I am living in a fairy tale.
I would love to write about all the things I've seen and done this week, but it would take several hours of typing just to communicate it all. The Mutomboko ceremony was Friday and Saturday. Zeger (a Belgian volunteer) and I went to pretty much all of it, and Timmy, Troy, and Jasmine joined us for the running with the chief. There was traditional singing and dancing, several different ceremonies, thousands of loud drunk people, a goat sacrifice, a few minor injuries, and more memories than one person could ever possibly remember.
We worked a little, too. Thursday evening we went to organize and inventory the clinic. Before we could put the medicine on the shelves, we had to clear the dust off. But then there was dust on the floor. When we tried to sweep it up, it coated the walls. Finally, we pulled everything out of the clinic and scrubbed the African dirt off of it. The linoleum was covering an impressive amount of termite leftovers, so we ended up yanking it up, bleaching everything from the ceiling down, and then putting it all back together again. What started as a 30-min tidying chore morphed into multi-day renovating escapade: the window needed a curtain, the door to the pharmacy won't close, the doorframe of the clinic has a busted piece, and the bed broke a few weeks ago when Zeger and I sat on it at the same time with Jessie.
After four days of work, the pharmacy still needs inventoried. The bed is almost done, and we need to clean up the mess created by painting and drilling, but for the most part the room looks really nice. I had a really great time doing it-- it gave me something to obsess over for a few days.
In other news, I have a pig skull! The Morrows roasted a pig (and by roasted I mean dug a giant hole, lit a massive fire, wrapped a pig in a piece of cloth and buried it for 24 hours-- it tasted like heaven) and Amy held back the skull, bones, and major organs for me so I can do anatomy lessons with the kids. I felt like a kid at Christmas. We're going to cover it all tomorrow.
There are a thousand other things I want to do this week too. I'm dying to make a solar system model with the kids. We need to make thank you cards for the volunteers who just left. We taught the kinders how to jig (courtesy of the Belgian) last week, and I really want to do it with them again. One of the Texas volunteers, Sarah, brought a bunch of super fun science stuff for the kids, and I definitely want to make the volcano erupt with the kinders. Beyond school, I'm also hoping to find some time to just hang out with the Morrow kids. We haven't really had time for that since the volunteers left.
I simply cannot believe that in just four days I will be leaving this paradise. I love this. I was made for this. I truly could not be happier. A friend told me to take pictures for others and memories for myself. I think I've made plenty of both.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Another Goodbye
Due to a mutiny somewhere between here and Germany concerning the internet service, we've been totally cut off from cyberspace for the last two weeks. Words can hardly express all that has happened since then, but since I can't figure out how to upload pictures then I suppose words will just have to suffice.
We lost baby Jessie.
Friday she was doing really well. Saturday morning we took her to the Falls with us. That evening we were dancing in the dining room. She was there with us, and her temperature dropped drastically. Then her breathing became unsteady again. She slipped back into a semi-conscious state. Monday afternoon we put an NG tube back in because she had stopped eating. Her eyes wouldn't close all the way. Most of us went to the Boma that evening to eat traditional Zambian food. Amy took the first shift with her that night. I came in at two, and I could tell by the way Amy was acting that she expected the worst. I fed Jessie through the tube and turned the TV on to keep me awake because I had left my alarm in my room. At about quarter after three, I woke up. She was more peaceful, but not in a recovering way. At 3:32am, she stopped breathing. Amy happened to get up about ten minutes later. One of the other volunteers had become every bit as attached to Jessie as I was, so Amy went to wake him up. I don't think I've ever been as grateful for companionship as I was in that moment. I really don't remember a whole lot more, but there was a lot of crying and hot tea involved.
The house is strangely empty without her, and so are my arms. When her grandmother picked up her quiet little body for the last time, I watched part of my heart walk away with that tired old woman. I'll never forget the sight of the grandmother and aunt walking into the distance down that dusty dirt road.
I've never loved anyone like that before. I fought so very hard to keep her. When her tiny body was in my hands, there was nothing in the world more important. When she was in someone else's hands, I was itching to get her back. Every breath, every little squawk, every sigh was a precious gift.
