Last week I prayed about my time here in Togo. It seems awful to say I was bored, maybe a more appropriate term would be I was in a 'quiet' season. Who am I kidding, I used the word bored.
I had worked for a few hundred hours preparing for the Burkitt's program. My excitement grew, I knew the kids would show up, there was no way God would prepare us and not deliver.
Or maybe I was wrong...
Last week there were no kids. I got an email that the chemotherapy had arrived on board. Great, but we have no kids, no contact at the hospital (I'll spare you of those incredibly annoying details. Basically we were trying to set up an appointment with a 'director' who doesn't exist. Moving on)
Last Monday I had a day where I put it all out there.
Ok, God. If all that wasn't for this year, if the inpatient aspect of treating the kids on the ward isn't meant to be, its ok. I trust your plan. Just show me though, because I'm slightly confused about why I am all the way in Africa, sitting and having some 'quiet' time.
Although I didn't use the 'b' word I have a feeling God already knew that one.
Wednesday I get a page to call the dental clinic. A little boy had accompanied his uncle who needed some fillings for his cavities. The dentist (who happens to be my friend and has heard my spiel on Burkitt's) saw the boy and assumed he was the patient. When he didn't sit in her chair she investigated further, thank God she did. Within hours the boy and his uncle were on the way to the ship with a biopsy scheduled for Thursday. I grabbed a translator and we set off for the gate to meet them and bring them through the secured gates. The boy arrived and a random man called him over.
"Why has this boy not gotten treatment?" He implied
Who are you? (I said in my head)
"We're working on it, we are doing a biopsy tomorrow" I politely responded.
Turns out he was a local surgeon. Thankfully I had kept my earlier question to myself
"Do you treat Burkitt's in your hospital. If we diagnose him tomorrow can we bring him to you?"
"Yes, you should be our partner"
Ah, yup. I think that would work.
The conversation was slightly different, but I will keep it short for your sake.
And so the story of Gerald was born, and our relationship with the local government hospital as well.
Gerald is a grown man in a little boys body, and yes, I already love him for those of you who may be wondering. I saw his slide in the lab with my own eyes. When I peered into into the microscope, hundreds of round purple lymphoma cells appeared.
We got him, our first Burkitt's patient.
It seems sick to be excited about a child having cancer, and its not that I am excited for that fact, but I am excited it is something we get to treat. I believe I am here, right now, at this very moment, for Gerald and any other child who comes through with Burkitt's. So yes, I am happy about this little boy with cancer.
We set off for the hospital on Friday morning with high hopes. Gerald sat in the car with us and warmed up within a few minutes. It may have been us dancing to the black eyed peas ( I asked him his favorite music and he said 'dance') or the sheer fact he was out of the sometimes-intimidating ship.
When we arrived we began the typical back and forth with how treatment would go. Things were predictably vague with how they would go about doing it, but we felt ok. When we got to the ward where we would leave Gerald things turned a bit. The children occupying the scarcely covered beds were malnourished and sick. When I leaned over to hand one particularly sick boy a sticker, the stench of stale urine filled my nostrils. They brought in a mattress for Gerald, stained and dirty, with no offer for a bed sheet. We decided to go out and buy some sheets. Here, you don't look for the nearest bed bath and beyond, you simply go to the corner and find a woman selling used bedding. 3 bucks for a top and bottom sheet, even a pillow case thrown in as well. We chose white, figuring if it was dirty we would know more readily. The 'top sheet' was a table cloth with embroidered flowers in the center. Very nice, really.
We returned, made his bed, and left feeling pretty good that Gerald would begin treatment. We were tired, but felt good about our progress. In desperate need of some food and a shower, Becca and I split and decided to join forces after a quick nap.
Those plans went down faster than we could get to the dining room. I got a call from the OR. Another little boy we were sure had some form of cancer causing his eye to bulge away from his face, had just gotten out of his biopsy. Diagnosis: probable Burkitt's.
I had been thinking it, and at that moment I realized something. A note to the wise:
Don't tell god you're bored if you don't want Him to answer.
Thankfully, both Becca and I were happy He answered, and ready to go. We made our back through the dusty streets, walked over the cracked and wobbling drain covers, and into the office where we hoped to enroll little 1 and a half year old Michael in our assumed protocol.
Not so.
Turns out no one planned on starting treatment on Friday. They ordered a litany of tests, some of which we had already done, and sent us away feeling totally defeated. Becca returned Saturday on her day off and she saw more of the same, except now, the urgent treatment wasn't going to begin until Wednesday.
