At the Feet of Glory

Tommy is one of my favorite people on the planet. He has this wonderful, dry, Polish sense of humor that hides deep in the gleam in his eye. I met him the first time two summers ago; he and his wife Lydia (who, incidentally, is also one of my favorite people) live in Lusaka and are friends of Amy, so Timmy and I stayed with them before getting on the bus to Kazembe the next morning.

This summer, he was watching over the orphanage the first few days that we were there while Amy and Tom were away. Tommy seems to have a sense of adventure that I really appreciated. A couple of days after we got there, he took us all to the waterfalls nearby—not the little ones we went to last year, but the massive, awe-inspiring, bring-you-to-your-knees waterfalls a bit further away.

And we took the 1st Graders with us.

Like I said. Tommy is adventurous.

It was a long, bumpy ride, and by the time we got there I was on the verge of motion sickness. We really were in the middle of nowhere-- even more so than where we were in the village. Before the car had even stopped, we could hear the dull roar of sheer power.

Words fall woefully short. I have never seen anything that compares. Pictures do not even begin to do this place justice. Even while we were there, I struggled to describe what I was seeing-- Majesty. Power. Awesome (in the truest sense of the word). Glory.

Kazembe was at the beginning of their dry season, and even the few tufts of vegetation still stubbornly refusing to turn brown were coated in a fine, dry, rust-colored dust. The world revolved in shades of faded brown and gray.

But here-- at Lumangwe-- the water cascaded over and through sheets of stone, compelling even the most inhospitable landscape to produce a lush paradise. It's one of those places that Disney tells you is real, but your heart never quite believes that it is real for you... if that makes any sense...

We laughed; we played; we splashed. We crept down rocky steps hewn into the crags of the cliff to reach the bottom of the falls, and then we swam and climbed and jumped and wracked our all-too-limited vocabularies for words to describe it all. I think the entire force of the world was behind that water. Then we splashed around in wading pools at the top of the falls. Theresa claimed David as her own and followed him around like a little shadow. Queenie dominated a water war against the boys. That girl makes me proud.

Chola was so brave, and so awestruck. "Auntie Meghan...!" he exclaimed softly, his young voice carrying with it an air of belief and faith in Magic and Majesty that those of us who have let our souls grow up sometimes must grasp for. "Auntie Meghan...! God! God has made this!" Yes baby. He certainly did.

The kids knew it was real right away, you see.

It takes old souls just a little bit longer,

But after an hour or so of wandering around, eyes wide, drenched in the mist of a dozen waterfalls and squinting through the haze that rises from thunder, the icy, honey sweet water running in ribbons off of your face and dripping from hair and clothing, you find yourself somewhere between believing it is real and awestruck that such beauty exists this side of eternity.



I needed the reminder, I think. It had been a long five days of travel, punctuated by frustrating and exhausting overnights in hostels and hostels and cramped bus seats. I was so tired. We were all tired. I had slipped into that all-too-easy mistake of focusing on the physical and quantifying my success by what I could or could not accomplish over the next two and a half months. That can eat you alive. Believe it or not, my arms cannot hold all of the children of Africa, though I am sure they would try if it was asked of them. But if ever my goal becomes merely physical-- if ever my war becomes against death and poverty-- then I fear that I have already lost. I momentarily lost track of that. I lost track of Him.

Because standing there, bracing myself against the force of wind and billowing mist, suddenly acutely aware of my own fragility as my feet slipped a little on the algae-covered-dripping-wet slate I was perched upon, I welcomed my own insignificance.

It was so simple, and yet so complex-- but, as David says, somehow completely different than the complexity we wrap around ourselves.

And so I needed the reminder. 

I needed to feel powerless not because of overwhelming need around me, but because of standing in the presence of unfathomable power and indescribable beauty.





I needed to stand at the feet of Glory.

Fight

“He’s three years old. The mom is non-compliant. Keeps stuffing him full of chips and pretzels even though he’s on a sodium restricted diet. They don’t speak English; they’re from somewhere else.”

I know where they’re from… the chart clearly said. Didn’t you look at the chart?

“If his kid sister is in there, she speaks English and might translate for you. It’s hit or miss.”

…YOUAREUSINGACHILDTOTRANSLATEMEDICALINFORMATIONOHMYGOODNESSWHATISWRONGWITHYOU?

“I guess maybe you could try the translation line if you want to bother with it."

I am struggling to like you in this moment.

“He doesn’t like us very much. I think because we’re white. He’ll scream the whole time you’re in the room.”

Been there, done that. Challenge accepted.