The following are some excerpts pulled from my journal. I would have blogged, but the internet was down.
"And so the spot in my chest where my heart used to be stands aching and empty but for a few broken pieces and a desperate longing for what was. Shattered hope and strangled dreams. Anger. Desperate, unbridled, illogical anger, against a world where babies die from preventable disease...
She likes to be held. She likes to be cuddled close so she can feel your heart beat. She likes warm baths as long as she's in the water, but she shrieks like a banshee the moment she's taken out. Make sure she has both her bows-- the purple one, and the pink and white one. She can have her hands free now, free to explore and touch and learn. She likes to ball her tiny little fists up on either side of the bottle while she eats. And she doesn't like to wait when she's hungry or needs changed. Now she can be clothed in brilliant white. It will be beautiful on her. She'll look just like an angel. She already did. She really likes to be sang to. I should have sang to her more...
I love how she shrugs her shoulders and widens her mouth into that froggy old man smile. I love the feeling of her head in my hand and her curly hair like silk between my fingers, her long delicate toes and tiny fingernails, and those eyes! Those gorgeous, intelligent eyes! Deep as the ocean and with almost as much strength. Even the pockmark on her ear is precious, and the soft spot on her forehead, and the ridges all the way around her head, and the thin layer of soft black hair that velveted her entire body. I remember the green birthmark on her shoulder and the fierce protectiveness I felt when I thought it was a bruise and that someone had hurt her. I love her perfect little freckled chin and her beautiful coffee-and-creme skin. I remember her fiery spirit. She fought every step of the way. She snatched at the NG tube and clawed at the ARVs. If only she had fought the right things... I love how strong she can be when she has to, how a baby with no discernible muscles could suddenly push her entire body up to stand on her spindly legs in an effort to dodge the medicine headed towards her mouth. I even love her scars. They are perfect by connection. I love how tiny and delicate she was, how even newborn clothes swallowed her...
I woke up and reached down to hold her firmly against my chest so I could sit up. She wasn't there. I want to scream... I'm not sure if it would be worse to reflexively reach for her every time I wake up or turn around, or to stop reaching for her at all...
Once again, my memory fails me. I feel these last precious memories slipping like vapor through my desperate clutching fingers. Hanging her from a tree in a canvas bag at the falls to weigh her, dancing to "My Favorite Things," watching the stars-- even the hard memories, like the first feeding tube and stitch, reading the word "HIV" in her letter on the day she got here, and the persistant weight loss. I remember the very first time I saw her. Beatrice placed her in my arms and said, "Another little princess." That's when I fell completely and totally in love with her...
If love could keep a heart beating, she would still be here with us. My little African princess.
There's more of the same where that came from, but I'll spare you. I promise I got to a much healthier place after a couple of days.
If I seem a little mentally unstable right now, it's probably because I was. But you know what? If I could do it all over again, I would have loved her every bit as deeply. She deserved it. She was worth it.
We lost baby Jessie.
Friday she was doing really well. Saturday morning we took her to the Falls with us. That evening we were dancing in the dining room. She was there with us, and her temperature dropped drastically. Then her breathing became unsteady again. She slipped back into a semi-conscious state. Monday afternoon we put an NG tube back in because she had stopped eating. Her eyes wouldn't close all the way. Most of us went to the Boma that evening to eat traditional Zambian food. Amy took the first shift with her that night. I came in at two, and I could tell by the way Amy was acting that she expected the worst. I fed Jessie through the tube and turned the TV on to keep me awake because I had left my alarm in my room. At about quarter after three, I woke up. She was more peaceful, but not in a recovering way. At 3:32am, she stopped breathing. Amy happened to get up about ten minutes later. One of the other volunteers had become every bit as attached to Jessie as I was, so Amy went to wake him up. I don't think I've ever been as grateful for companionship as I was in that moment. I really don't remember a whole lot more, but there was a lot of crying and hot tea involved.
