Hey all, I apologize that I haven’t written in a while.  I was intending to post once a week, but that has proven to be an unrealistic ambition.  Also, I’m just going to stop apologizing for how long all of my blog posts are becoming.  By now, ya’ll know that I’m my mother’s child and I always have a lot to say, so you’ve been pre-warned.

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On Thursday December 8^th, I had officially survived the first month of living in Kenya.  (I say ‘survived’ because when I first arrived, I didn’t think I could make the one month mark, but just like a big move anywhere, I had a period of adjustment and I’m finding myself quite fond of the area and especially the people.)  I would’ve settled for a Tusker as a celebratory gift, but I think God had different plans.

New Pavements

Since I had last posted, I continued to find my sea legs in the pediatric department for a few weeks.  I started interacting with patients more and more as I’ve had many Walimu  Mzuri (good teachers), so I can actually communicate with my patients and their mothers (in short broken sentences) and because of this, I’ve gain some much-needed confidence in myself.  I have realized that technical nursing practices are much different here than in the States and I was getting frustrated with myself for not knowing more.  However, after having contemplated my worth here, I had an epiphany: I know that as a nurse, a little compassion can go a long way with a patient.  With my short career in hospice and the training I received at CSB based on the Benedictine Values, I believe that I have really grasped and embraced this concept and I know that if nothing else, I can teach the students that empathy is a crucial key in nursing.  I think God was waiting for this young punk to throw my temper tantrum, get over it, and realize that my purpose here may be different than I expected.  Soon after I had my revelation, He sent me a great gift: a fresh batch of first year nursing students.  When they came onto the ward that first day, it was literally their first day working in the wards and that had that doe-eyed look in their eyes that I once did when I first arrived on the med-surg unit at St. Cloud Hospital.  It’s the look of: “Oh crap, I actually have to talk to these patients.  I have no idea what I’m doing”.  (Side note, in my case, my clinical professor pretty much had to shove me into the room to even say ‘hi’ to my patient.)  There are just so many students here and not that many patients, so I think sometimes, like any new student, they all cling to each other in hopes that they won’t make a mistake or the teacher won’t pick them to answer the question.  That’s exactly what happened when I asked who would like to take the patient’s vitals.

Those doe-eyes just stared back at me, seemingly pleading for mercy.  I grabbed the vitals cart and gestured for some of them to come with me.  They all slowly crept forward, as though they were all atoms in a tightly fused chemical bond.  Nervous giggles at bay, we arrived at the first patient and I told them that ONE person needed to take the vital signs.  I can’t remember who it was, but after a long silence, one brave soul finally broke the bond and gingerly took the mercury thermometer from my hand.  Of course, once one atom splits from the bond, the bond loosens and more atoms leave, and thus I had three or four students trying to take each individual vital sign from the child, who was not in the mood to be surrounded by what he perceived to be his executers.  While the students struggled to work with the noncompliant mtoto, I quizzed the others on the normal ranges of the vital signs for a child of this age group.  As new students, they did have some trouble coming up with the correct answer, but I do understand that it’s hard to memorize all of the ranges and pull them out on demand.  However, knowing vital signs is, well VITAL for the safety of your patients, so I made sure to stress that they needed to have them memorized the next day.  After about fifteen minutes of data collection with that one client, I ask that dreaded open-ended question that every nursing student hates to hear: “How do you think that went?”  After hearing what their thoughts were, I gave them a few pointers about trying to cluster their cares (such as taking the pulse and respirations while they are taking the temperature) and then I told them my number one rule: if you aren’t communicating with your patient, you aren’t being a good nurse.  After about an hour of taking vitals, which probably would’ve taken a regular nurse about 15 minutes, we reconvened at the nurses’ station and I asked the standard sum up questions: “What went well?  What can we improve the next time?”  The students were actually very receptive to this and made some very wise comments, but I was so elated when one student said: “We should’ve talked with the patients much more, and told them what we were doing”.  By George, I think they’ve got it…

