtXoudYG-1cZ6SDAUrmwKPrzh-Z8Mptv-QIOBRHTzGjEUZIcdI_5Q1K/s320/dolphins.jpg" width="320" /></a>I am surrounded by God's extravagance. Every day the sea and sky are a different shade of blue, the foamy spray off the bow full of sparkles and rainbows and sunlight and exuberant dolphins racing and dancing alongside. Every night the skies are shot through with color and the stars come to sing with us of God's goodness. <br />
<br />
My small ship was passing through - here and gone again. This beauty is here regardless of whether I witness it or not - a lavishly beautiful creation on display for the glory of the Creator...an extravagant art show I am blessed to be a part of!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwImQs4kYmNzslGzLwOPPrj87V5TKLT8aLlMOJeO622gvFTZO9r4kzfXVpyCKwExoxwSEPFFwLb1RB7d2akjJlyhI0RAlfy0tg9l5cC0YrZ3vCCjPAijpbYeRuuRXxAelYFl17KGeVHzhR/s1600/sailing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwImQs4kYmNzslGzLwOPPrj87V5TKLT8aLlMOJeO622gvFTZO9r4kzfXVpyCKwExoxwSEPFFwLb1RB7d2akjJlyhI0RAlfy0tg9l5cC0YrZ3vCCjPAijpbYeRuuRXxAelYFl17KGeVHzhR/s640/sailing.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders;</span><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-65-8" style="position: relative;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">where morning dawns, where evening fades,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: monospace;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 7px; line-height: 0px;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-65-8" style="position: relative;">you call forth songs of joy. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1"><span class="text Ps-65-8" style="position: relative;">~ Psalm 65:8</span></span></span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-18945561517289806222013-05-22T18:52:00.003-04:002013-05-22T18:52:50.379-04:00These last days<i>Scars and struggles on the way</i><br />
<i>But with joy our hearts can say</i><br />
<i>Yes our hearts can say</i><br />
<i>Never once did we ever walk alone</i><br />
<i>Never once did you leave us on our own</i><br />
<i>You are faithful, God You are faithful.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I reflected on those words yesterday as the piano music faded and our nurses and dayworkers began to share stories of God's goodness and faithfulness throughout the outreach here in Guinea.<br />
<br />
<i>"They came hidden under shawls and wraps, eyes dropped in shame. It has been amazing to see the patients blossom into confidence..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"There was a certain man who was very difficult when he first came. He would not eat the food because it had been prepared by Christians. He would not even eat food from the market if it had been brought by Christians. But before he left he chased after me and asked for a Bible..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"We have had some patients who were close to death, but we have not lost even one in our hospital during this outreach. There is one who almost died who is very happy now...she calls me often and sends her greetings to all the nurses and the doctors."</i><br />
<br />
We've not walked alone these last months, and our patients have not either. Patients and papas and brothers and cousins stood eagerly Sunday to share with us what God had done for them. The testimonies went long past the planned close of the ward service and continued - testimonies of past shame and persistent search for help, stories of hope and promise for a future.<br />
<br />
A, B, and C ward all stand empty and well-cleaned tonight, and D ward will soon follow. My last few nursing shifts were a week ago: a busy set of evenings my friend Hannah (and many of my co-workers here) laughingly call "typical Laura Coles shifts." No quiet evenings for me...if I'm working it's pretty much a guarantee there will be excitement of some form or other, whether it's diagnoses of contagious illness, walk-ins, babies with difficulty breathing, pager calls, sending patients off to surgery, or taking restless kids out into the hallway to race each other until night shift arrives. I soaked it in, savoring each minute of the controlled chaos and thankful for a distraction from the quickly approaching finish line: the end of the outreach, next tomorrow. It's a bittersweet week, but not a week of goodbyes.<br />
<br />
I don't want to say goodbye.<br />
<br />
I'll say "see you later" instead, in any way and every language you choose...sampai nanti, au revior, auf wiedersehen, oohwuwo, a go se yu bak.<br />
<br />
I've said it over the last few months, to the tiny cleft-whiskered babies with their heart-shaped nasal bolsters and their parents who love them so fiercely. I whispered it to Kadi as she slept against my heart during ward church Sunday, and when she ran down the hallway her last night here with no pants, giggling hysterically at the nurse chasing her. I hugged my au reviors to Halima as she shuffle-danced to the beat of her own drum and blew little sideways kisses on my cheek, and to Lamin with his pirate eyepatch and taped-on gloves and too-big surgical mask when he showed up to join in our cleaning shift yesterday. I sang oohwuwo to Fodi and Nanfadema and Bala and Mariatou with their brand-new faces, their new confidence, and changed lives that lie ahead.<br />
<br />
As our patients leave the ship and travel back to homes and villages across West Africa, they will not travel alone. I pray they would see God's faithfulness and provision, and sing with joy despite their scars and struggles. I pray their neighbors and families would notice a change and begin to wonder, to ask why the outcast devil baby no longer looks like a devil, and how the curse that caused a face to melt has been reversed. I hope they ask why there is new life, new confidence, hope and a future...that they would ask and find the answers.<br />
<br />
As our ship leaves Guinea and I fly home, I will not be walking alone either. Never once will I ever walk alone...God is faithful to go before me and with me, so I can lift my hands in confident surrender to sing<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Carried by Your constant grace</i><br />
<i>Held within Your perfect peace</i><br />
<i>Never once, no, I never walk alone...</i><br />
<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-80462805630468092452013-05-10T22:18:00.000-04:002013-05-10T22:18:06.311-04:00Dalaba musings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gDAOBhd60-nrFcDbsrbcuj4B68xVbhJsZWF7cPspqsSU7de4J2dAZuUNa6gS8zRwFmjsQ7XjADti-QHZHZsoMlt6saKYdMhoI0iGlNA4AhPhh4nUazyNhrSmgGVy7hyphenhyphenFoweSslH9XlLe/s1600/IMG_8729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gDAOBhd60-nrFcDbsrbcuj4B68xVbhJsZWF7cPspqsSU7de4J2dAZuUNa6gS8zRwFmjsQ7XjADti-QHZHZsoMlt6saKYdMhoI0iGlNA4AhPhh4nUazyNhrSmgGVy7hyphenhyphenFoweSslH9XlLe/s320/IMG_8729.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The wind whispers to me, combing long fingers through the hair that falls free outside my hammock.</div>
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I have kicked off my shoes, let down the tight ponytail, and lifted my face with the morning glories to be kissed by the sunshine from a cloudless sky. The trees are telling secrets, and I hear a contentment in their voice that echoes my own heart. It is easy to worship God in such a place, to be still and listen, tucked away and hidden in this secret overlook far above the patchwork valleys and behind the blue mountains.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Dv1tlCzgWp7hYJuUS5yoPNVr3bsXMudLLZSk4oU2UHJKKkVS8VVl_NCvP7SfCERldFod0UMesvN86IJaMv0ApgcGbooRGHTOKoskeKw-qoS_1z_D8_inL86Xd8WyOTjC1S9KHO2DBgzh/s1600/IMG_0778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Dv1tlCzgWp7hYJuUS5yoPNVr3bsXMudLLZSk4oU2UHJKKkVS8VVl_NCvP7SfCERldFod0UMesvN86IJaMv0ApgcGbooRGHTOKoskeKw-qoS_1z_D8_inL86Xd8WyOTjC1S9KHO2DBgzh/s200/IMG_0778.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="200" /></a>I first went to Dalaba in November - a brief stop with the team during our screening trip. It was a peaceful evening and beautiful. The boys killed chickens and built a fire, while Melodee and I made rice and sauce and chai. Only one evening, but it allowed us to breathe and just enjoy God's creation, a needed break in the rhythm of hope and heartbreak that is patient screening.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7iSCaSTr7SsCH4Ac32GBzRMA3OX0U4mkrH2pCG4t5CQYnMxL_owejPMC9k0ZHrj2iG7v_ZGaLglRiB6J6vJUrg8igsb0ZRmBzYA1b3RbeS6iK-jgONFtPg4wR7D9AZVUUCuMWXE5xc4d/s1600/GU12Interior_Nov_McCaffery+Oct+22,+2008+9-07+AM+2000x3008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp7iSCaSTr7SsCH4Ac32GBzRMA3OX0U4mkrH2pCG4t5CQYnMxL_owejPMC9k0ZHrj2iG7v_ZGaLglRiB6J6vJUrg8igsb0ZRmBzYA1b3RbeS6iK-jgONFtPg4wR7D9AZVUUCuMWXE5xc4d/s320/GU12Interior_Nov_McCaffery+Oct+22,+2008+9-07+AM+2000x3008.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="224" /></a>I had a vague idea of where we were going in January, having been there once before. Following the vision of mountains and cool forests that floated on woodsmoke through my heart, my roommate Heather and I set out on the beginnings of an adventure.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Five hours later, we were still in Conakry. The popular method of transport here is public taxi, with 9 or more complete strangers packed into a small car and their belongings piled high under a fishnet on top, with stops only to add or let off passengers, for prayers, or the occasional food. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