The house is strangely empty without her, and so are my arms. When her grandmother picked up her quiet little body for the last time, I watched part of my heart walk away with that tired old woman. I'll never forget the sight of the grandmother and aunt walking into the distance down that dusty dirt road.
I've never loved anyone like that before. I fought so very hard to keep her. When her tiny body was in my hands, there was nothing in the world more important. When she was in someone else's hands, I was itching to get her back. Every breath, every little squawk, every sigh was a precious gift.
The following are some excerpts pulled from my journal. I would have blogged, but the internet was down.
"And so the spot in my chest where my heart used to be stands aching and empty but for a few broken pieces and a desperate longing for what was. Shattered hope and strangled dreams. Anger. Desperate, unbridled, illogical anger, against a world where babies die from preventable disease...
She likes to be held. She likes to be cuddled close so she can feel your heart beat. She likes warm baths as long as she's in the water, but she shrieks like a banshee the moment she's taken out. Make sure she has both her bows-- the purple one, and the pink and white one. She can have her hands free now, free to explore and touch and learn. She likes to ball her tiny little fists up on either side of the bottle while she eats. And she doesn't like to wait when she's hungry or needs changed. Now she can be clothed in brilliant white. It will be beautiful on her. She'll look just like an angel. She already did. She really likes to be sang to. I should have sang to her more...
I love how she shrugs her shoulders and widens her mouth into that froggy old man smile. I love the feeling of her head in my hand and her curly hair like silk between my fingers, her long delicate toes and tiny fingernails, and those eyes! Those gorgeous, intelligent eyes! Deep as the ocean and with almost as much strength. Even the pockmark on her ear is precious, and the soft spot on her forehead, and the ridges all the way around her head, and the thin layer of soft black hair that velveted her entire body. I remember the green birthmark on her shoulder and the fierce protectiveness I felt when I thought it was a bruise and that someone had hurt her. I love her perfect little freckled chin and her beautiful coffee-and-creme skin. I remember her fiery spirit. She fought every step of the way. She snatched at the NG tube and clawed at the ARVs. If only she had fought the right things... I love how strong she can be when she has to, how a baby with no discernible muscles could suddenly push her entire body up to stand on her spindly legs in an effort to dodge the medicine headed towards her mouth. I even love her scars. They are perfect by connection. I love how tiny and delicate she was, how even newborn clothes swallowed her...
I woke up and reached down to hold her firmly against my chest so I could sit up. She wasn't there. I want to scream... I'm not sure if it would be worse to reflexively reach for her every time I wake up or turn around, or to stop reaching for her at all...
Once again, my memory fails me. I feel these last precious memories slipping like vapor through my desperate clutching fingers. Hanging her from a tree in a canvas bag at the falls to weigh her, dancing to "My Favorite Things," watching the stars-- even the hard memories, like the first feeding tube and stitch, reading the word "HIV" in her letter on the day she got here, and the persistant weight loss. I remember the very first time I saw her. Beatrice placed her in my arms and said, "Another little princess." That's when I fell completely and totally in love with her...
If love could keep a heart beating, she would still be here with us. My little African princess.
There's more of the same where that came from, but I'll spare you. I promise I got to a much healthier place after a couple of days.
If I seem a little mentally unstable right now, it's probably because I was. But you know what? If I could do it all over again, I would have loved her every bit as deeply. She deserved it. She was worth it.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Jessie
What a crazy busy week!
A team of ladies from Texas arrived Friday. Much of last week consisted of getting things ready for them. That, together with Jessie's antics, kept us pretty busy. We took Jessie down to the clinic last week to have an NG tube put in because she couldn't seem to keep any food down. She swallows a lot of air when she eats, and she is very difficult to burp. She was vomiting every time we fed her. Her color was ashy, and she would only take a about 15ml at a time every couple hours or so (NOT enough!).