I just got home from clinical. I am somewhere between heartbroken and livid. Details must be suppressed and changed to satisfy privacy laws and protect the precious family I was privileged to serve tonight.

They are refugees. Mom is a single parent with half a dozen children. Dad died. The littlest child is sick with a chronic congenital condition of the kidneys. They’ve been Stateside for 2 years.

I took report from the nurse, shook it off, and went to the room in the corner. Sure enough, as soon as I opened the door, the beautiful three-year-old boy on the bed began to whimper and withdraw. I immediately dropped to my knees to be on his level and began playing with my penlight. Within about 30 seconds, he stopped crying and reached out to take the light from me. He shined it on the sheets. And on his hand. And on my hand. And then he chased me around the room with the light, trying to keep it pointed on me as I dodged out of the way. Then he hid it behind his back so I would look for it. I peeked around to find it, and when I did, he laughed. This wonderful, beautiful, gem of a child laughed, from deep down in his soul, and his coal black little eyes disappeared into his scrunched up face.

Then he banged the light on the bed and broke it, but I really didn’t care. That laugh was worth millions more than some silly penlight.

He listened to my heart with the stethoscope and gaped up at me in wide-eyed wonder, both hands pressed solidly over his ears, as if the earpieces of the stethoscope would suddenly leap out and run way if not secured. Miraculously, the stethoscope was not scary anymore, and now he let me listen to his chest without screaming bloody murder. He pinched my finger, and then I pinched his to check his capillary refill. His 10-year-old sister helped me by letting me take her blood pressure. Then she took my blood pressure. Finally, she pushed the buttons on the machine to take his blood pressure. And his reaction? A smile. A toothy, slightly drooly smile.

The little girl would not make eye contact with me. “What’s your name?” She told me. I couldn’t pronounce it, but my attempt earned me a crooked grin. “Do you like to draw?” No. I draw ugly. “Do you like any board games?” No. “What do you like to do?” I don’t know.

Sigh.

With that first set of vitals over, I used the translation hotline to try and find someone who spoke their dialect. No luck. I am now frustrated beyond belief, because I know there is a pretty decent population of these people in the city, and I absolutely cannot believe that a major Nashville hospital has not laid out a means for translating vital treatment information. This child’s kidney function is severely compromised. He has massive generalized edema that could quickly lead to pulmonary edema. The low salt diet helps prevent that. He’s been here three days. How is it that in three days, no one has communicated the importance of restricting sodium to this family? Because within 5 minutes of interacting, I can tell it’s not noncompliance. It’s knowledge deficit and utter bewilderment. They have no idea. This should not take three days. And it shouldn’t be a nursing student who finally steps up and does it.

Nonetheless, it appears that I too must use a child to translate.

I have some charting to do now, so I have to leave the room. I wave to the little boy. He waves “bye-bye” and blows me a kiss. His mother smiles for the first time.

The next time I go in, I notice his lunch is still sitting on the counter. He wouldn’t touch it. I’m frustrated. I speak with the sister again.

Do you like this food? “No.” What do you eat for breakfast usually? “We don’t have food for breakfast.” What about lunch? “Rice and fish.” And dinner? “Rice and fish.”

I order more food for him. Rice and fish this time. He eats some, then falls asleep. I am not surprised. He’s been crying and screaming all day. His sister is eyeing the tray, but her mother says something in their language, puts the lids back on, and shuffles away tiredly. She looks exhausted, and worried. The girl looks at me. “If we eat the food, will you make us pay for it?” No honey. Please, eat the food.

She excitedly speaks to her mother, and the two of them pounce on the tray and nearly inhale the leftovers. It hits me that the mother probably has not been eating much if at all since the child was admitted. It’s been three days.

The hospital has a partnership with a catering company that donates one meal a day to families that can’t pay for it. We work it out so they can get a tray for dinner. The little girl lights up. I bring a board game, a stack of paper, and some markers into the room and ask if she happens to have changed her mind about games and drawing. What do you know?! She has. She begins plastering the room with portraits of flowers and butterflies and families playing together. We start playing a board game on the floor, but the little boy gets upset that he can’t play, so we move it outside to a bench in the hallway. She talks the whole time we’re playing—about fifth grade, and how math is her favorite subject, and how boring the hospital can be. But then she mentions how I let her hit the buttons on the machines as long as I’m standing right there with her, and she says she thinks she wants to be a doctor someday. I tell her to hold onto that dream, and fight for it, because so many people will tell her she can’t.

One of the things I’m supposed to chart is the family’s religious practice. Statistically speaking, I know they are probably one of two religions common to their background. I ask her where they go to church. “Oh, it’s an English church.” Do you know it’s name? Is it this religion? Or this one? “Nope. It’s just an English church.” Alright then.