With a foot planted on the door handle, our driver climbed past me onto the room and our taxi began rocking violently as chicken feathers and small pieces of poop flew through the window in a dusty cloud. 10 minutes later the last piece of fishnet was secure and we were on our way.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo43Kh3WYSPcanSQirxT9ZBasTiYf3u-5olCrWbeOXf0ms2EduFCAIFtcH1GXg5ny3wM26wtS1BKwaCxoLJ02V02YgN8izIDAwVzgkzaalG1IoZZ-C8BsDs6KwFjH19QMwF_7ujlLZnGK/s1600/_DSC0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo43Kh3WYSPcanSQirxT9ZBasTiYf3u-5olCrWbeOXf0ms2EduFCAIFtcH1GXg5ny3wM26wtS1BKwaCxoLJ02V02YgN8izIDAwVzgkzaalG1IoZZ-C8BsDs6KwFjH19QMwF_7ujlLZnGK/s320/_DSC0073.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a>It was a long sunny weekend full of peace. The monkeys chattered and swung overhead as we read and wrote in the hammock or took long quiet walks looking for waterfalls, and the crickets sang at night while the thick blankets of starts danced and we built fires to ward off the evening chill. There was space to think and pray and listen.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPzb1g_I30beuWWd_oatqvVZdgWE82u_sW8eRBrXOzX7oV9hca5K6xGWWuC-DtY0Yv7EUqXilkmYzuKWsU4MqQzagP8CowjXbnlYGOU46IqcH-XqRbejc40I7tjT6CI0H98IMD1p-9B6R/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPzb1g_I30beuWWd_oatqvVZdgWE82u_sW8eRBrXOzX7oV9hca5K6xGWWuC-DtY0Yv7EUqXilkmYzuKWsU4MqQzagP8CowjXbnlYGOU46IqcH-XqRbejc40I7tjT6CI0H98IMD1p-9B6R/s200/IMG_0709.JPG" width="200" /></a>A few months later I was back on the road to Dalaba again, held up at the police checkpoint while an officer frowned at our driver's dubious papers and asked us for advice on his gastroesophageal reflux. We trekked through dusty villages and mountain forests, feasted on rice and sauce, or crusty street bread and avocados and sweet wild mangos, caught baby goats, and gloried in God's creation. We may have also shared our beds with some local creatures, as the first night we were graced with mosquitos and bedbugs and and spiders and something dead in the wall (I don't know what), and the second night I industriously swept mouse poop off our bed by headlamp and hoped the culprit would not come nest in our hair as we slept. </div>
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I came home thankful - in our packed taxi with a wealth of mangos at my feet and avocados falling on my head, with the chickens scrabbling on the trunk behind and my face covered in dirt and sweat and truck exhaust. Thankful for peace, for beauty, for space to hike and good friends to share it with... and thankful for a very large freezer to kill all the small things that might have tried to come home in our backpacks.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-74685095626560404462013-05-08T10:16:00.000-04:002013-05-08T10:16:43.778-04:00Retrospective thankfulness<i>Retrospective (adj): Looking back on or dealing with past events or situations.</i><br />
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We had gathered in our customary circle at shift change, taking turns sharing what we were thankful for that week. "I'm thankful for the things we used to have," one of my fellow nurses confessed. "I'm thankful for ensure, and 10cc syringes..." I found myself nodding along, thinking of the intermittent supply challenges and all the things that won't be back in stock until the next field services. I remembered, too, the other field services when we were short on saline, or tourniquets, or alcohol swabs, and reminded myself that it was good to be thankful for the things we still had, not just the ones we didn't anymore.<br />
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It's easy to be retrospectively thankful. To think back on all the things that used to be an unappreciated and commonplace part of our lives and remember how great they were. It's been especially easy to practice retrospective thankfulness at the end of this field service. There are a lot of things I've been glad that we used to have. In <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-different-normal.html">March</a> I wrote about our Ensure shortage. To be honest, for most of my nursing time here I hadn't thought much about our Ensure supply. Once it was gone, though, I was thankful we had once been stocked with cans and cans of Ensure. When the smooth peanut butter ran out, I was thankful we used to have some, and when the blender died two weeks ago I shook Nalgene bottles of milk and peanut butter, hoping to get the chunks small enough to fit down an NG tube, and was fiercely thankful for the blender too.<br />
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It extends over into my personal life sometimes, this thankfulness for past blessings. I'm thankful we used to have hot water, even though we haven't had it much in our cabin since October. Now that the acid bugs have returned with the rainy season, I'm thankful for the long months without them, and when the vacuum system breaks I remember that we once had a working toilet. <br />
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Living a life without can be a good reminder to appreciate what still is. It can be easy to brush past the everyday, not realizing that sometimes the normalcy of everyday is a blessing, too.<br />
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I am thankful for the things of the past, but I am more thankful for the reminder of the present. How often do I stop in gratitude for a simple meal, remembering those who have none? I have clean clothes and my own (small) space to store them, a loving family, a safe home despite the riots that are scattered throughout the city. Shoes that fit and the ability to read, a face that I can recognize in the mirror - not one I have to hide in the dark in shame. Finding joy and blessings in life, choosing to rejoice in ALL circumstances...this is a choice.<br />
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I choose joy.<br />
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For each thing I no longer have and learn to creatively and cheerfully live without, I am reminded of all the amazing gifts I have been given that for me have become normal. Retrospective and expectant, in all times and places and challenges of life, I choose thankfulness.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-53319740941037459522013-04-20T07:52:00.000-04:002013-04-20T07:52:09.809-04:00When the bandages come offOne of my favorite moments of a day shift is that first dressing change...when the bulky bandages finally come off and a new face is revealed for the first time. What would it be like to see your face for the first time, after a tumor or deformity you had lived with for years was finally gone?<br />
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Abraham intently watched through the mirror as I gently peeled back the last of the tape and lifted a drainage-stained eyepatch to show the results of his surgery - a bone graft to the place where he had a maxilla previously removed. He lifted his mirror to look more closely as I snipped the suture to pull out a drain, and cleaned the dried blood from around his eye. "What do you think, Abraham," I asked.<br />
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He was very serious as his hand reached up to hold the mirror closer to his new cheek, the cheek that yesterday was flat, and he looked up at me with the beginnings of a shy smile. "C'est bon, Laura," he said very seriously, and then lit up with a huge grin. "C'est tres, tres bon."<br />
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It is very, very good.<br />
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Rugi refused to watch her first dressing in the mirror, leaving it forgotten in her lap as she concentrated on holding still while I soaked off the places where gauze had stuck, and cleaned the staple line down her half-shaved scalp. When the last of the gauze came off I encouraged her to look and look again, and she rather uncertainly held up the brand new mirror to examine the steristrips where her eye had once been. She, too, broke into a smile and reached up a hand as if to touch the tumor she used to have. As soon as my gloves came off she was shaking my hand over and over again..."merci, merci, merci, merci!" I winked and called her beautiful, and left her admiring her new face in a small mirror. There was one thing more that could complete her happiness, and she pointed hopefully at the urinary catheter and asked me a question in Pular. "She say she can piss on her own," the caregiver from the bed next to her informed me, "if you can just remove this tube for her."<br />
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One catheter removal and mad bathroom dash later, Rugi was ecstatic. She wiggled happily through her vitals check and IV flush, and hugged me over and over, then settled back in bed with her hand mirror to admire her new face once again.<br />
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C'est tres, tres bon.<br />
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It is very, very good.<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-77547651070421520132013-04-16T17:52:00.002-04:002013-04-16T17:52:56.490-04:00Old enough for a noseNovember 2011...<br />