I could fill a book with rantings about the inefficiency and inadequacy of the medical system here. The workers are doing the very best they can; they are overworked, and I'm sure they are tired. The midwife who inserted the NG tube was very hesitant. They don't even have NG tubes at the clinic (we took one with us), so he may have never done it before. Jessie's stomach is very active, and just the clenching of her stomach began to force the tube up as soon as he got it down. After much insisting and persuading, he consented to put a stitch through her nose to hold the tube in. He definitely hadn't done that before. They didn't have any suture kits at the clinic. He initially could only find an IV needle, which would have totally mangled her nose. Finally he came up with an internal suture kit, which had a larger needle than was necessary (but smaller than the IV needle). The thread with the kit was dissolvable, but it was the best we could do. He stuck her with some lidocaine, then tried to place the stitch.
It was brutal. I just remember desperately praying that the needle would come through. It finally did. He tied a loose square not around the tube. Then we spoke with the HIV/AIDS Clinic workers who were there that day. One of the kids was supposed to have gone down for a checkup and to get medicine, but in the craziness of the week it was forgotten. Several long conversations later, they finally just gave us the medicine to take back to him.
Finally, we took Jessie home. She did great for the first NG feeding that Amy gave her. I fed her the next one, and she nearly scared me to death...
She kind of coughed, puked, and convulsed all at the same time. My first overly-panicky thought was that she had seized. My next overly-panicky thought was a bit more colorful as I realized that she had either jerked or vomited her tube halfway out. Her eyes widened into giant saucers, and she began to choke. I pulled the tube the rest of the way out. The stitch placed by the midwife didn't hold-- the tube had slid right through it.
We left the stitch in hopes that the medical officer would be able to just retie it when he came to reinsert the tube, but two days later he still hadn't come. I ended up putting the tube down myself. We used the same stitch. She managed to cough it out a little a couple of times, but nothing too major. Then yesterday as I was changing her she got a hand on it and ripped it out, stitch and all. We tried giving her a bottle, but she's still not strong enough to suck down all 50ml, so down went the tube again. We ended up having to duct tape the tube to her face to keep her from forcing it out again. Duct tape fixes everything! She looks a little ridiculous, but she's eating, and her skin has a nice pink undertone again. Today we switched her to Lactogen milk because instead of filling out she actually seems to be losing a little. Hopefully her body will absorb it better. She's asleep on my chest right now. I love this little girl more than I thought was possible.
Today was very hectic, but things have settled down a bit now. I think it just feels busy because there are so many people running around this place now. The Texas group and I covered some nanny shifts, so we were pretty much with the kids all day. As far as I've heard, everything went well. Sarah helped me with the Kinders, and we got a ton done. The kids know most of the NT books in order, all of the apostles, and about half of the Lord's prayer. They also learned about the immune system today (which is super important knowledge to have in an HIV/AIDS inflicted area) and what colors mix to make other colors. Sarah did some math with them as well. It was a really productive day-- I'm a pretty happy camper.
The kids are doing well overall. Jack has a massive belly and jaundice. We're treating him for liver damage. Queenie has a mass of swollen lymph nodes just below her left ear. She's on amoxycillin, and it seems to be helping. There are a few runny noses, coughs, and rashes scattered around throughout the rest of them. Besides being really clingy, Gladys is perfectly healthy. Jessie is still breathing, and for that I thank God several times a day.
7/7
I wonder if I will ever be able to hold a baby again without literally counting every breath and jumping at every yawn.
Jessie has had a rough couple of days. A couple of nights ago, she began draining blood-tinged foam from the mouth. It lasted for a couple of hours. Every little gasp was strangled by the fluids that her body just didn't seem to know what to do with. She could not maintain her body temperature. We had to put on gloves because of the blood, and it just felt so wrong to not be able to feel her skin against mine. I truly and honestly believed with all of my heart that she was dying. I did not expect to find her still breathing in the morning. No one outright said it, but we prayed for her as a group, and as the other volunteers said goodnight to her it felt like they were also saying goodbye.
But God must have been listening. I can't say that He brought her healing (yet)-- she is still a dangerously sick little girl-- but He did give us one more day with her, and then another. For that, I praise and thank Him.