She wins by a landslide. I might have let her. Then we clean it all up and take it back to the room. I show her how swollen her brother is and explain that salt makes it worse. We go to the nutrition room, and she helps me pick out which foods he can eat. Then she “shows” me which ones he cannot eat, and we review that several times. She’s going to be a good little doctor. Finally, she translates all of this for her mother, who becomes upset that he cannot have chips and pretzels—not because she wants to feed it to him, but because she did feed it to him earlier and didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to. She asks if he will get sicker now. I tell her I’m going to take really good care of him to keep that from happening. And my heart breaks, because if he does get worse, she will blame herself. And this was NOT. HER. FAULT.

He’s still asleep, and has been since 6pm. Mom says he will sleep through the night and wake up really early in the morning, before dawn. I bring some breakfast cereal and milk into the room for them so that she won’t have to wake the girl up to act as translator if he wakes up hungry. The little girl sits and talks with me while we draw together, and she teaches me how to say all of the colors in her language. She says she is surprised how quickly I learn it. Now it’s my turn to smile.

All the student nurses go downstairs for dinner. I grab my bag. A friend of mine spent a summer working with the very people group that this family is a part of, and he brought this bag back for me. I hadn’t even thought of it. The mother drops what she is holding, exclaims something that I can’t understand, and smiles as tears run down her face. My heart is full.

I check in on them just as my shift is ending to say goodbye, but they’re all asleep. Mom is curled protectively around her son in the bed. He is still fast asleep, one arm flung listlessly out over the bedrail. His sister is asleep on the couch, buried under blankets that rise and fall slightly with her even, peaceful breaths.  My eyes fall one last time on the little boy

I don’t wake them up. I hope they know that I care, and more importantly, I hope and pray with all that I have in me that someone steps up to care a little extra for this family when I’m gone. I hope that someone fights for him.

I’m still praying as I pull the door closed and walk away. I have never, in four years of nursing school, been this attached to a patient. Everyone always tells you not to get attached. But you know what happens then?

You forget to fight.

I will not do that.

Because sometimes, no one else will.

May God forever send me to those precious children that no one else will fight for.

Just a Call Away

We called BaPeter today. My heart leapt when I heard his voice. “Ah! BaPeter!” David said. “Um… Ea mukwai?” he answered. “This is David! In America!” Then Peter let loose a string of Bemblish very difficult to follow that I think basically meant, “It’s nice to hear from you.” We listened in joy and breathed deep, for the air in the room was suddenly a little bit Narnian.

The next intelligible words out of his mouth were, “He is fine! Miracle, he is doing fine!” And again my soul rejoiced, because every once in a while, it’s nice to win one. “Wonderful, great!” David exclaimed. “And how are the other boys?!” He meant Peter’s other kids, but Peter thought he was referring to “our” boys—the kids who lined the streets to play with us every night, who showed up at the gate at dawn the day we were to leave to make sure they wouldn't miss us. “Oh! They are missing you. They have still not received the balls!” I winced a little. We had promised them a soccer ball when we left, because the one we played with all summer belongs to the orphanage. We could not find one in the village or in the capitol. Zeger’s dad looked for one too, to no avail. We had intended to send one earlier, but it took a surprisingly long amount of time to find a soccer ball, figure out how to ship it the cheapest, then find other light-weight items to stuff the corner of the box with. Unfortunately, the nature of poverty culture anywhere in the world is such that one must be careful of the value of such items. The more prized the contents of the box, the less likely that said box will make it to its intended recipient. That situation is a bajillion times more complicated since the recipients are children. All excuses aside, I am frustrated that we have not yet kept that promise.

By the time we left Zambia, I was relatively certain I had phone numbers for half of the country. Apparently they are mostly for the half that I really don’t care if I contact or not. It finally dawned on us that we could just ask someone for Peter’s number, since he works at the orphanage.  I’m glad we did, even if the phone calls do cost a fortune.  There’s just no cheap reliable way to keep in contact with them all. The three we normally communicate to the crowd through are all apparently phoneless at the moment. Two of our little partners in crime took that title a bit too literally and got themselves in some serious trouble after we left. We've been worried sick about them, and updates have been limited for a variety of reasons.

We talked with BaPeter for just a few moments then had to bid him farewell. David and I both laughed light-heartedly and kept hugging each other, just for something to hug. His eyes danced with memories of friends as I darted around the room gathering my things so I wouldn’t be late to lab.

It was a less-than-two-minute phone conversation, but when we are here, so far away both in terms of distance and in length of time before we can return, those two minutes were more precious than the purest gold.