We sat together in the back of the church service, listening intently to a three-language sermon. I was trying to understand the Krio that sounded so familiar, and Kadi was trying out her own bits of Krio.<br />
<i>AAmen</i>, she murmured at the end of the pastor's every sentence, every pause, and every exclamation. <i>Aaaahhhh-men. A-MEN-a. EhyMEN</i>. Each time she got a little louder, we were starting to get a few looks from the curious patients next to us, and I started to wonder what point is appropriate to shush a 5-year-old's mid-sermon enthusiasm. Granted we didn't look much like your usual church-goers. I was in scrubs with my hair pinned up, perched on a high stool next to the crash cart. Kadi's NG tube was pinned to her intricate braids, out of reach for small hands to pull on. The center of her face was covered in steri-strips...only smooth skin and suture lines where a nose should have been. But we were both pretty excited about the sermon and the worship-dance party that inevitably followed.<br />
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As our ship sailed from Sierra Leone a few weeks after that last ward service, I often wondered what happened to Kadi. Would she ever have the chance for a nose?<br />
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I asked once why we hadn't made a nose yet for Kadi. Our doctors have creatively pieced together faces for so many. The reason was simple, our surgeon told me. Kadi was too young for a nose. If she got a new nose then, it would be too small as she grew older.<br />
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I reached up a little self-consciously to touch my own nose. What would I have thought, at 5 years old, if someone had told me I was too little for a nose. Didn't everybody else have noses at that age, usually?<br />
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Fast forward a year and a half, to one morning in March when a tall gentleman came from D9 to greet me enthusiastically in Krio. I recognized him immediately, but it took a little while longer to recognize the Midazolam-doped girl in the bed as my Kadi, headed to the OR in 5 minutes to finally claim her nose. She's joined the crowd of Noma survivors and war mutilation victims here on D ward and B ward, with scalps pulled down over faces and bits of face flipped and sutured in a myriad of creative flaps, grafts, and miracle-working.<br />
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I was her nurse the next day - one of my treasured pediatric nursing shifts. Kadi was not even 24 hours post-op, terrified and exhausted from fighting and pretty miserable. Along with a piece of scalp temporarily down over her face to make a new nose, Kadi also had her tongue sutured to the top of her mouth to close a hole there. Two long arm splints and a patiently dedicated nursing staff had kept her from pulling out her nasal airway, IVs, and gastric tube. Still a spunky fighter, Kadi was not a fan. I used most of my small Krio that night - playing guessing games of what she needed (<i>Yu wan piss? Yu wan popo?</i>) and making bargains, with a lot of pointing, strict instructions, and a wonderfully serious translator just to make sure (<i>If I remove this, yu no pul am. Yu sabi?</i>). By the end of the evening we successfully had both arm splints off with all tubes still intact. Part of the bargain was me letting her popo (ride on my back) the rest of the shift, and so I finished my paperwork and gave report with her clinging limply to my back and the NG feed running slowly from the bag on a magnet hook over our heads.<br />
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We're fast friends again now, and last week she spent the beginnings of each of my night shifts popo as I took report. I started the shifts off with gigantic drool spots soaking the back of my scrubs, but the cuddles were well worth it. She's full of fun, inquisitive energy, and great at the pantomime communication so common on the ward now. We're training her as a nurse as well (7 years old is certainly not too early), and she can turn on and administer her own nebulizers, connect and flush her NG feeds, and do a pretty good oral assessment by flashlight.<br />
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Less than a week now, and it will be time for another surgery. I am excited to hear her Krio-Temne chatter and sweet singing again, and I can't wait to see her new face. No more waiting; she is finally old enough to have a nose.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-88417890775612337452013-03-31T16:58:00.000-04:002013-03-31T17:33:59.936-04:00Dr. Seuss and the fizzy mango<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">How fun my Africa can be!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Try it, try it, you’ll have fun!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh790NsjE1zocRVnO8eYjbIl3N1BwM2OWOZvYHEd6jxUxpi8DKFNy2IMv4dBs3XOGySD0E9XRlv1_hrr2b9b8pARKm0gqc6j85LczozF77ttxHoIcBJo9b0Hsl0k92YLuWDIQOTDLPJYWX4/s1600/164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Did you say no boats today?</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-UR-cXY4B5uG9tGU7wVo5zpjR-IStKeYRG8vLJ9nUyrIFRx8cPaXkVlIuJnCAUr_66w5s6-lGR8lUB7BemzYXe-X03dGc8DRZpiaAfi6pyd3M0HcHcoQflDQ48f5c5Ug61o9OPA7CciX4/s1600/009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgl7swgCtW9WWbBa0XmiRRSjr6ZoaW6n8x7p0iqBBQT7xLAM6JPgDtNARWiwo2tqjS1KgdOo76oh9B0jGSpxUMbCCvHoODpJL0DRNIK49V7FNzVMlXqcun3Q9C0PvgN7PQ5FhfGSwZkn2/s1600/IMG_0858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikmjI73c-JUGhBc7sYwf7oZut-0NcLj4hQ8jvkk5z9z7pYVFfY2tpuncf_K_tfktwWi-qFYnL2mdZNqwvOHsjnuLTj3gG2IV7wUVFOqn4XY1Wt07esaZ_Oq2cmpRe4IUeu0WT6puS8R161/s1600/IMG_8785.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GZ9yWCfqEH0Tv8vukM5osRlCtB_pN1opiImZktr7RN9Bb9sVBU3uZ0yw9huBaPlIe06H3-phVUhWu7zUfDjmC3Y41E2UpkfVLfboxKSeoJWaFtj3vjNepgNGgh-fWptSpmUYEJdjIN6N/s1600/DSCF7423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Yox50zpmgj24cAgZ3K_bWzAUddX5sK65oue7REtYucRFeseHht-wxjxU5rSC3xMzhEie4KrhgJr4KElV453sr16oAlsYHPr3G1CQsOQ4efjmRJ2840E2pu1ms9qmtx8NKmFiwlEEz38_/s1600/IMG_0876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9WCwOtw-KIjxNvtlwns9PWAnWa8dn2FIP_V3gANNxTg8jL-NZ9NPJWa8cki3M4R3EyswIaUZJEYpeEbE3uqSZyFCaWTZvcGeSjkUvUFrkuEQPdkdfCCH9y0zecl4Nq_CaFzFhjFdyfBPu/s1600/146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapPw-MOD3XG-Z368xO-SrzOCKLCYV7YxN2nBOaYs8lqKxdSESKBUyBSYbQhWu9okm2Nu5na1wLQB_Ds_L00PgUNTZdPRuJ-A7T6BahUP3R7klw5AgN5hHZ4WLAkc7zLDB_tEPmfJIH57h/s1600/DSCN0512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7fIDsO4gPIHq_LlyohgX3fIrkRxsv5WEp4dqFEzCLUkIK4S8CPHNsi8qePGRqMG0o1yUHhxhg9o_BR6GbngvM6QvCJoxxSu_A_00aNQuWyy1WyFA-VXDoVQ4fOvH58qePy8zW1gs-hYT/s1600/166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"></span></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No public boats today you say?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Are you sure you tell us true?</span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Trust me, I no lie to you!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">800,000 we won’t pay,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">These Fotay will just walk away!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Bargain, bargain, bargain more,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Check the price with three or four!</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Would you could you stay afloat</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> Maybe you should bail your boat?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgl7swgCtW9WWbBa0XmiRRSjr6ZoaW6n8x7p0iqBBQT7xLAM6JPgDtNARWiwo2tqjS1KgdOo76oh9B0jGSpxUMbCCvHoODpJL0DRNIK49V7FNzVMlXqcun3Q9C0PvgN7PQ5FhfGSwZkn2/s1600/IMG_0858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWgl7swgCtW9WWbBa0XmiRRSjr6ZoaW6n8x7p0iqBBQT7xLAM6JPgDtNARWiwo2tqjS1KgdOo76oh9B0jGSpxUMbCCvHoODpJL0DRNIK49V7FNzVMlXqcun3Q9C0PvgN7PQ5FhfGSwZkn2/s320/IMG_0858.JPG" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0px;">Would you could you keep bread dry</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When the waves are splashing high?</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you stop along the way</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">With some local children play?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you go exploring,</span></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Following the ocean’s roaring?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you down a cliff backpack-it,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Padded by an orange lifejacket</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Camp out on a hidden beach,</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hotel comforts out of reach.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you in the dirt</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you in a skirt?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Would you could you sleep in trees?</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Swaying in the ocean breeze?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you hammock in a tree?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Disney princess you could be.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Yox50zpmgj24cAgZ3K_bWzAUddX5sK65oue7REtYucRFeseHht-wxjxU5rSC3xMzhEie4KrhgJr4KElV453sr16oAlsYHPr3G1CQsOQ4efjmRJ2840E2pu1ms9qmtx8NKmFiwlEEz38_/s1600/IMG_0876.