First Christmas away from Home

I decided to sing Christmas songs in the shower today. It seemed like a nice and festive idea until the wave of homesickness swept over me. I allowed myself to swallow a big pill of self-pity and started to sing the few words I remembered to “Homesick” by MercyMe.  Thoughts of Christmas at home flooded my mind: FAMILY. Cooped up in Dad’s cabin in Idaho, playing games and eating tacos with flashing snow-flake Christmas lights inside and continually falling, real snowflakes outside. I even yearned for the backache from shoveling snow.

After my shower I went down to the hospital to talk to my friend Obed about Christmas plans. We are both scheduled to work on the night of Christmas Eve. I wasn't dreading it too bad, I had joked about how we would wait for Santa Clause at the fireplace in the hospital at midnight. It’s worse for him though because he has to be at work at 4p, meaning that he would miss dinner at home. His family graciously invited the three of us SM’s, Kelli, Carla, and I, to their house for dinner that day and I felt bad knowing that we would be in his home for Christmas eve and he wouldn’t. Earlier, we had talked about how this would be our first Christmas working and not being able to be with our families. As we were talking however, he told me that he is planning on “escaping” work for a few hours to eat dinner and, if there weren’t any emergencies, he will spend the night at home. “This is my first Christmas that I have to work” he said. “Mine too”, I replied. “This is the first Christmas I’ll be away from home” he continued. “Mine too”, I repeated. “I don’t want to be here, I want to be at home.” I was silent and swallowed my second dose of self-pitying homesickness as I tried to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes. I don’t want to be here either but I don’t really have a choice. What is Christmas without family?

Later on, Kelli and I went to the orphanage to spend some time with the kids. We played Uno with them, played with hair and rubbed backs, held the little ones, teased the older ones, and chatted with all of them about nothing important. I loved being with them, I always do, but thoughts of feeling shorry for myself because I couldn't be at home were still with me. 

After a day of being sad, missing my family, and thinking that I just couldn’t celebrate Christmas away from home, I realized I was missing the whole point. Christmas isn’t about snow, Dad’s cabin, or Grandma’s fireplace, it’s not about making pizza, taco’s, mom’s brown rice and steamed vegetables, holiday baked yams or apple pie. It’s not even about family, although family is a very crucial part. These are all traditions, fantastic traditions to enjoy and cherish and carry on, but at the end of the day, Christmas is about Christ. I may be a little behind the times to discover this, but sometimes old ideas find fresh meanings when we are put in the right circumstances. Before I fell asleep, I remembered that the first Christmas was about Jesus, leaving His home, stepping foot into a whole new world, so that He could serve us… for 33 years! Suddenly my one Christmas away from home didn’t seem so bad and I felt ashamed for my moping. In addition to being in a place where I can serve, I am incredibly blessed! I’m in Honduras with one of my best friends, sharing Christmas eve with new friends, and Christmas day decorating cookies with kids who know all to well what it means to have holidays without family. I’m here to serve and to love, and there is no greater blessing then that! I’m certainly not ready to do it every year, I’m not sure my heart could handle it. That said however, for this one Christmas in Honduras, I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else. 

Choluteca Medical Brigade #1

On Tuesday, November 15, Kari, Gama and I loaded ourselves and our bulky backpacks onto the bus that was scheduled to leave at 11:30. I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a crazy morning of adjusting and readjusting to accommodate for things that didn’t go as planned. For the last hour, I had expected not to make the last bust that was to leave for Choluteca, but after prayers, running, and some bits of good luck, we made it just in time. Just in time to wait in the hot sun for 45 more minutes, because this is Honduras where the rapidly moving hands on the clock have little relevance.  I really need to learn to relax, I think to myself again as the knots in my stomach begin to unwind and the frustration with some peoples lack of respect for punctuality dissolves into light humor.  What happens, happens. Asi es la vida. When am I going to figure this out?