We switched her from formula to frequent administration of ORS per the recommendations of a doctor in Europe in order to give her stomach a rest and keep her hydrated. Penicillin can cause diarrhea, and dehydration could be deadly. She's wrapped in several blankets and sleeping on my lap right now. The bulk of the blankets makes her look even smaller. Anything not wrapped in several layers is cold to the touch (which at this point is just her nose and lips). Her respirations are shallow, irregular, and slightly elevated. She seems to be sleeping, but it's hard to tell because she can't shut her eyelids completely. She doesn't fight or cry at all. It's like she is just hibernating. We're going to ween her back onto formula in about an hour.
Amy just got off the phone with a doctor in Lusaka who says we're doing the right things. That's encouraging. I hope it's enough. She also recommended changing her ARV (HIV/AIDS medication). I hope and pray that we can find the medicine Jessie needs. There is so much red tape between sick people and medical care here.
Jessie is the third sick baby that I've dealt with since I got here. Each one has hit me a little differently. With Nicholas, I was mostly shocked. His situation was particularly difficult because I still don't really know what was wrong with him. Gladys and Jessie are a little different. I love all of the children, but I love those two. I don't know if it's just because I was here when they came or because I've spent sleepless nights with both of them. There was at least one time with both of them when I sincerely feared I was losing them, but so far they've both pulled through. Whatever the reason, there's a special corner in my heart for those two little girls. Still, Gladys and Jessie aren't really in the same category either. I'm not exactly a fan of Malaria, but HIV/AIDS gained an enemy when it chose to pick on this little girl. I've spent much of my free time in the past two days reading up on the infection process and mechanisms for treatment of HIV/AIDS. It is a brutal, relentless, crafty virus. I hate it. It can't have her. Not without a fight, anyway.
A team of ladies from Texas arrived Friday. Much of last week consisted of getting things ready for them. That, together with Jessie's antics, kept us pretty busy. We took Jessie down to the clinic last week to have an NG tube put in because she couldn't seem to keep any food down. She swallows a lot of air when she eats, and she is very difficult to burp. She was vomiting every time we fed her. Her color was ashy, and she would only take a about 15ml at a time every couple hours or so (NOT enough!).
I could fill a book with rantings about the inefficiency and inadequacy of the medical system here. The workers are doing the very best they can; they are overworked, and I'm sure they are tired. The midwife who inserted the NG tube was very hesitant. They don't even have NG tubes at the clinic (we took one with us), so he may have never done it before. Jessie's stomach is very active, and just the clenching of her stomach began to force the tube up as soon as he got it down. After much insisting and persuading, he consented to put a stitch through her nose to hold the tube in. He definitely hadn't done that before. They didn't have any suture kits at the clinic. He initially could only find an IV needle, which would have totally mangled her nose. Finally he came up with an internal suture kit, which had a larger needle than was necessary (but smaller than the IV needle). The thread with the kit was dissolvable, but it was the best we could do. He stuck her with some lidocaine, then tried to place the stitch.
It was brutal. I just remember desperately praying that the needle would come through. It finally did. He tied a loose square not around the tube. Then we spoke with the HIV/AIDS Clinic workers who were there that day. One of the kids was supposed to have gone down for a checkup and to get medicine, but in the craziness of the week it was forgotten. Several long conversations later, they finally just gave us the medicine to take back to him.
Finally, we took Jessie home. She did great for the first NG feeding that Amy gave her. I fed her the next one, and she nearly scared me to death...
She kind of coughed, puked, and convulsed all at the same time. My first overly-panicky thought was that she had seized. My next overly-panicky thought was a bit more colorful as I realized that she had either jerked or vomited her tube halfway out. Her eyes widened into giant saucers, and she began to choke. I pulled the tube the rest of the way out. The stitch placed by the midwife didn't hold-- the tube had slid right through it.