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Yox50zpmgj24cAgZ3K_bWzAUddX5sK65oue7REtYucRFeseHht-wxjxU5rSC3xMzhEie4KrhgJr4KElV453sr16oAlsYHPr3G1CQsOQ4efjmRJ2840E2pu1ms9qmtx8NKmFiwlEEz38_/s400/IMG_0876.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you climb in upside down</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Eighteen inches off the ground?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Eighteen inches do you say?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No, we’ll hang them high today!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Chase a crab in rising tide,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">From your headlamp he will hide.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Gaze at stars up in the sky, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rock to baboon lullaby!</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9WCwOtw-KIjxNvtlwns9PWAnWa8dn2FIP_V3gANNxTg8jL-NZ9NPJWa8cki3M4R3EyswIaUZJEYpeEbE3uqSZyFCaWTZvcGeSjkUvUFrkuEQPdkdfCCH9y0zecl4Nq_CaFzFhjFdyfBPu/s1600/146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9WCwOtw-KIjxNvtlwns9PWAnWa8dn2FIP_V3gANNxTg8jL-NZ9NPJWa8cki3M4R3EyswIaUZJEYpeEbE3uqSZyFCaWTZvcGeSjkUvUFrkuEQPdkdfCCH9y0zecl4Nq_CaFzFhjFdyfBPu/s320/146.JPG" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fizzy mango would you eat?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Or some donuts from the street?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Do not eat your street food bland!</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Please add spices (and some sand)</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you in the sun?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Coffee on the beach is fun!</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapPw-MOD3XG-Z368xO-SrzOCKLCYV7YxN2nBOaYs8lqKxdSESKBUyBSYbQhWu9okm2Nu5na1wLQB_Ds_L00PgUNTZdPRuJ-A7T6BahUP3R7klw5AgN5hHZ4WLAkc7zLDB_tEPmfJIH57h/s1600/DSCN0512.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapPw-MOD3XG-Z368xO-SrzOCKLCYV7YxN2nBOaYs8lqKxdSESKBUyBSYbQhWu9okm2Nu5na1wLQB_Ds_L00PgUNTZdPRuJ-A7T6BahUP3R7klw5AgN5hHZ4WLAkc7zLDB_tEPmfJIH57h/s320/DSCN0512.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you in a boat, </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you with a goat?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Would you could you wade through muck,</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">garbage, fish and not get stuck?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> *Based completely on a true story...I promise.</span></div>
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</span>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-36576324262087268302013-03-26T17:53:00.000-04:002013-03-26T17:53:01.015-04:00A different normalMore and more often I have moments when I forget I haven't always been here. It's normal to tie an infant on my back if he's fussy and causing trouble - it doesn't matter that he's not mine. I'm full of ideas of what to do when the usual procedures don't work, whether it be cutting the end off an IV cannula cap to put together oxygen tubing, or readily offering piggy back rides down the stairs when my patients get tired and the elevator is broken again. And I never, never would think to throw out a bed pan. I'll probably be peeling the labels off of medication bottles and cutting my IV bottles in half for the rest of my nursing career.<br />
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We've run out of Ensure, the versatile canned milky supplement we usually use for NG feedings. In it's place, our dietician Jess has cooked up a recipe involving milk and peanut butter, vitamins and fiber...and the nurses mix it up in the blender. There are no Walmarts where we can pick up canned supplements - here we make our own.<br />
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This weekend we ran out of smooth peanut butter. Several of us offered up our personal stash to make feeds with (mine was rejected - too chunky), and some of our nurses tried straining the mixture. Eventually Jess melted down some chunky peanut butter and strained it, to hold us over until we could get some smooth peanut butter from town. Even the smoothest of peanut butter has residual though, and when the NG to gravity drips ran slower and slower I fixed one with a pressure bag borrowed from the ICU.<br />
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It's creativity on a level I never really needed in the States, and the longer I'm here the more creative I've become. <br />
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Sometimes I remember that once I did things differently. When the baby on my back gets his foot tangled in my patient's IV line and drops the pens from my back pocket all over the floor and I remember that they never told me in nursing school I might have this problem. The moments when I look down at the working suction unit I've put together with a pair of trauma scissors, a variety of tubing types and sizes, a few odds and ends and a lot of creativity, and realize this wouldn't be considered a "normal" part of a Western nursing job. Or when I put together pieces from two different blood pressure cuffs when the one we had on the machine didn't fit the patient in ICU. I realized I had reached a whole new level when I heard myself suggest a partial endotracheal tube as a sterile trach cannula replacement, and realized that the idea actually had potential.<br />
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I've gained a different perspective here as well. I've seen the joy in loving and being loved, in seeing past deformity to the person within, and joined in the worship of the broken. I've learned pieces of languages and bartered in the market, gotten a wide variety of marriage proposals and comments on my fine African baby-tying technique...<br />
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And I've gotten peed on. A lot. <br />
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I suppose it comes with the community aspect of ward life. Babies are for everyone, and they get passed hand to hand and bed to bed, claimed in turn by each patient and nurse. It happened to me again this weekend as Ibrahim's mama patiently fed him milk from a spoon and I entertained his baby brother Fala. As breakfast finished, Fala climbed off my lap where he had been studiously chewing the plastic duck on my name badge and wandered away in his little-girl plastic sandals, leaving a few damp puddles on my scrubs. Not even 9 am yet, and already I had gotten peed on. Any American hospital, and this would have been an unfortunate event. But here?<br />
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Me: I think the baby just peed on my pants.</div>
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Translator: Laura, this is very fortunate for you.</div>
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Me: I remember they said in Sierra Leone that getting peed on was good luck...something about fertility?</div>
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Translator: Yes, you will have many children. Maybe fifteen.<br />
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I am wondering though, is that fifteen children total, or one for every time I get peed on..because I must be up to at least thirty by now.<br />
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Hear that, Mom and Dad? Apparently you'll be having a lot of grandchildren.</div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-15618472944903141242013-03-12T17:41:00.002-04:002013-03-12T18:09:01.424-04:00Sunset Club<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">There is an insistent breeze that lifts off of the
water, dancing in the gray-gold of sunset and the cloudless dusty blue of
harmattan sky. It whispers poetry to me, cool and steady, weaving between
my bare toes, wildly fluffing the skirt I try to hold down, and teasing the
wisps of my damp hair.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">A small tug sails by slowly, low in the water from
fish caught that day, or a few scattered holes. It looks more like a child's
bath toy than a seaworthy boat; rust-covered sides
make me wonder if it will soon join the other shipwrecks scattered along
the sea wall. Wooden canoes paddle by constantly, and there are a few
patched sails of other boats in the distance. The larger ships leave long wakes
in the water, reflective trails there long after a ship has gone, a path of
promise to open oceans and distant lands. I follow their calm wakes out
past the rocks and into the sea until they are lost in distant ripples.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When I was a teenager my family would trickle up to our open gazebo rooftop just before maghrib and watch spectacular displays of color surround us as the sun set over rice paddies and red-tile roofs and the call to prayer echoed off the mountains. Here on ship,</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMLNHyyy-Ul7DzyMCWHEUd_W3ALSewNuWW1tmJgDrBiThWkEsxXBoRUAc8dDcOHPq_CZSlydX6BbN0eqyGLnljZtPMIBoFBTKVO3Us_IlnNWYF2PSjMl5X0dRoVQ9E_uPtdzoBi9WUymi/s1600/483807_570499906301880_2031278557_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCMLNHyyy-Ul7DzyMCWHEUd_W3ALSewNuWW1tmJgDrBiThWkEsxXBoRUAc8dDcOHPq_CZSlydX6BbN0eqyGLnljZtPMIBoFBTKVO3Us_IlnNWYF2PSjMl5X0dRoVQ9E_uPtdzoBi9WUymi/s400/483807_570499906301880_2031278557_n.jpg" width="298" /></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Sunset Club is a tradition that carried over