This day began the opportunity to do something different from the everyday routine of working in the hospital.  A Maranatha missionary group from Wenatchee, Washington had been in Choluteca for about a week. They had been working on building schoolhouses and leading out a series of evangelistic meetings. The three of us were headed to join them and help out with the 2-day medical clinic that was to start on Wednesday.  The drive was beautiful. Every time I travel through Honduras I am struck by the variety of beauty that I experience. Within only a few hours, we go from mountains and pine trees to lush green jungles to valleys and rivers to desert and palm trees. Choluteca is southern Honduras. They say it is the hottest part and the closer we get the more I believe them. As we enter Choluteca, the heat swelters and beads of sweat begin to drip down my back despite the open window and wind whipping about my face.  “This is like exercising without the work” I optimistically comment to my seatmate and comrade, Keri.

On Wednesday we got up early, ate a fantastic breakfast, had a devotional thought (in English!), and piled into the small bus along with boxes and boxes of medications, simple medical supplies, and dental equipment.  We arrived to our site: a church with 2 rooms, disintegrating walls, collapsing benches, 2 rough-wooden tables, a few chairs, and a dusty, artificial, floral plant. People came here every Sabbath but they usually met outside, I assume, due to the condition of the church. There was already at least 50 people waiting for us when we arrived although we technically had an hour before we were to start.  We immediately got to work transforming the old sanctuary into a pharmacy, a waiting area, and 2 consult offices. The back room was transformed into the dental clinic and outside was the triage area where they took vitals under a tree, prayed with people and handed out various forms of reading glasses according to the need.

It was only 8:30, but I was already starting to sweat and my long pants and closed-toed shoes did not help the matter. I was thankful though that I was able to look somewhat professional despite the condition of the clinic. We were here to provide our best.

Before we began seeing patients, we gathered together for prayer. “Lord, we are here to help, but we know that there is so much that we can’t do. Bless our efforts, bless the medicines, that the few pills we are able to give will last as long as they need to, and help us to know what the patients need to hear.” I knew in my heart that what we were doing was really just a drop in the bucket de un monton de nececidades. But a drop is better then nothing, right?

Patient after patient came with various issues: cough and cold, malnutrition, asthma, hypertension, uncontrolled diabetes, wound infections, parasites and worms, fungal skin infections, headaches, body aches, and more. I strained to understand each patient as they rapidly told me their reason for coming. I was barely getting to the point in my Spanish where I didn’t have to think about every word before I said it, that granted, I still had to think a lot. It was like working on 1,000 piece puzzle all day long. In addition to thinking about the language, I had to try to think about each problem. Had I seen it before? Had I even learned about it? What medication could I prescribe for it? I should have payed better attention in microbiology! Thankfully I wasn’t completely on my own. Dr.  HAYMEN??? Was seeing patients next to me and graciously answered my fountain of questions, even stopping in the middle of his consults to come take a listen to or a look at my patient if needed.  Sometimes he would agree with what I wanted to do, other times he would ask me another question that I hadn’t thought of or give me a reason why what I wanted to do was not a good idea.  Either way, I was entirely impressed with his knowledge and I learned something new with almost every patient.

As draining as it was, the first day went by quickly. The second day went by about the same, mentally exhausting but also gratifying.  I started praying with each patient that came through and for the medications that they were going to take, remembering to thank God that this world is not our home. For the most part it felt good to be able to help, there were many infections that we would be helped with the antibiotics, parasites that would be eradicated, and hypertension that would be better controlled, at least until the medication ran out. It is so easy to be overwhelmed by the needs that we can’t meet. They say Honduras has government provided health care. I’m not exactly sure how it all works but I am sure of one thing: there are thousands of people here that are less than adequately cared for.

