And so I continue

I like having a blog. If anything, it keeps a record of whats on my mind, and holds onto the stories and memories that seem to blend together the more months I spend in Africa. You see everyday is an adventure of sorts, that is, if you compare it to living in a first world country. The randomness, chaos, and general craziness gradually become quite normal. Then you have days like last Saturday.
Around midnight Friday night my friend Liz came up to where I was watching the Red Sox game with a fellow Bostonian (we have to stay up really stinkin' late to catch a glimpse here...so worth it). She had just come from the local hospital where she helped drop off one of our day workers from the ship. Edith had an ectopic pregnancy from what our doctor could diagnose, and although considered emergent in any other country, the doctors decided to wait until 6am to do her surgery, simply because she had drank a few sips of porridge. Liz wanted to return to be with Edith before surgery and I volunteered to go with her. We had no idea what was in store.

At 6:15 when we arrived, Edith was noticeably in pain. She had a bottle of IV tylenol still attached to her arm, the line dry and said to have been that way for 6 hours. She was upset that through her suffering the doctors were sleeping. Liz and I just looked around, taking in the sights of the small, dirty room, swatting at the mosquitoes buzzing all around us. Holding Edith's hand, we felt our eyes burn as the housekeeper/nurse used straight bleach to wash the floor. The only comfort in the toxic air being the hope of some level of cleanliness on the dingy gray floors.
We tried to get Edith to sit down when she started getting out of bed, wrapping a lappa of brightly colored fabric around her. We followed as she walked down the muggy outdoor hallway and knocked on the door of where the doctor and nurses were sleeping, waking them in order to ask them to come do her surgery. We prayed after they took Edith in. We prayed again with her husband and the men from their church when they came. We stood in the dust, sun on our backs, and began a waiting game, which soon became interesting.
As we watched the workers sweep the walls and ceilings (?), a man donned in scrubs came out with a prescription, said something in French (or maybe Fon, doesn't matter when you don't understand either) and pointed. We followed Edith's husband towards the pharmacy, smiling at each other, wondering what the slip we held called for.
"If its for the propofol we'll know they haven't started yet"

We walk up to the pharmacy, hand over our slip, and just as quickly got it handed back to us and, with a flick of a wrist, were pointed in a different direction. We looked across the hall to another window where we again offered our small slip of paper. Liz held out her money while Edith's husband picked the coins he wanted and paid. The woman handed us the small slip of paper again, this time with a receipt as well. With another flick of the wrist we were herded over to the original window where the man started looking for our item. It was an ET tube. The tube they use to intubate the patient.
"Guess they haven't started yet"

Several more times throughout the morning we were given a small slip of paper and made the short walk across the courtyard to the hospital pharmacy. One of the trips we were told the hospital had run out of the antibiotic and very casually Edith's husband walked out the gates towards another pharmacy, signaling for us to stay. We were literally retrieving the needed supplies in a play by play manner for the surgery.

At one point someone in scrubs came out again (I say 'someone in scrubs' rather than nurse because I am fully unconvinced that all of these people were necessarily in the medical field) and asked Liz and I to follow. We walked through the doors to the operating rooms (which has a doorbell. No other comment needed, the OR has a doorbell) where they had Liz go inside, but wouldn't allow me. You see, Liz was in scrubs, looking all official. With a little convincing, and me just plainly walking in behind her, we got to see Edith's surgery and the screen which displayed what the camera inside her was capturing.
At another point I had left and upon returning couldn't find Liz, so assumed she was back in the operating room. I walked through the doors (past the doorbell) and caught the eye of a giant man. He must have been nearly 6'10'', not someone I would have wanted to mess with. He broke into a huge grin, and within what seemed like only 3 steps he was standing directly in front of me. He took me by the wrist and began leading me towards the room I wanted to go in. He beamed when he figured out I was from America "Ah, my sister" he said, which I know by now has a direct link towards Obama (His brother, my president, in case you were wondering. Their words, not mine)

As Edith was wheeled to the recovery room, I was again stopped at the door because of my lack of scrubs. Both Liz and I looked around at the blood-stained beds and dusty walls, smiling over how with scrubs she was apparently 'cleaner' than I was.

As I waited outside, my friendly giant made his way down the hall, saying,
"Suzy-anne, that is a good name, a very good name. I would like your internet address please."

Another man in scrubs came towards me and handed me a sterile gown, and with the 147th flick of the wrist I had seen that day, showed me I could go inside while wearing the gown (makes total sense?). Within minutes I was sent off holding another slip of paper for more medication. The hospital pharmacy was out, so I headed for the exit where I simply said "pharmacia" and, you guessed it, got a flick pointing me out and to the right of the gates. While I walked through the exhaust fumes, smoke, and heat, I smiled hoping the pharmacy would at least be remotely close. At one point my heel slid on something, and against my better judgment I looked back to see what it had been. To my delight it was only a banana peel.

huh, they actually are slippery, I thought that was only in cartoons

I got to the pharmacy after a brisk 5 minute walk, only to have the woman show me a calculator with a number far higher than the equivalent of 10 dollars I had on me. I walked back out the door, into the smog, past the banana peel, through the courtyard, past the doorbell, pulled my (insufferably hot) green gown back on, and found Liz to collect more money. We were still short, so I found the friends and family of Edith sitting outside. With a lot of sign language, 3 french words, and maybe 2 and a half English words, I got the little money I still needed and made my way back out the gates with the slip of paper in one pocket and the money in another.
I walked back past the holes in the sidewalk, the peanuts being sold in old alcohol bottles, the men making kissing noises in attempts to get my attention, the babies tied to their mama's backs, women selling food, fabric, and an array of other randomness, and into the pharmacy.

Once I had returned, sufficiently sweaty, Liz and I felt comfortable that Edith was going to be ok, and we left the hospital, having spent 8 hours there. Laughing the whole way home while we recalled the events of the day.
"Can you imagine having to wake up your own surgeon?"

Later that night, after a hot shower and long nap, I found my way upstairs for a night of worship some people on the ship had planned. All day, and then again that night I reflected on why I am here, why I do all of this. Then I let warm tears fall as someone felt led to read the following:

Colossians 1:21-23
"Once you were alienated from God and were enemies in your minds because of your evil behavior. But now he has reconciled you by Christ's physical body through death to present you holy in his sight, without blemish and free from accusation— if you continue in your faith, established and firm, not moved from the hope held out in the gospel. This is the gospel that you heard and that has been proclaimed to every creature under heaven, and of which I, Paul, have become a servant."

You see, all day I had whispered to God why I do this, why I am here.
Because you first loved me

Everyday I continue in my faith, established and firm. I walk forward with an undeniable love as my driving force. Some days this walk is literal. It is hot, sticky, sweaty, dirty, dusty, and seems to go on forever. Those days are the best, the ones I will remember forever. And I will always continue.
Because He first loved me.