from our outside "family" picnics in Sierra Leone and into the early weeks of the Guinea outreach, one of my
favorite evening activities even now. Almost every evening at the
beginning of September found groups of nurses and most of the ward team leaders
in a row along the deck facing the ocean sunset. It was a quiet time away
from the busyness of the hospital deck, a taste of fresh air and sunshine and
beauty. Some days the books and ipods came out, while other evenings were
filled with lively discussions and back massages. Attendance began to
decrease as life picked up pace, and some days I had sunset club alone with
Jesus on the narrow, netted walkway next to lifeboat 3.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><o:p> </o:p>A peace is here, where seabirds wheel and
dive, or wing their low way home across the water. A peace that draws me
up to settle with friends every free night after dinner, for chats or chocolate
or silence. No sunset is ever the same, and I marvel at God's endless
creativity when the lightning storms crackle through the pink twilights and
touch the early stars.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Photos courtesy of Jenny Darvas and Heather Klassen, who documented this amazing beauty while I put my feet up on the railings and drank it all in.</span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-45473157774095846582013-02-20T16:43:00.002-05:002013-02-20T16:51:55.730-05:00One more<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">Halima (The previous star of blog posts <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2012/12/looking-for-you.html">Looking for you</a> and <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2013/01/yourself-again.html">Yourself again</a>) came back last week for a scheduled outpatient appointment. Her face is filling out nicely, and the place where there was once a huge tumor is marked only with a small white dressing. She was feeling fine, blowing kisses through lopsided lips and hugging everyone in sight. The marketing team had arranged a small photo shoot with Halima, introducing her to some of the many crew members whose blood she now calls her own.</span><br />
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It's come full circle now, from the streets and crowds of her hometown village, and blood tests that I ran on a 6-inch square of clean floor mat in the back of a land rover, to hugs and Pular lessons after surgery on the dock in Conakry.</div>
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Every field service there are the patients that stay in my heart long after the ship sails away with us into the open sea. My feet remember the VVF ladies whose names I don't know but who greet me and walk with me down the hallway to work in the mornings. My arms remember the small weight of babies once struggling for breath, now fat and grinning the triumphant whiskered grin of a newly repaired cleft lip. My eyes remember the moments of wonder when bandages are taken off for the first time to reveal the new face beneath. I watch news reports on the CBS website and I can pick out each patient and each moment I spent with them...and for a few minutes I am in the ICU with <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2012/05/life-lessons-from-picu.html">Rudy</a> content to sit in my lap and pat my face as he calls me auntie. For a few minutes I am dancing again with <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2012/05/biggest-man-on-d-ward.html">Maurice</a> in my arms, teaching wound care or praying with a patient before surgery.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">There must be a limit to the spaces I can find to tuck away one more story and one more face to remember. But there is no limit. Always there is room for another to be wrapped in sunset reflection and tucked away; always room for another drool spot on my scrubs, another walk down the hallway, another life touching mine. One of the lasting life lessons I am learning from Africa: there is always room for one more.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7P_fNo9MCMgQRtoiyojIGqtJ8fwsz12b7-4dQWd4zCKaG2p5JL4PFTK3wlBfMSNsrSv_65d8sQokd7wQY2LkUcid9oGF1BQDGZXAYbHfjFFDbEWzfDC9ZP1W1lQcv6kkJPU6zS1LW9VO6/s1600/GNC130206_CREW_BLOOD_DONORS_DB0036_LO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7P_fNo9MCMgQRtoiyojIGqtJ8fwsz12b7-4dQWd4zCKaG2p5JL4PFTK3wlBfMSNsrSv_65d8sQokd7wQY2LkUcid9oGF1BQDGZXAYbHfjFFDbEWzfDC9ZP1W1lQcv6kkJPU6zS1LW9VO6/s640/GNC130206_CREW_BLOOD_DONORS_DB0036_LO.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-24936673534658642242013-01-31T11:27:00.001-05:002013-01-31T18:37:45.122-05:00dryOne of our hospital chaplains caught me walking through the hallway last night as I was on my way back to my cabin after a long day. <i>Laura, do you have a moment? I want you to witness something. I cannot hear this testimony alone.</i><br />
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I was a little confused but intrigued. Of course I had a few minutes to spare! So we walked together into C ward, greeted Senay and her brother, and pulled up a few stools in a circle with them. Senay smiled at me, then dropped her eyes to the pastel hospital-gown patterns in her lap and said, <i>every night I wet the bed before I came to the ship.</i><br />
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Vesicovaginal Fistula (VVF) is dry medical terminology for a condition that is anything but dry. For small women who live days walk away from any kind of professional health care, an initially joyous childbirth can turn into up to 10 days of obstructed labor with no hope of a cesarean section, resulting in a dead baby and no way to stop the constant flow of urine through a newly-created hole.<br />
It's a outcast sisterhood of over 2 million women worldwide leaking infected urine, living abandoned on the outskirts of their villages so no one will have to touch their uncleanness or put up with the foul smell. It's a condition of poor medical access, of hard work and not enough food to grow tall and strong, of pregnancy at an early age, of poverty and loss.<br />
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For the last three months on ship our surgeons have been screening these ladies and performing fistula repair surgeries. The fistula patients stay for weeks or months, loving on us as we care for them, pouring out hugs and kisses and scoldings from overfull cups. Many of the surgeries are successful, and we rejoice with the tiny women, newly dry, who dance exuberantly in their new dresses and share stories of what God has done.<br />
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But some, too many, are too complicated for our surgeons. Repairs have been tried and tried again at other hospitals, leaving only scar tissue and tiny bladders for the surgeons to work with. Diseases and sickness make it unsafe to operate. Even modern medicine has limitations, and not all holes can be closed. What is wet cannot always be made dry. This too was Senay's truth, and she would be going home to her village today still leaking and smelly, still outcast. Except for this new testimony she shared with me last night:<br />
<br />
<i>It is a miracle. Before I came I wet the bed every night, but since I have come to the ship I am dry.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I am dry.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We prayed there in our small circle in the middle of C ward, hands outstretched and overlapping, cupped to receive the blessing. All I understood of the prayer was the repeated phrase <i>nom de Jesu</i>...in the name of Jesus. It didn't matter that I couldn't understand the rest or pray in French together with them, because healing in the name of Jesus was the life-giving message we saw in our cupped hands, and the truth in the fingertips we touched to our faces.<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="text Luke-8-42">As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him.</span> <span class="text Luke-8-43" id="en-NIV1984-25281"><sup class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;"> </sup>And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years, but no one could heal her. </span><span class="text Luke-8-44" id="en-NIV1984-25282"><sup class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;"> </sup>She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><sup class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;"> </sup>But Jesus said, <span class="woj">“Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.” </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When they all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="text Luke-8-47" id="en-NIV1984-25285">Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.</span><span class="text Luke-8-48" id="en-NIV1984-25286"><sup class="versenum" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;"> </sup>Then he said to her, <span class="woj">“Daughter, your faith has healed you.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><b> </b></span> Go in peace.”<sup class="crossreference" style="font-weight: bold; line-height: normal; vertical-align: top;" value="(<a href="#cen-NIV1984-25286AM" title="See cross-reference AM">AM</a>)"> ~</sup></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Luke 8:43-48</span></i><br />