Most of the medical brigades that I have been involved with run about the same. I enjoy seeing the patients and learning about the diseases and medications. I am trying to teach myself to think about every possibility and ask all the right questions in order to provide the best care I can.  At the end of the day, I cannot help but look back at the situation and think I should have asked this or thought of this or told them that. It is still scary because I know I haven’t had the proper education to prepare me to diagnose and prescribe, but, once again, a drop is better then nothing right? My heart breaks to know that all I can give is a drop when it comes to providing for their physical needs. At the end of the day all I can do is claim that God’s strength is made perfect in my weaknesses and that the patients will be ok. I pray that through the little bit of teaching and physical relief that we are able to provide, the patients can see a glimpse of a God of Love; a God who has prepared a home for us in eternity where everyone is equally healthy, equally free of suffering, and equally wealthy in the riches of His love.

Nunca en Los Estados! (Never in the states!)

I have a friend here who, for privacy sake, I will call Thelma. Thelma is the same age as my mom, really skilled at getting IV’s, talks really fast without the slightest idea that I haven’t a clue what she is saying, and wears a lot of layers. She has a small figure, but a big heart that radiates with warmth, love and a desire to learn. She is also loud and opinionated, incredibly funny and has a smile that stretches from ear-to-ear. Thelma took English in high-school forty-some years ago and enjoys practicing what she remembers and learning more. Every time I teach her something new she takes notes in a very unorganized fashion on some scratch paper or a napkin or whatever is near to write on. I’m thankful she is so good-natured because every time she says words in English, I can’t help but laugh. When I taught her the phrase “have a good day” she said it over and over again, but with her thick accent, it reminded me of the Calvin and Hobbes cartoon where the aliens come and say “haf a gud tay.” Hopefully you know what I’m talking about. It makes me wonder how funny I sound when I try to speak Spanish.

One night I was working shift B (3p-11p) and Thelma was working shift C (11p-7a).  When working night shift, the nurses usually come a few hours early to get some sleep before the shift and also to prevent having to walk alone so late at night. At shift change, Thelma stumbles into the nurses station, swaying from side to side, half asleep, and barely maintaining her balance. With her chin to her chest and eyes barely open, she slumps down into a chair. It was time to give report, but the nurse I was working with wasn’t ready yet and Thelma decided that she wanted a massage. This wasn’t completely random because I had been giving massages to one of the patients who was having severe neck pain. Apparently, this patient really liked it and had told the other nurses that I gave good massages. So, with a grin on her face,  Thelma scoots her chair up to mine, takes my hand, puts it on her neck and pats it. “Massage please,” she states more than asks. I laugh and start rubbing her neck. In less then a minute she decides it’s not good enough and takes off her jacket. I keep massaging. A few seconds later she unbuttons her thick sweater that was under her jacket (remember I’m in Honduras, barely north of the equator), take’s it off, and lays down across my lap, putting my hand back on her neck. Apparently this still isn’t good enough because then she sit’s back up, and takes off her nurse's jacket that was under her sweater that was under her jacket and then lays back down, replaces my hand on her shoulder and anticipates me to continue. By now we are down to her white polo t-shirt. Every time I start massaging, she says things like “que rico!” and “que bueno!” We are both laughing and I continue to give her a massage for the remainder of report, which I can’t imagine she paid much attention to.

At the end of report she says “wait please” and heads to the supply room. She comes back with a glob of Vaseline in her hand, lay’s face down on a stretcher that is at the nurses station and takes off her last layer. “Keep go-eeng, please” she say’s, laughing at herself but also in complete seriousness. I am so tired and tell her so, but shaking my head and entirely amused with the situation, I take the Vaseline from her hand and begin again. “Que rico!” she exclaims again, her voice muffled in the pillow. As I am massaging my friend, advanced in years and stripped down to her bra in the middle of the nurses station, I picture myself back at Erlanger on the oncology floor and try to imagine something like this happening there. I shake my head and try to stifle my laugh. Nunca en los Estados, I think. Nope, never! Only Thelma, only to me, and only in Honduras!

Me Hace Reir!