I woke up this morning with puffy eyes, a result of the tears cried last night over the injustice of this whole situation. I hated it, I wanted it to be different. I am willing to carry this burden, I am, but its a different story when the kids are right in front of you. Its easy to plan and to talk, but when you have giggled along with a 4 year old and watched how a mama cares for her only son who has yet to see his second birthday, things change. Objectivity becomes a distant memory. Your heart breaks in ways you couldn't imagine, and taking one more step seems not only impossible, but pointless.
So I prayed, and my mom prayed from more than a thousand miles away while I quietly cried in my room, not the first time this scene has unfolded while I have been in Africa.
This morning we were greeted by the stern face of the head doctor of pediatrics in the local hospital. He didn't appear terribly pleased to meet us, and both Becca and I could have thrown up on command at that point over the dread we had in our stomachs.
I smile right now writing this. I told my mom I liked being surprised by God, but at the same time I can't believe its possible to still manage to be surprised by Him.
Halfway through our meeting, a weight was lifted. All of a sudden we were talking about parnership, about how we could help each other. We all were agreeing and chatting about how we could work together.
We left, physically, emotionally, and mentally feeling lighter.
Thank you, God. You did it again.
He never fails.
Last Wednesday, the day I met Gerald, I wouldn't have normally been outside of the car. We were just waiting, expecting to see them and have them immediatly follow us into the port. They were late though, and a man knocked on our window while we waited. Turns out he had come from Benin and had some complications from his surgery nearly a year ago. When Gerald and his uncle arrived, I was trying over and over again to get a call to go through to the ship in order to ask what to do with the man from Benin. Had we not been delayed, and outside of the car, the Dr. wouldn't have seen Gerald and asked us about him. I would still be trying to get through to a director that doesn't exist.
That morning when I had heard of the possibility of a Burkitt's patient I immediatly prayed because although I was excited, without a hospital I wouldn't have anywhere to bring him.
Before that, if the dentist hadn't thought to take a closer look at Gerald, he would have walked right through without us ever knowing.
Why did the uncle even bring him to the dental clinic with him?
Do you see yet that this isn't coincidence, that there is a greater power working out every detail of every day? Should I go on? Because I could. I could type for hours about every instance I have seen God in, just over the last 5 days.
Gods plan is perfect. His timing is impeccable. His love is extravagant.
I had worked for a few hundred hours preparing for the Burkitt's program. My excitement grew, I knew the kids would show up, there was no way God would prepare us and not deliver.
Or maybe I was wrong...
Last week there were no kids. I got an email that the chemotherapy had arrived on board. Great, but we have no kids, no contact at the hospital (I'll spare you of those incredibly annoying details. Basically we were trying to set up an appointment with a 'director' who doesn't exist. Moving on)
Last Monday I had a day where I put it all out there.
Ok, God. If all that wasn't for this year, if the inpatient aspect of treating the kids on the ward isn't meant to be, its ok. I trust your plan. Just show me though, because I'm slightly confused about why I am all the way in Africa, sitting and having some 'quiet' time.
Although I didn't use the 'b' word I have a feeling God already knew that one.
Wednesday I get a page to call the dental clinic. A little boy had accompanied his uncle who needed some fillings for his cavities. The dentist (who happens to be my friend and has heard my spiel on Burkitt's) saw the boy and assumed he was the patient. When he didn't sit in her chair she investigated further, thank God she did. Within hours the boy and his uncle were on the way to the ship with a biopsy scheduled for Thursday. I grabbed a translator and we set off for the gate to meet them and bring them through the secured gates. The boy arrived and a random man called him over.
"Why has this boy not gotten treatment?" He implied
Who are you? (I said in my head)
"We're working on it, we are doing a biopsy tomorrow" I politely responded.
Turns out he was a local surgeon. Thankfully I had kept my earlier question to myself
"Do you treat Burkitt's in your hospital. If we diagnose him tomorrow can we bring him to you?"
"Yes, you should be our partner"
Ah, yup. I think that would work.
The conversation was slightly different, but I will keep it short for your sake.
And so the story of Gerald was born, and our relationship with the local government hospital as well.
Gerald is a grown man in a little boys body, and yes, I already love him for those of you who may be wondering. I saw his slide in the lab with my own eyes. When I peered into into the microscope, hundreds of round purple lymphoma cells appeared.
We got him, our first Burkitt's patient.
It seems sick to be excited about a child having cancer, and its not that I am excited for that fact, but I am excited it is something we get to treat. I believe I am here, right now, at this very moment, for Gerald and any other child who comes through with Burkitt's. So yes, I am happy about this little boy with cancer.
We set off for the hospital on Friday morning with high hopes. Gerald sat in the car with us and warmed up within a few minutes. It may have been us dancing to the black eyed peas ( I asked him his favorite music and he said 'dance') or the sheer fact he was out of the sometimes-intimidating ship.