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I have not greeted Senay as she wakes up in the morning or held her dry sheets in my hands. I cannot say if her testimony is a desperate hope for normalcy or the beginnings of healing for a damaged body and discouraged spirit. But I pray that Senay and her brother will see truth. I pray that she will know an unconditional love and acceptance. And I pray she will remain dry and live a testimony of love and power, hope and forgiveness in her home so far from Conakry...that others will see, and know, and believe in a God who heals the outcasts when no one else can.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-50920575853075329672013-01-19T07:29:00.000-05:002013-01-19T07:31:01.530-05:00Yourself againI can still count your ribs under my fingers, prominent beneath the thin patient gown. It's all you wear now, besides the bold headwrap and clean white bandages. You weren't yourself yet when you woke up after surgery, eyes confused and sad, and a wrinkled insistent finger pointing to the well-taped NG tube. <i>This does not belong here...remove it.</i><br />
<br />
You tell us you are on a ship, but do you know which ship that is? Do you remember that this is the hospital that promised to remove your tumor? Do you recognize that you are Halima when you look in the mirror and see a face that is so much smaller now? I watch you struggle to swallow around a mass that is no longer there, and sometimes I see you reaching up past the bandages to touch the thin air in wonder. Does it surprise you every time?<br />
<br />
Who were you before this lump appeared on your face...do you remember what life was like when you were only yourself?<br />
<br />
I brought my own warm blood while you slept in the operating room and I prayed it would make you strong. After you woke up after surgery I tried the little Pular I knew but you struggled to reply. You sat still on your bed and did not stroke the soft hairs on my arm or hug me tight. Did you remember you were looking for us? <br />
<br />
This morning I came in to work and you hugged me and hugged me again as you passed by, thin fingers stroking my arm hairs and a sparkle in your tired eyes. The chaplains came with their guitar and drums and the joyful steady beat of African praise, and you shuffled into the center of the circle with your arms raised and then clasped tight around me as we danced together in rhythm with the djembes.<br />
<br />
Your face and your throat have begun to heal, but it will take time to fill in where the tumor has been.<br />
<br />
Will it take that long to fill your heart? I think not. Already you are becoming yourself again.<br />
<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-71364844022680251272012-12-29T15:23:00.002-05:002012-12-29T15:25:26.382-05:00Looking for you<br />
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Halima is a petite little grandma...not much left but skin and bones and tumor. I can feel each of her ribs through her dress as we embrace - the same bright dress she was wearing when we met in the market between here and Mamou. <i>I have been looking for you</i>, she tells me, <i>for a month I have been looking for you.</i> She takes my hand and places it on her tumor and it throbs warm and alive beneath my bare fingers. <i> This pains me and chuks (pricks) and suffocates me at night...I just want it to be gone. Will you take it away?</i></div>
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<i>Halima, I have been looking for you too.</i></div>
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<i>Every day for the last month I have thought of the morning we met in the market, when we came in the land rovers and asked them to find you, when you rode up on the back of a motorcycle and unveiled your face for your neighbors to see your shame. Every day I think of the first moment I saw you and realized the lump on your face you had covered so carefully was almost as big as your face itself, and I looked past into eyes so full of life and impossibly joyful. When I lie in my bed at night I remember you told me you had trouble breathing when you sleep, and I looked in your throat then and could not see an airway, only tumor and palate, and I wondered how you were breathing still.</i></div>
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<i>My heart remembers you. </i></div>
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<i>I have often thought of the morning I unfolded a square of gauze on the rubber mat of the land rover floor, between the backpacks and baskets of food and guitars, and laid out the laboratory equipment in my island of clean white, when I pressed a lancet to your wrinkled finger and read your blood test in the main street as your whole village watched.</i></div>
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<i>I saw them rejoice with you when we gave you the golden ticket: a patient card with your name and a screening date in four days. I met your husband and your granddaughter and that man who translated for us from French to Pular. I cannot remember his name...do you? What do you remember of that sunny morning when we met? What captures your heart in the darkness as you struggle to breathe?</i></div>
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<i>When your screening date on ship came and went and you were not here, I asked what had happened to you and no one knew. Did you forget to come? When your surgery date arrived and you still had not, I wondered if a night had passed when you finally fell asleep and did not wake back up. Were you lost and alone? I looked for you but I did not see you. I prayed for you...God sees you.</i></div>
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<i>Now you are here and your voice has changed and you still struggle to breathe every night. You tell me the Hope Center is a good place with plenty of milk to make you fat, and you pinch your arm proudly in display. You look at me with a spark still in your weary eyes and ask me to take away the monster that pains and steals your breath.</i></div>
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<i>I send you away with pillows to prop your head at night and paracetamol and a promise of hope. Just a few more days, Halima, and the operating rooms will open again. A few weeks only, and Insha'Allah you will no longer cover your face in shame. After looking for the last month you have finally found us, and I welcome you with open arms. </i></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-78908113742232884762012-12-07T13:50:00.000-05:002012-12-07T13:50:02.043-05:00Interior screening: Lemon tree thorns<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBldRhRa68NLfTKGEF2LgSoSRrLpe1WZH5mo-DYIRxEWhvKJAYCuD5nsinBk6soiveP4VuXGkn3itL8qI9i8gbgjSVdeZpOsz9yJAy4FxDBshtZn6oR9LFmsd0zlyggMoRisjBzRCcIWPD/s1600/GU12Interior_Nov_bergman+Nov+14,+2012+1-48+PM+4288x2848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBldRhRa68NLfTKGEF2LgSoSRrLpe1WZH5mo-DYIRxEWhvKJAYCuD5nsinBk6soiveP4VuXGkn3itL8qI9i8gbgjSVdeZpOsz9yJAy4FxDBshtZn6oR9LFmsd0zlyggMoRisjBzRCcIWPD/s320/GU12Interior_Nov_bergman+Nov+14,+2012+1-48+PM+4288x2848.JPG" width="320" /></a>It crept up on me slowly, barefoot on the cool tile floor<br />
Tiptoeing in the near-dark to where I stood<br />
Lighting the gas stove with a match<br />
To boil filtered water for coffee.<br />
<br />
It whispered warm across my face<br />
A breeze that bent the rice stalks<br />
And blew fingers of fog through the vines<br />
Hanging looped in the forest,<br />
Waiting for Tarzan to swing through.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And then it hit<br />
With a flip-flop smack that killed the bathroom spider,<br />
Cold water splashes of dipper baths under the stars,<br />
Splatters of mud from under a motorcycle tire.<br />
<br />
I was comfortable.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQrrSyq4NGFlLzkn0zkzx10IDxlIDdysPueEYwRapW3sLoSM2W2SgM0KXfsUZ55wmLM38_K2FCx0pqBLqKG1OIm5IwcerV_rCk29v9UosCmqXu6GAeFkXKb1267Cfx6l1Dj9azftYygV5/s1600/Gu12InteriorNov_Swope+Nov+14,+2012+4-37+PM+3888x2592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQrrSyq4NGFlLzkn0zkzx10IDxlIDdysPueEYwRapW3sLoSM2W2SgM0KXfsUZ55wmLM38_K2FCx0pqBLqKG1OIm5IwcerV_rCk29v9UosCmqXu6GAeFkXKb1267Cfx6l1Dj9azftYygV5/s400/Gu12InteriorNov_Swope+Nov+14,+2012+4-37+PM+3888x2592.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
Comfortable in an environment most would find a hardship<br />
Rejoicing in a lifestyle mistakenly called primitive.<br />
<br />
I can transport live chickens and run barefoot through the mud<br />
Tie my backpack to the top of a land rover<br />
and pee in the prickers without getting hurt.<br />
I can chew the rocks out of street rice<br />
Or perform a blood test in the middle of a busy market street.<br />
<br />
I cherish my nights without electricity as a gift<br />
A chance to see so many more stars<br />
To meditate without the distractions of modern convenience.<br />
<br />
The eclectic collections of skills I have so carefully collected<br />
Filed away like scrapbooks on a living room shelf<br />
Start to fit together<br />
In a complex puzzle of belonging.<br />
<br />
The idea niggles in the back of my mind<br />
A lemon tree thorn caught and driven deep<br />
Until I turn on the headlamp to dig and find<br />