You make me laugh! Never have I been so thankful that laughing is not contained in a single language! I have laughed so much since I have arrived in Honduras! At myself and at other people, who have laughed even more at me. It’s hard to be frustrated about the seemingly impossible wall that separates me from the people I live, work, eat, and pray with when we are laughing.

At this point, the kids are especially difficult to communicate with because they don’t understand that, even though I am an adult and appear educated, I sound incredibly ignorant. There is a little girl here who is about 6 years old, the daughter of one of the other nurses. She is so cute and shy, but she has the silliest, most vivacious giggle, making it impossible not to follow suit. The other day, her mom left her at the nurse’s station for a while and Kelli and I tried to keep her entertained by talking to her about the colors and the Barbie stickers that she had. We got some of the ideas across but when we were having difficulty, she would stare at us with big eyes and try to hide her smile behind her sticker book. When we realized we weren’t getting anywhere we would laugh at ourselves and then she would burst out in giggles.  We may not have had a conversation, but we were successful in making a new friend!

Facial expressions, charades, gestures, and signals are all exaggerated to the extreme when words aren’t available. I have never acted so much in my life. Many times I want to pull my hair out because there are numerous things that cannot be communicated, no matter how you scrunch your face or wave your hands or dance around and I’m left with the words: “Ay! No se como explicar in espanol. (I don’t know how to explain in Spanish.)” Most of the time though, I feel like I’m living in my own sit-down comedy.  If only there were re-runs!

Getting Ready

Goodbye's haven't hit me yet. It feels like I'm coming right back and I'll see everyone again soon. 8 months is not very soon though and there are a lot of people who may not be around when I get back. I hate saying good-bye, especially because I know that I am not very good at keeping in touch with those I love. Any yet I continue to promise to write, and call, and respond to FB messages. I will do my best to keep my promises.

My hardest goodbye yet was to my friend who just got out of ICU and is now in a long-term care facility. She is so weak, and seems to be getting worse. She has been such a huge part of my life for so long here in TN. My stomach knots up when I find myself asking the question: "Will she be here when I get back?" I pray that she is. Saying goodbye when you don't know if you will ever say hello again is so hard. At some point you just have to walk out and leave and let the distance between you grow. The door shuts, the hallway gets longer and each steps puts more distance between you and the people you care for. You can hear the silence. There is truly a whole in my heart.

"God's greatest gifts are not in things, but in opportunities." - Unknown

I can't believe I am actually going to Honduras! I have yet to find out when, but I am going. At this point, I have no idea what to expect. I have been doing research on the country, but most of the information is tourist information. Reading about all of the information on tourist attractions such as scuba diving, and experiencing a new culture, and taking in breathless scenery makes me so excited to experience this new world. There is so much information about activities to do, food to eat, and things to buy. But this is not why I am going to Honduras. I am going to serve, as a nurse. I am going apply the nursing skills and knowledge that I have worked hard to acquire, and I am going to learn spanish!

Trust. That is a big word for me right now! Trust that God is leading me to this place. Trust that He will never leave me or forsake me. Trust that He will finish the good work that He has started. Trust that I will be challenged to grow spiritually, emotionally, and mentally. Trust that I will be useful, despite the fact that I don't know Spanish. Trust that I will learn Spanish quickly. Trust that I will be able to find a job when I come back.

Right now, I am so excited about this opportunity! However, the excitement comes in waves that swell and then break when I start to think about all the things that I don't know. What in the world am I getting myself into? When I think about Honduras, I dream about all the different things I think I am going to experience, and then I realize that I don't really have a clue, so I should really try to stop making things up.  But then, a few minutes later, another wave of excitement comes and I have forgotten all about any reasons to be hesitant and all I can do is say "I'm so excited!"

Thank you Lord for this gift! I'm diving in, head first! "In your presence is fullness of joy; at your right hand there are pleasures for evermore!" - Psamls 16:11