A day in my Haitian life

I wake up at 4:30. Not because I want to, but because the cacophony of roosters rouses me. Tom and I are sleeping in a tent on the rooftop now; it's much cooler up here, and it's the only place we can be together. I look at the stars and see a satellite going in circles overhead, probably taking ongoing photos of Haiti. There's nothing to do while it's still dark, so I decide to count rooster crows...44 per minute. Really? Do they have to be so inconsiderate? I chuckle as I notice that each rooster has a different starting note, some high and squeaky and some low and gravelly. My musician friends could probably write music from it.

Oh, Lord, what does this day hold? Prepare my heart. Give me patience, humor, love for others, a servant's heart, an increased faith. Use my hands today to serve. Help me to cope with the heat and sweat and cockroaches and tarantulas. May I please You today with the words I say, the attitudes I have, and the way I spend my time. Forgive me in advance for all the ways I know I'll fail in these things because of my self-centeredness and desire for my own way. Take care of my family and friends at home, and may they hunger and thirst for You.

The morning dawns. Tom and I get our coffee and sit on the rooftop to chat and pray. The sounds around us have become commonplace: squeals of laughter from the girls' orphanage next door, the security guard's radio blasting Creole music, vendors shouting on the streets, our roommates at the guest house hanging up laundry and chatting about the day.

Someone yells to Tom that it's time to go barter for a new generator. I don't see him again until evening, when he arrives home drenched in sweat with a dozen stories of fixing broken pipes and children's hearts, dealing with Haitian businessmen, near-misses on the crazy pot-holed roads, going to Echo Depot (a pitiful counterpart to Home Depot)only to be frustrated at what isn't there, and helping to build shelters at the nearby tent city. I grin as I remember his comment just a few weeks ago: "Do you really think there will be anything for me to do in Haiti? I'm not a medical person or a teacher!"

I decide to check email but internet is down...again. sigh I go to the kitchen to grab some cereal, but the sight of a cockroach crawling all over the clean dishes in the drainer changes my choice to a yogurt and a granola bar instead. I shuffle off to the bathroom but it's occupied, as usual. Twenty people with three bathrooms is my first test of patience today. I throw on some stiff, wrinkled clothes (the laundress doesn't rinse out the detergent too well). Ahh, yes, the luxury of a washer and dryer seems a distant memory. I'm already dripping sweat.

Maybe I could steal away for a few quiet moments with my book??? "Hurry, someone's bleeding!" a voice yells to me. And so my day begins in a frenzy...

I meet the Haitian woman outside our gate. Through an interpreter, I learn that she is having constant nosebleeds and vaginal bleeding and she believes it's related to jumping off a ledge during the earthquake. After assessing her and seeing that she is stable, I advise her to rest until the clinic opens in a few hours.

I'm about to go back inside when a little boy runs up to me and says he's hungry. I give him a granola bar and within 5 minutes, about 25 children arrive at the gate asking for food. I'm shocked, and this is my first lesson in food distribution during Haiti relief---and just in general---in a country like Haiti. It has to be done discreetly, in a certain place (NOT our home), with security around, at certain times only, and for certain people only. The needs are endless and this little orphanage cannot meet them all, nor are we set up to be a food distribution center. Oh, Lord, feeding the hungry isn't so simple!

I'm late for my meeting with the other 2 nurses to write a health ed class for the older kids. I rush to the meeting spot and no one is there. This used to bother me, but I'm no longer surprised by this, because I know that life in Haiti is unpredictable. I hear that they went to the clinic to organize, but were traumatized by a 6-inch tarantula in a box of medical supplies and ran out. None of us wants to go back there.

Sue drives up and says, "Jump in! We have to take someone to the hospital!" I see that it's the lady who came to me earlier, and I feel so incompetent. I'm jostled and tumbled in the car as we fly over potholes, along with the 6 relatives of hers who had to join us. We weave our way through dozens of people fanning themselves in the waiting room of the steamy hospital and are told to bring her into a special room. We take her in and leave her in the care of her family and the nurses. (I found out later that the tests revealed nothing wrong and she was released.)

On the drive back, Sue stops and talks to an amputee who lost his hand in the quake. He smiles and tells her he's doing well. "Do you have a minute to stop at the market?" Sue asks. I nod, knowing full well that a Haitian minute is really an hour.

As we pull up to the house, there is a mob of people outside. Tom had given out a tarp to a woman who needed some shelter, and now there are about 50 people lined up outside hoping for the same. Lesson #2: If you give one, be prepared to give many. The staff cuts dozens of tarps from a roll of plastic and hands them out.

Oh, no, my meeting! Just then I see Ashley and Brooke and they laugh because they, too, have been sidetracked all morning. We walk into the house to start our meeting, and Bill greets me and says, "I need to meet with you about the school, and this is the only time I can do it." I look at the other 2 nurses and they nod in understanding. Health ed will have to wait.