The New Frontier

While working in her office one day, Patricia discovered that there would be a small group of Wazungu (white people) coming from the States for a couple weeks to do an outreach clinic in the nearby villages.  Patricia decided that she would go to work with them for the weeks that they were here.  What a great opportunity.  She came home that night exhausted, but full of stories and told me that along with seeing clients for minor complaints, these Americans were also implementing a Mass Drug Administration (MDA).  A Mass Drug Administration is one in which a treatment, or preventative medication is given to a large group of people in one setting.  Apparently, in this area, there is quite a high prevalence of a disease called Lymphatic Filariasis (a.k.a elephantiasis), which is a horrific disease spread from human to human through mosquito bites.  Basically, the disease involves the lymphatic system, so the client will typically present with severe swelling of the limbs, which is very painful and immobilizing.  (This website is an excellent source, if you’d like to know more about the disease: http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs102/en/)

Once a person has experienced the crippling symptoms of LF, those symptoms can never fully be reversed, although they can be significantly improved with proper treatment.  However, by receiving the proper preventative drugs (1 oral dose per year for 4-6 years), a person will never get Lymphatic Filariasis.  Moreover, the two drugs that they administer, Ivermectin and Albendazole, are anti-helminthic drugs, which will get rid of worms in the body, which not only increases that person’s nutritional status, but also decreases their risk of contracting Malaria by 50%.  Are your heads spinning yet?  In other words, by administering two drugs, you can do a whole lot of good.

Patricia informed me that these Wazungu were encouraging us to start an MDA in the schools around this area. We both were so excited of the prospect of doing this work here.  If we could start this program and the hospital could sustain it, over the next 5ish years, we could potentially eradicate Lymphatic Filariasis in this area, not to mention decrease prevalence of worms and Malaria.  It’s a big idea for only two people, but I believe that if you have a positive and flexible attitude, God can do great things through you.

The next week, I decided to join the ranks, to see how this MDA works.  There were about twelve people from the States—most of them doctors and nurses—and 8 students from the Kenyan nursing school here, who acted as translators.  My goodness, these people work hard.  They hardly took breaks and barely even stopped to take a sip of water.  Each day, they went to a different village, where they set up a check-in site, about 6 consultation areas, and a small pharmacy.  I was impressed with the amount of organization and meticulousness that they were able to keep, while moving from place to place every day.  When I was there, we saw around 400 patients every day.  I was placed with a doctor’s wife in the MDA branch of this group, in which we would go around to each client, administer 2-3 pills (depending on the approximate size of the person), give them some water to slurp down the drugs (using the same two cups for all 400 patients), and mark their hand with a ‘X’, indicating that they’ve received the treatment.  It was a fairly simple procedure, but proved to be somewhat grueling because ensuring that we’ve reached all 400 people, who mostly don’t speak English, and giving them the information they needed was not the easiest task.  I’m pretty proud of myself because I was able to us what little Swahili that I know to communicate a lot of the important information (in broken, poor grammatical fragments).  At the end of the day, we packed up all of the leftover pharmaceuticals and walked about a half mile to the van that would transport us back home.  I was so tired, I could barely make myself dinner, but it was a good feeling knowing that I had put in a hard day of labor and that I may be able to do something really significant here in Kenya in the future.

One is the Loneliest Number…

Over the month that I had been here, Patricia had not been feeling up-to-snuff and we had both been getting more and more concerned about her health.  After much deliberation, she was forced to fly back to the States the week of my one month anniversary.  Given her poor health status, I don’t know whether or not she will be returning.  I will never forget the moments of sheer panic, confusion, hilarity, and awe that we were able to share together.  I sure do miss having her here, but I know that her decision was very wise and I believe that God’s not leaving me in the middle of nowhere.  Well, I’m not completely alone: Blackie is always willing to provide company.