An epiphany hiding underneath.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-66018428667829606402012-11-27T06:56:00.000-05:002012-11-27T07:37:36.532-05:00Interior Screening: N'Zerekore to Kankan to Mamou<br />
There's a space of time before dawn when the world seems to stop - just to take a moment and breathe - before jumping into a new day. In sandals and scrubs in the twilight before the morning, I turned off my night-vision headlamp, ignored the chatter from my radio earpiece, and prayed for wisdom. The whole purpose of this trip is to find surgical patients, but we came with limited surgical slots, a few handfuls of hope to share among hundreds.<br />
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Because these hours of dirt roads in between town, a minor inconvenience or adventure for me, are the difference in medical access for thousands.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2U9mtQ1q_TSvvYZRXWkNYRN3xwJuC28gIv8Jd3N7MdLES5rK_xg7ZFyI0x5NvLBP5ZR7DQQbkoen6PVfCTjqRjZFdOecJzQ549okoZMhdYGudmivaz1kvncWc3F0AeK9nR0e59CCDEsf/s1600/GU12Interior_Nov+MccFarrya+Oct+14,+2008+9-062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2U9mtQ1q_TSvvYZRXWkNYRN3xwJuC28gIv8Jd3N7MdLES5rK_xg7ZFyI0x5NvLBP5ZR7DQQbkoen6PVfCTjqRjZFdOecJzQ549okoZMhdYGudmivaz1kvncWc3F0AeK9nR0e59CCDEsf/s400/GU12Interior_Nov+MccFarrya+Oct+14,+2008+9-062.JPG" width="400" /></a>And they came, as the sun began to rise. Young and old, wearing their shame under a carefully wrapped lappa or nursing it along on crutches or hidden under a keffiyeh. There were the cleft palates and noma patients I rejoiced to find, a boldly written MAXFAX across the top of the pink screening sheet. An alcohol-cleaned finger held out in a prayer that the HIV test would be negative and the immune system strong enough for surgery. A tentative smile that danced in brown eyes with a carefully held patient card - the golden ticket for a screening slot on ship and a chance at surgery.<br />
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And there were the moments that ripped my heart in half again and again and again. A double line on an HIV test, a plastic surgery desperately needed but no spaces in the surgery schedule and a waiting list already too long, a medical illness with no medical doctors or medication available to help, a brand-new baby in my arms and no orthopedic slots to straighten tiny deformed legs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4JX3WLya300L_ZJsKigWE90ktzYrghZRfuUqp7gh6uNWl1ujfRr_JEGC60JVtpRe7YzLmeG-qhzUz_TXr5fsgw0LxUyZF1TrO-GUbg4hkwvTIbv9pK3wMRIkFMKlxWL_VV1-meVsZ7Ic/s1600/Gu12InteriorNov_Swope+Nov+12,+2012+8-030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4JX3WLya300L_ZJsKigWE90ktzYrghZRfuUqp7gh6uNWl1ujfRr_JEGC60JVtpRe7YzLmeG-qhzUz_TXr5fsgw0LxUyZF1TrO-GUbg4hkwvTIbv9pK3wMRIkFMKlxWL_VV1-meVsZ7Ic/s400/Gu12InteriorNov_Swope+Nov+12,+2012+8-030.JPG" width="400" /></a> From town to town the schedule steadily filled with the carefully reserved spots I had counted out for each location. From town to town they came, and the need was great. My own wisdom could not possibly have been enough to make the choices on which so many lives depended, and I was left in freefall - trusting in the wisdom and guidance that could only come from the One with the power to see and touch every life, the only One who can truly heal.<br />
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<i>When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick...And when the men of that place recognized Jesus, they sent word to all the surrounding country. People brought all their sick to him and begged him to let the sick just touch the edge of his cloak, and all who touched him were healed. ~ Matthew 14:13-14, 35-36</i></div>
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-48696098154719569402012-11-23T14:13:00.000-05:002012-11-23T14:13:37.408-05:00Interior Screening: Conakry to N'Zerekore<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIf2nI90bpz_Llmyw0H3sLf4n5o3Je3yawmJtJ9cl7-PBAzcN2UV613RFPuI3SYJhihaPE-mN5qfVdAsnmMZA8N7GpVfFe8D7E7A8N8GForyWxbUkCypkBa0p6M4LnyGRI-MhzKVVrI4W/s1600/GU12Interior_Nov_bergman+Nov+5,+2012+8-011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPIf2nI90bpz_Llmyw0H3sLf4n5o3Je3yawmJtJ9cl7-PBAzcN2UV613RFPuI3SYJhihaPE-mN5qfVdAsnmMZA8N7GpVfFe8D7E7A8N8GForyWxbUkCypkBa0p6M4LnyGRI-MhzKVVrI4W/s640/GU12Interior_Nov_bergman+Nov+5,+2012+8-011.jpg" width="449" /></a>It was almost midmorning on day 2 of the interior screening trip when I found myself belly down over the spare tire on top of the Land Rover, hooking ratchet straps into the frame and rearranging our waterproof backpacks under the tarp. I could feel the sun starting to bake through my tee-shirt and kilted skirt, warm on my bare feet. Swatches of grass line the road back over the hill to warn approaching trucks of our presence: a creative African version of the reflective orange warning triangle.</div>
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Our first day had gone very smoothly: 12 or so hours in the car from Conakry to Faranah, with around 25 potential patients to screen when we got there. We spent the night at a guesthouse, after a late evening of unpacking and talking in the wide open field out back, while fireflies danced with the blanket of stars.<br />
<br />
We hadn't even hit unpaved road yet the next morning when a loud CLUNK from the front Landie (Land Rover) had us pulled over in the tall razor grass on the side of the road. A verdict of broken rear differential had us splitting our team - two to stay behind with the vehicle waiting for a tow, and the rest to continue on. We had two stops for screening that day before driving on and through mudholes and more holes all the way around the northern border of Sierra Leone, out of the sunset and almost to the Liberian-Cote d'Ivoire border.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOISWXYeKBEFtxFFfmUwgkT0mv3HYfNAeJ4pJlkqpJFbULFTOYfsCzdxMpB0tbumTlR4IjwfyRP0-9f79T_Iri9rT08Nifmml6rmwCIWGHkYmMJC_5Qf6Dnx4coaKj_M0ruEL7UUJhOsEG/s1600/guinea-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOISWXYeKBEFtxFFfmUwgkT0mv3HYfNAeJ4pJlkqpJFbULFTOYfsCzdxMpB0tbumTlR4IjwfyRP0-9f79T_Iri9rT08Nifmml6rmwCIWGHkYmMJC_5Qf6Dnx4coaKj_M0ruEL7UUJhOsEG/s640/guinea-map.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first two days (Part 1) in light purple. Guinea is a big country, and an incredibly gorgeous one!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The morning of day 3 we met a few patients at the beautiful little clinic in N'Zao and met with the hospital director and officials to prepare for the "big" advertised screening planned for the government hospital in town the next day. Only 3 days, and already we had several patients scheduled at 4 stops, with a month's worth of dirt road in between. My back was a bit sore from being airborne between holes so much of the trip, already I had earned a designation as "trunk monkey" from swinging off the handles above the Landie doors so I wouldn't land in other people's laps quite so often. Already my heart rejoiced in the mountain greenery and endless rice fields that filled the drive. I went to sleep that night tucked into the mosquito net, with my headlamp by my bed and bag already packed, scrubs laid out ready for the early morning screening the next day in N'Zerekore.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The medical team prepares patient cards in N'Zao. Sorry, no patient closeups for privacy reasons!</td></tr>
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-32866405195356236352012-11-03T18:01:00.000-04:002012-11-03T18:01:02.603-04:00Adventure to the interior: A beginning<br />
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Well the land rovers are packed and our team is ready to head out early tomorrow morning at 0430. Two weeks of guesthouses and camping, muddy dirt roads and plenty of coffee, large crowds and lots of potential patients...</div>
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In short, two weeks of incredible crazy adventure.</div>
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The meetings and planning of the last two months fed neatly into the increased pace of the last week...spreadsheets and plans and meetings, the glaring orange of the medical bags in my camp chair under the window and the boxes of pregnancy tests and yellow patient cards sitting on my desk under a small pile of very conservative clothes.</div>
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It started when I offered to help, two months ago. Just mentioned that I would be willing to work with the screening team again if needed. And here we are, headed out with a team of nine crew (including three nurses), hitting up cities throughout Guinea to screen for patients.</div>
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There could be thousands waiting for us - some already with surgery dates and so many others hopeful. It is impossible to go in my own strength, my own wisdom: sure recipe for disaster.</div>
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So I kneel in my weakness at the foot of the cross and rise in thankfulness that He has already gone ahead of us.</div>
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I pray that I would see through His eyes, to see him there in N'Zerekore and Kankan and Mamou and everywhere in between. Would you pray with me?</div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-18174221756763797202012-10-09T10:39:00.000-04:002012-10-09T10:39:42.104-04:00Yu sabi?