Bill & I sit down to hash out a rough idea of how to get the English school going. During our meeting, seven people interrupt with questions and requests. While I'm creating a form on the computer, the electricity fails. I forgot to click "Save." Fans go off, and the sweating resumes. Patience, Lord, patience. Suddenly I have a fit of itching on my 27 mosquito bites and I run to apply my anti-itch cream. When I return, Bill is gone. another sigh We'll finish this tomorrow, maybe???

Internet is up but it takes 3 minutes to open an email. I try to upload pictures but it fails. Time has run out.

Lunch is served and I cringe as I see the flies swarming all around the tuna and watermelon. I'm hungry, so I will myself to eat it anyway. Keep me healthy, Lord. The guest house residents show up in varying degrees of dirt and sweat. We all share our morning stories. Kids have been taught, shelters built, toilets filled with sewage unplugged & cleaned, ravine people fed, meetings held, security personnel hired and trained, medicines distributed, errands run, pipes fixed, lumber purchased, floors swept, rice & beans cooked, laundry hand-washed, internet worked on, and 25 gallons of water filtered and consumed. And it's only noon.

We walk down the street to the new tent city and meet its residents. One new mom asks me for formula, so I do a little teaching on the benefits of breastfeeding. There is much misinformation, cultural beliefs, and illiteracy to overcome. When these women are given formula, they end up watering it down to make it last, and their babies become malnourished. We talk to the pastor, meet with the police about security, and discuss the needs of this homeless community for food and shelter and medicine. Many of these Haitians lost their homes in the quake.

It's time to open the clinic. At least 25 people are lined up outside the gate. We quickly triage them and seat them inside. The biggest problem is vomiting and diarrhea from unclean water and food. We can treat it, but the vicious circle continues because their environment doesn't change. Exasperation, frustration--- bordering on anger---fill me. This is all so wrong; this would never happen in America.

A patient with an earthquake injury comes in for a dressing change. The medical student and 2 nurses and I all look at each other when the bandage comes off and we see that the skin graft did not take; her Achilles tendon is exposed and she has no feeling in her heel; she will most likely need an amputation. My heart is pierced with this unnecessary sadness. Later I find out that a medical team is going to be able to do surgery on her! Thank You, Lord!

The next 4 hours pass in a blur of French, Creole, sweat, crying babies, looking up diseases in "Where There is No Doctor", filling baggies with meds using a flashlight since there's no electricity, taking vital signs, using antibacterial gel a hundred times (there is no running water), and sending people on their way, hoping we have helped them. They are so patient and grateful. Teach me a little of their patience and gratefulness, Lord. I wouldn't tolerate 1/100th of what they tolerate.

Ashley, Brooke (the 2 RN's), Yvetot & Vladimir (the 2 medical students) and I laugh and chat about the day as we close up the clinic. It's a mess but we're too tired to straighten it up now, and we want to get over to the feeding program before it ends. As we're leaving, a news crew comes through the door, and they want a tour of the facility; Bill & Sue handle that one.

We walk over to the boys' home and see about 100 kids running, laughing, playing, and yelling. They've just been fed...the day's only meal for many of them. The kids at the orphanage have this ministry to the neighborhood kids, in order to teach them to think of others and how to serve their community. Kids jump all over me, giggling and squealing. Tom pretends to be an ogre and chases them, which they love. He organizes races with the goal of tiring them out as they seem to have endless energy (and we've used up today's supply!). What a delight...this bright spot in the day...seeing the joy of innocent children as they play and do not worry about tomorrow. May we become as little children, and have their simple faith.

We hurry home before curfew (dark) and Tom and I steal away to the rooftop to watch the sunset. The beauty of the pinks and oranges reflecting on the ocean hovers in stark contrast over the dusty rubble of the city below us. The irony of a painted sky oblivious to the suffering below it chokes me up. Is this one of the ways, Lord, of showing me that there is hope?

Just then I hear children singing "Allelujah!" These children are Haiti's future, Lord. Build them, shape them, mold them to be Your witnesses to truth and to lead their people to a life of health and hope and joy for Your glory!

Tom and I go take our cold bucket showers; refreshed, we congregate in the dining room for a delicious meal of Haitian rice, beans, and veggies with chicken. Our Haitian cooks spoil us with their handiwork.

We are exhausted, but some things must be discussed and hashed out. It's impossible in this environment of seven very different people living together, doing ministry all day long in this heat, with a constant spiritual battle going on, to NOT have some issues now and then. The day ends with prayer and restored harmony. Your mercies never fail us, Jesus; we will go to sleep tonight knowing that You have been with us today, that you have sifted through Your hands of love everything that happened today, and that we have spent another day seeing Your faithfulness to us. May the work of our hearts and hands be a sweet aroma to You.