Okay, so this is a side-rant, but the Blackie clan has prevailed, despite my best efforts to dispose of them with the remaining rat poisoning I had.  Either Blackie is a super-rat that is completely immune to rat poison, or I’m now dealing with Blackie the sequel.  The other night, I was sitting in the living room, and just like clock-work, I catch a glimpse of a dark ball of fur scuttling into the kitchen for an evening snack.  I swear to you, this ‘new’ Blackie came out of the kitchen about a half hour later, looked at me with a cheeky little grin, and scurried back into the kitchen to finish his meal.  He’s becoming bold enough to barely even make an effort to RUN anymore.  I think he believes he owns the place.  Well, Blackie II, I hope you enjoyed your last meal, because it was chock full of rat-poison.  Of course, now I have no more poison and when I inquire about the poison in the main stores of Kakamega, they look at me confused like they’ve never heard of rat poison!!!  A couple of nights ago, the WWF smack-down commenced above my bedroom, so obviously the poison didn’t do much good.  If I have to use all of my pharmaceuticals to concoct my own deadly rat poison, I WILL!  These rats won’t know what hit them.

Nat and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The second evening after my wonderful roommate had returned to America, I plopped down in front of my computer, exhausted and slightly dehydrated from another day with the Americans doing MDA.  It was a pretty standard night; I heated up the leftover kunde for dinner, cracked open a Tusker, and began to research the possibility of starting the MDA program here.  Soon after, I succumbed to my fatigue and visions of my cozy bed and retire for the night.

Unfortunately, my slumber was not as peaceful as I expected.  I awoke in the middle of the night with terrible stomach cramping and a strong pressure in my lower back.  At first, I convinced myself that I just needed to go to the bathroom, but in the back of my mind, I knew someone wasn’t quite right.  I just knew that I had malaria, but in fear of stepping on a cobra or being kidnapped by someone in the middle of the night, I made up my mind that I would suffer through the night, and check myself into the hospital in the morning.  After several hours of increasingly more and more severe pain, complete with tossing and turning and pacing the floors of my house, I decided that if I didn’t brave the terrors of the night, I would surely be in a much worse position by the morning.  So at 3:00 in the morning, I dressed myself-no matter how much pain I was in, I was not about to face a young handsome clinician without hiking up the ‘girls’-strapped on my headlamp and ventured out into the dark.  Luckily, my house is within the hospital compound, making it about a two minute walk from my doorstep to the Out Patient Department (OPD), which is the ‘triage’ area of the hospital.  As I neared the OPD (all the while scanning the ground for any stick that remotely resembled a snake) I woke the guard at the gate an asked him to help me find the doctors.  After a little banter back and forth, due to a slight communication barrier, he escorted me the rest of the way to the OPD and after confirming that there was no Clinician sleeping in the side rooms, he told me to wait there while he called someone.  The pain in my abdomen was the perfect drill-sergeant, it raged and pulsed anytime I sat still, despite my body’s pleas for rest, I was forced to pace.  The noxious smell of kerosene loomed in the room, as the electricity (Ol’ Reliable) had gone out, and the only other beam streaming through the dark beside my headlamp was a lantern (nurses and doctors of America: imagine inserting an IV with only the soft glow of a lantern).  After what seemed like an eternity, the guard returned with two clinicians.  Right away I told them that I suspected I had malaria, and after relaying my symptoms to them, they agree with my suspicion.

In this area of Kenya, malaria is an extremely common condition and malaria can manifest itself with any number of a large array of generalized symptoms, so sometimes it is over-diagnosed—as one clinician joked, “If you’ve hurt your finger…you have malaria.”  Of course, they take blood for a smear can see malaria rings in your blood, but they typically start you on the malaria treatment before they receive confirmation, because the form of malaria around here is very severe.

Anyway, after I told them that I probably wouldn’t be able to hold down any oral medication (and proceed to vomit in the trash can), they started an IV via the light of a lantern (I was impressed) and gave me an IV push of diclofenac, a common NSAID (mild pain reliever).  At this time, I called my parents and CMMB and informed them that I had malaria and was being admitted.  The clinicians took my weight (it looks so much nicer in kilograms), and escorted me to the private wing of the hospital, where, as the name implies, patients have their own rooms.  I thank the lord that I am fortunate enough to be able to afford the private ward, because over the next few days, I had some pretty revealing and uncomfortable procedures.  I am grateful that after the nurse left and shut the door, I could keep my cussing and whining out of earshot of the patient next to me.