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ortho kids from Sierra Leone with Melinda and Michelle</td></tr>
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Christiana stood at my elbow, stethoscope around her neck, watching intently as I entered the assignments for the night nurses into the computer and started printing them off. I had already warned a few kids away from the computer with my newest Krio phrase, <i>Lef am, dis no fo pikin</i> (Leave it alone, that's not for children). After a few deleted censuses and an amazing thankfulness for automatic retrieval, I've learned never to walk away from the computer without locking the keyboard.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of our peds patients play "mama" with balloons tied on their backs</td></tr>
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B ward is lively and full of fun and kids, 20 patients aged 15 and under, most of them in bed with blue and white and purple casts sticking straight up off the pillows with small brown toes wiggling at the ends. Most of them I know already from ortho in Sierra Leone, some I've met here.</div>
<i>Laura, we de go na waka-waka? Ar wan go waka-waka wit yu!</i> Can we go on a walk now? I want to walk with you! Christiana radiated excitement, and I decided some of the kids could use a little excursion. Yesterday Christiana and I had gone on a "waka-waka small" through the hospital, visiting her friends on other wards and discovering the delights of an automatic ice machine. She and her miniature walker are unstoppable, roaming through the corridors with an escort or stubbornly taking the stairs one step at a time, four flights up to sunshine.<br />
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<i>Usai yu wan go?</i> I asked. Where do you want to go? <i>Na office.</i> Her favorite place, the staff office has plenty of people working there during business hours, and all sorts of fun things to interest curious kids. So I set off with a small flock of casted ducklings to retrieve my nursing assignments from the printer in the office - around the corner and 50 feet away. I paused to help Sheku manage his crutches and heard a small voice behind me, <i>Adam, Adam, usai yu de go?</i> Adam, where did you go? 5-year-old Bindu was trying determinedly to catch up, using a small stool as a modified walker for support. My followers all chorused <i>na office, na office...yu sabi office?</i><br />
<i>Sabi</i> means to know, to understand...and in this case, perhaps know how to get there. 4-year-old Adam persisted that he <i>sabi office</i>, and after trying the stairs, the laundry, and the kitchen, finally found his way there. He stood in the doorway in awe looking at the computers and repeatedly washing his hands with the hand sanitizer from the automatic dispenser by the door. Every one of those 5 kids slowly worked their way to the door of the office, tested the ice machine and squealed when it dumped a bit of water on them, then thoroughly washed their hands with sanitizer. Adam proudly carried my assignments back from the printer to scatter them across the desk and nearby floor before announcing again with conviction, <i>a sabi office.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>It's easy to claim knowledge of something without ever having experienced it. In Adam's case, he was convinced he "sabi office" even though he had not been there, had not experienced it, and had no idea where it was.<br />
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Later that evening one of our day workers asked me if I sabi Krio. <br />
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I sabi Krio small, but I want to learn more. How many other things in my life is that true of?Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-19429088473511257602012-09-23T18:46:00.001-04:002012-09-23T18:47:06.890-04:00In colorIt would be easy to turn and walk away. Escaping reality with the TV turned up just a little louder, telling stories of the good old days and ignoring the hurt in front of us. To walk through a day without ever seeing, and to give care without ever loving. Because without love there can't be loss - or at least that's what we tell ourselves.<br />
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Too easy. Too safe.<br />
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So many choose the path of less resistance, not realizing with hurt and heartache there can also be joy; unwittingly imprisoning themselves in a world of gray. Never knowing the richness they have carelessly traded away.<br />
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I want to live in colors brilliantly painted with a bold hand on a canvas of my own life. <br />
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My hands, cupped in prayer, catch raindrops together with blessings, trickled down between my fingers and onto my palms to mingle with the warm salt of my own tears. Above my head, all I can see are storm clouds dark with promise. But out across the ocean, in the midst of the rain and storm, the bright pinks and blues of a beautiful sunset still shine persistently through.<br />
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I want to go into the world of distractions and toys, of ignoring problems and hoping they'll go away, the world of make believe and masks. I want to tell people there is more to life than the safety of grey. It's worth taking a risk to live life in color. They may miss amazing sunsets if they're too scared to stay out in the rain.<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1172392395304193269.post-11564467953241996292012-09-17T08:09:00.000-04:002012-09-17T08:09:27.094-04:00Full of life againNestled in my lap between crossed legs, Lamaran focused on my finger and thumb, gripped them tight and drooled ferociously through a half-healed lip. He is precious, this tiny little boy, with a constant beautiful grin below the steristrip whiskers soggy with drool and milk that leaks through the hole in his palate and out his nose. He's not yet big enough for the surgery to close his palate, but in a day or two we'll send him home with a healing lip to work on getting fat. For now he's content just to lay and drool down my leg and smile at me while his grandma sleeps. I've taken opportunity of the quiet moment to sit down and chart on my few patients and work out nursing assignments for the next shift. On the stool next to me, Hawi and Lama sit drawing circles and chattering to each other in languages the other cannot understand, fast friends despite the language barrier. Already they've assisted me today in wiping down the laminated meal order form, cleaning random ward items with copious amounts of hand sanitizer, and stickering each other, the nurses, and everything else in sight. In a few minutes, when I finish printing assignments, we'll take a <i>waka-waka small</i> (short walk) down the hall to retrieve things from the printer and sticker them too. <br />
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We went up on deck later to enjoy the sunshine and boats going past amid rollicking worship music with the hospital chaplaincy team and a rather wild tricycle and wagon gang from B ward. B ward is almost full now with a poda-poda load of kids from Sierra Leone here for follow up surgery. They arrived at night early last week, 14 kids tumbling out of the poda-poda with parents and a few extra patients that hitched a ride along from Sierra Leone. I snuck into B ward the morning after they arrived and was instantly mobbed. <i>Padi, padi, padi (</i>Friend, friend, friend)<i> </i>Fatima hollered as she attempted to climb my leg. Sheku and Osan were right behind here, and a crowd of faces I recognized behind them. Over the next few days I contrived to spend as much time in B as I could - covering lunch breaks and helping organize the mob of "hotel patients" needing Xrays, charts, and labs. The enthusiasm is incredible and a bit exhausting! Every kid wants to interact, to sit on laps, to be involved in everything that is happening with every other kid. I had to laugh when I returned Osan to the ward (screaming and upset after a blood draw) only to have Sheku climb up my leg and ask earnestly, "na me? na me? (Me too, me too?)"My 6-year old fiance from the <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2011/03/chaos-of-children.html">C ward chaos</a> of early last year is still toothless, still grinning, but proposing much less often than last year. In fact, almost all of my kids from those few days in C ward are back again, including the ones we visited at their homes upcountry in <a href="http://www.nursingadventuresinfaith.blogspot.com/2011/04/bo-part-2.html">Bo</a>. It's good to see familiar faces, to welcome new ones, and to once more be a part of the miracles we are here for.<br />
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In short, the hospital is open again, busy and full of life, and I am excited for a new season of surgeries in Guinea!Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17124588781912705187noreply@blogger.com1