We left the stitch in hopes that the medical officer would be able to just retie it when he came to reinsert the tube, but two days later he still hadn't come. I ended up putting the tube down myself. We used the same stitch. She managed to cough it out a little a couple of times, but nothing too major. Then yesterday as I was changing her she got a hand on it and ripped it out, stitch and all. We tried giving her a bottle, but she's still not strong enough to suck down all 50ml, so down went the tube again. We ended up having to duct tape the tube to her face to keep her from forcing it out again. Duct tape fixes everything! She looks a little ridiculous, but she's eating, and her skin has a nice pink undertone again. Today we switched her to Lactogen milk because instead of filling out she actually seems to be losing a little. Hopefully her body will absorb it better. She's asleep on my chest right now. I love this little girl more than I thought was possible.
Today was very hectic, but things have settled down a bit now. I think it just feels busy because there are so many people running around this place now. The Texas group and I covered some nanny shifts, so we were pretty much with the kids all day. As far as I've heard, everything went well. Sarah helped me with the Kinders, and we got a ton done. The kids know most of the NT books in order, all of the apostles, and about half of the Lord's prayer. They also learned about the immune system today (which is super important knowledge to have in an HIV/AIDS inflicted area) and what colors mix to make other colors. Sarah did some math with them as well. It was a really productive day-- I'm a pretty happy camper.
The kids are doing well overall. Jack has a massive belly and jaundice. We're treating him for liver damage. Queenie has a mass of swollen lymph nodes just below her left ear. She's on amoxycillin, and it seems to be helping. There are a few runny noses, coughs, and rashes scattered around throughout the rest of them. Besides being really clingy, Gladys is perfectly healthy. Jessie is still breathing, and for that I thank God several times a day.
7/7
I wonder if I will ever be able to hold a baby again without literally counting every breath and jumping at every yawn.
Jessie has had a rough couple of days. A couple of nights ago, she began draining blood-tinged foam from the mouth. It lasted for a couple of hours. Every little gasp was strangled by the fluids that her body just didn't seem to know what to do with. She could not maintain her body temperature. We had to put on gloves because of the blood, and it just felt so wrong to not be able to feel her skin against mine. I truly and honestly believed with all of my heart that she was dying. I did not expect to find her still breathing in the morning. No one outright said it, but we prayed for her as a group, and as the other volunteers said goodnight to her it felt like they were also saying goodbye.
But God must have been listening. I can't say that He brought her healing (yet)-- she is still a dangerously sick little girl-- but He did give us one more day with her, and then another. For that, I praise and thank Him.
We switched her from formula to frequent administration of ORS per the recommendations of a doctor in Europe in order to give her stomach a rest and keep her hydrated. Penicillin can cause diarrhea, and dehydration could be deadly. She's wrapped in several blankets and sleeping on my lap right now. The bulk of the blankets makes her look even smaller. Anything not wrapped in several layers is cold to the touch (which at this point is just her nose and lips). Her respirations are shallow, irregular, and slightly elevated. She seems to be sleeping, but it's hard to tell because she can't shut her eyelids completely. She doesn't fight or cry at all. It's like she is just hibernating. We're going to ween her back onto formula in about an hour.
Amy just got off the phone with a doctor in Lusaka who says we're doing the right things. That's encouraging. I hope it's enough. She also recommended changing her ARV (HIV/AIDS medication). I hope and pray that we can find the medicine Jessie needs. There is so much red tape between sick people and medical care here.
Jessie is the third sick baby that I've dealt with since I got here. Each one has hit me a little differently. With Nicholas, I was mostly shocked. His situation was particularly difficult because I still don't really know what was wrong with him. Gladys and Jessie are a little different. I love all of the children, but I love those two. I don't know if it's just because I was here when they came or because I've spent sleepless nights with both of them. There was at least one time with both of them when I sincerely feared I was losing them, but so far they've both pulled through. Whatever the reason, there's a special corner in my heart for those two little girls. Still, Gladys and Jessie aren't really in the same category either. I'm not exactly a fan of Malaria, but HIV/AIDS gained an enemy when it chose to pick on this little girl. I've spent much of my free time in the past two days reading up on the infection process and mechanisms for treatment of HIV/AIDS. It is a brutal, relentless, crafty virus. I hate it. It can't have her. Not without a fight, anyway.
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