joy, shared.

 At the beginning of this field service, I got to participate in the Plastics Evaluation Day, a day where our patients who had plastic surgeries last year were brought back to the ship so we can check on their progress and see how they are feeling about the results.  I was one of a few nurses who paired off with an amazing translator and went through a series of questions for all the patients... How do you feel your scar looks? Do you have any pain? How much? How ashamed did you feel before your surgery, and now? How did you feel society viewed you before your surgery, and now? Did you feel Jesus played a part in your care? How much? And so on...

It was truly an uplifting and beautiful day. It was a reunion of sorts, and I was so excited to be a part of it. To see our family of friends come back to one place at one time. I loved watching them reconnect, so excited to see each other and share stories. I loved standing back, looking across the room at all our patients and their caregivers, overwhelmed with joy to see how they have healed. To see how their arms extended when they had been stuck to their sides. To see fingers move freely that had once been attached. To see heads turning and moving in ways that would never have been possible until their neck contracture was released.  To see the smiles. That was the best part. The smiles. The excitement to see each other, and us, again, to tell us how they had healed, to embrace us again as friends.

 

Some of the kids remembered us, and some didn't. Most were shy, having returned home where they don't encounter vazas ("foreigners"/"white people") very often, if at all.

Rosa, a long-time resident of A ward, who had led our rounds with her very own clipboard, standing on a stool to tell each patient "You have a dressing change today, yours is tomorrow..." etc.. told me shyly that she didn't remember any of the nurses. She seemed to remain curious, climbing into my arms at one point and playing with balloons while I held her.  And honestly, it's OK if she doesn't remember my name. It's OK that she doesn't remember I helped with her wound care for weeks, months of healing time.  The thing that I love is that she is healed, she is pain-free, she is happy. She and her mom are full of joy and excitement, without a hint of shame.

 

Little Fitia, who came to us with a fresh burn wound to her neck, in pain and traumatized, but who had slowly but surely healed and gained trust in us, had grown significantly, with a full head of hair. Her personality shone through, gone were her shy and fearful days when she first came to the wards. Now she confidently and bravely explored the atmosphere around her. Her neck healed beautifully, and never had the chance to contract. She did not seem to remember the pain, and no fear was in her face, only joy. And the joy in her mother's face was ten-fold. They traveled for 2 days just to tell us how good they were doing.

Our adult patients remembered us all well. They greeted us with big smiles, with hugs, with laughter. They were happy to see us and most were proud to show us how they had healed since the ship left. Let me just highlight this, repeat it for emphasis.  They were proud to show us their scars. Look how my arms can move, look how my skin has grown back, look at this spot. Where there wasn't movement, where there wasn't skin, there is healing. I am renewed. Where once there was shame, there is pride, there is joy.

Story after story stating that they were so ashamed, their peers would make fun of them, they had little chance at ever getting married before their surgery. And now? They are happy, they are proud, they think they look good and they are excited about their future. 

Isaiah 61:7

Instead of your shame
    you will receive a double portion,
and instead of disgrace
    you will rejoice in your inheritance.
And so you will inherit a double portion in your land,
    and everlasting joy will be yours.

I will end with a little story about Minette, a patient from last year. She and her father had both come in with large neurofibromas we removed. Minette's neurofibroma hung from the back of her head, ending all the way down at her waist, weighing 4.3 kg (9.5 lb).

Minette told us that before her surgery, she had felt very ashamed because she felt like she was not a person.  She went on to say that she lost her shame right after surgery. She had said, "People wouldn’t talk to me. They looked at me as if I was less than human. Feeling the love of the crew has changed my life.” She prayed to God he would heal her, and she sees the big role that Jesus had played in her care on the ship.  We could see it, too. 

Minette came to the ship defeated. She had so much sadness and hopelessness in her eyes. We prayed with her, held her hand, looked her lovingly in the eyes, had chaplaincy regularly visiting her... we just wanted to see that veil of shame lifted. It took a few days, and then her smile came out. And once that smile started, it was not to be put away again. She radiated joy and shared that joy with each person who came into contact with her. It is pretty near impossible not to feel her happiness transferred to you when you see and feel her intense joy and excitement for life. 

And that is what it's about. 

Minette has a reason to smile, and so do we.

A million reasons.

Let's remember them and share our smiles with the world.

not just a number.

I was working on data entry yesterday once I had finished all the dressing changes for the day. I was entering patient demographics: are they married? do they have children? where do they get water from? what is their bathroom like? what amenities do they have? how much schooling have they had? and so on.  What struck me was how normal these answers can seem, how looking at a paper is so much different than looking into someone's eyes.  How I can get lost in the numbers and forget the story being told. And then I started thinking about each individual patient, each person, as I was entering their answers. My heart was breaking. 

I quickly noticed that most women who have had pregnancies, have lost at least one child.  The obstetric fistula patients, one after the other, have statistics like this: 

- 36 years old, 8 pregnancies, 8 deceased children. Single.
- 31 years old, 2 pregnancies, 2 deceased children. No schooling, cannot read.
- 50 years old, 1 pregnancy, 1 deceased child. Separated. 2 years of schooling, cannot read.
- 37 years old, 5 pregnancies, 2 alive and 3 deceased children. Married. 5 years of school, can read.
- 40 years old, 8 pregnancies, 5 alive and 3 deceased children. 3 years of school, able to read individual words.

The list goes on and on. But these are not just numbers, it isn't just data entry. These are people. Each child lost is a life lost, another piece of the heart broken. I can't even pretend to say that I understand this heart break. I can't begin to understand what it is like to live in a country where fetal death is so common, where you must try not to rely on a pregnancy to bring a healthy infant into the world, for fear of disappointment. What is it like to lose a child, and know that it's not uncommon? Does it hurt any less knowing that your neighbor, or friend, or family member went through the same heartbreak? I can't understand, but I can't imagine the pain is any less intense. In fact, I think it might be multiplied. One more child who didn't survive, one more small, beautiful life lost. Because of lack of access to healthcare, because of lack of funds, because of where they were born. Why should it be so different for me? Why was I born in a country where I can go to a hospital any time I am sick?  My own heart breaks and tears come to my eyes as I, one by one, enter in these devastating numbers and say a silent prayer for the person behind the statistics. 

What words can I offer? What can I do to comfort those who have seen so much pain? But here's the thing, words aren't always needed.  So much can be said through looking someone in the eye and truly seeing them, for holding a hand, for sitting silently next to them just so they know you are there and they are not alone.  I can pray for them. I can hug them. I can see them, really see them. Look them in the eyes, let them know they are loved and they are important and that this pain will one day end. And yes, there is pain and suffering in this world that cannot be understood, but there is also good in this world. There is joy, there is love, and there is hope. There are people in this world with amazing hearts, who seem to simply exist to spread joy and encouragement. We can be these people. All it takes is one person to see you, to know you are loved. Let us fearlessly and boldly go out into this world and love each other. Let's spread hope and love across this broken globe.