When we arrived we began the typical back and forth with how treatment would go. Things were predictably vague with how they would go about doing it, but we felt ok. When we got to the ward where we would leave Gerald things turned a bit. The children occupying the scarcely covered beds were malnourished and sick. When I leaned over to hand one particularly sick boy a sticker, the stench of stale urine filled my nostrils. They brought in a mattress for Gerald, stained and dirty, with no offer for a bed sheet. We decided to go out and buy some sheets. Here, you don't look for the nearest bed bath and beyond, you simply go to the corner and find a woman selling used bedding. 3 bucks for a top and bottom sheet, even a pillow case thrown in as well. We chose white, figuring if it was dirty we would know more readily. The 'top sheet' was a table cloth with embroidered flowers in the center. Very nice, really.
We returned, made his bed, and left feeling pretty good that Gerald would begin treatment. We were tired, but felt good about our progress. In desperate need of some food and a shower, Becca and I split and decided to join forces after a quick nap.
Those plans went down faster than we could get to the dining room. I got a call from the OR. Another little boy we were sure had some form of cancer causing his eye to bulge away from his face, had just gotten out of his biopsy. Diagnosis: probable Burkitt's.
I had been thinking it, and at that moment I realized something. A note to the wise:
Don't tell god you're bored if you don't want Him to answer.
Thankfully, both Becca and I were happy He answered, and ready to go. We made our back through the dusty streets, walked over the cracked and wobbling drain covers, and into the office where we hoped to enroll little 1 and a half year old Michael in our assumed protocol.
Not so.
Turns out no one planned on starting treatment on Friday. They ordered a litany of tests, some of which we had already done, and sent us away feeling totally defeated. Becca returned Saturday on her day off and she saw more of the same, except now, the urgent treatment wasn't going to begin until Wednesday.
I woke up this morning with puffy eyes, a result of the tears cried last night over the injustice of this whole situation. I hated it, I wanted it to be different. I am willing to carry this burden, I am, but its a different story when the kids are right in front of you. Its easy to plan and to talk, but when you have giggled along with a 4 year old and watched how a mama cares for her only son who has yet to see his second birthday, things change. Objectivity becomes a distant memory. Your heart breaks in ways you couldn't imagine, and taking one more step seems not only impossible, but pointless.
So I prayed, and my mom prayed from more than a thousand miles away while I quietly cried in my room, not the first time this scene has unfolded while I have been in Africa.
This morning we were greeted by the stern face of the head doctor of pediatrics in the local hospital. He didn't appear terribly pleased to meet us, and both Becca and I could have thrown up on command at that point over the dread we had in our stomachs.
I smile right now writing this. I told my mom I liked being surprised by God, but at the same time I can't believe its possible to still manage to be surprised by Him.
Halfway through our meeting, a weight was lifted. All of a sudden we were talking about parnership, about how we could help each other. We all were agreeing and chatting about how we could work together.
We left, physically, emotionally, and mentally feeling lighter.
Thank you, God. You did it again.
He never fails.
Last Wednesday, the day I met Gerald, I wouldn't have normally been outside of the car. We were just waiting, expecting to see them and have them immediatly follow us into the port. They were late though, and a man knocked on our window while we waited. Turns out he had come from Benin and had some complications from his surgery nearly a year ago. When Gerald and his uncle arrived, I was trying over and over again to get a call to go through to the ship in order to ask what to do with the man from Benin. Had we not been delayed, and outside of the car, the Dr. wouldn't have seen Gerald and asked us about him. I would still be trying to get through to a director that doesn't exist.
That morning when I had heard of the possibility of a Burkitt's patient I immediatly prayed because although I was excited, without a hospital I wouldn't have anywhere to bring him.
Before that, if the dentist hadn't thought to take a closer look at Gerald, he would have walked right through without us ever knowing.
Why did the uncle even bring him to the dental clinic with him?
Do you see yet that this isn't coincidence, that there is a greater power working out every detail of every day? Should I go on? Because I could. I could type for hours about every instance I have seen God in, just over the last 5 days.
Gods plan is perfect. His timing is impeccable. His love is extravagant.
And here he is. Gerald. In charge and ready for business.
Little Michael. Today when we walked through the courtyard of the hospital his smiling mama ran up and wrapped her strong arms around us. Michael was sporting a matching wide smile. Until I kissed him. Too soon. Too soon.
2 comments:
Psalm 30 v 5b :)
Oh wow. Those hands on the hips. Gerald looks like a handful! But a handsome handful, indeed :)
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