Needless to say, the mild pain reliever I was given, didn’t have much effect on the drill-sergeant in my abdomen, so I paced for another hour until the nurse came in and gave me a different oral pain killer (another NSAID), and the pain decreased enough that I could lay down on my bed.  It was in the early morning, so I waited until later in the day, before a doctor could come to see me.  Meanwhile, the pain medication that managed to act as a chill-pill for “The Sarg” wore off and I was back to pacing.  Sidenote, anyone who wants some motivation to burn off those Holiday calories, “The Sarg” is a great motivator.  :-P  At this time, my nurse entered and saw that I was having very severe pain.  She apologetically told me that someone had informed her that I was just having my menstrual cramps and she quickly ran to get me an IM injection of pain reliever.  For those of you who don’t know, IM shots are usually given in the gluteal region.  During my hospital stay, I received many IM injections, and frankly I believe that far too many poor Kenyans saw my big illuminatingly white ass.  As “The Sarg” was overcome, my body gave in to fatigue, but not before I made a mental note to find and kill the ignoramus who started the menstrual cramp rumor.

In was slightly awkward to be in the hospital here, because I knew most of the staff that took care of me—making my previous statement about ‘butt viewing’ even more humiliating.  The doctor, Dr. Mahasi, who came to see me, actually does rounds in pediatrics, so I knew well that he is an exceptional doctor.  He was the first person to actually examine me further than my vital signs.  By the time he came to see me, I started spiking high fevers, despite feeling freezing, and I began to shiver, so I was convinced that I had malaria.  As he palpated my abdomen, it became clear that “The Sarg” was most prevalent in the region of my appendix (I had to refrain from punching him in the face when he touched the area).  He immediately told me that he suspected that I had appendicitis and not malaria.  When my lab sheet returned, there was no detection of malaria rings, but my white blood cells and granulocytes were extremely elevated.  After having an ultrasound confirmation that in fact my appendix was inflamed, the doctor informed me that I needed surgery.  Immediately my gut reaction spewed from my mouth, “Do I HAVE to have it HERE?”  In retrospect, I think this statement was probably really offensive, but I tend to shove my foot deep within my mouth when I’m not thinking properly.  Luckily, the people in the room didn’t retort at all, but I could tell some of them were miffed.  Dr. Mahasi told me that he recommended that I get my appendix out within the next 48 hours, which sort of put a damper on my initial idea of going home.  When I called my parents an informed that that by the way, I didn’t have malaria, I had appendicitis and I needed an appendectomy, they were eerily calm.  After weighing the options quickly, we all agreed that it didn’t make sense for me to go back to America for surgery.  After informing the right people of my decision, I was told that I would undergo the surgery next day around 9:00 am, since the surgeon wasn’t at the hospital that day.  I called my parents back to tell them the time and in the midst of our conversation, I ran out of minutes on my phone.  Cell phones here are generally pre-pay only, so once you run out, you have to go back to the store and buy more.  Well, seeing that I was bed-bound (and any movement I made was under strict supervision by “The Sarg”), I couldn’t really get to the store.

My wonderful night nurse had the unfortunate duty of prepping me for surgery.  I’ll leave most the details to your imagination, but my least favorite procedure was the insertion of a catheter.  First of all, the hospital must have been out of sterile gloves, because my nurse failed to use them, although she really did her best to keep everything else as sterile as possible.  For those of you who aren’t medical folk, the insertion of a catheter is a delicate (not to mention sterile) procedure and you have to choose the correct size catheter for your patient.  She tried the bigger of the two catheters first and, well, nicely put, it took every ounce of my strength to refrain from knocking her out.  When the procedure was finished, I stared goggle-eyed at the ceiling and refused to move at all because it felt like someone had scraped away a generous portion of my urethra with a cheese grater.  I know that it wasn’t her fault, but at that moment in time, she was the enemy and if looks could kill…  This was one of those moments, when I was grateful to have the private room, so I could freely express my displeasure in the form of poetic profanity.  Having endured this procedure, I will never again insert a catheter without giving significant thought to the discomfort that it will cause.  I think it should be a requirement for every nursing student in the states to have a catheter inserted once, as an exercise in empathy for their patients.  I wonder how many of my patients have crafted voodoo dolls of me after having a catheter inserted.

So there I was, lying in bed without the luxury of communicating to loved ones at home, and only “The Sarg” to keep me company.  Oddly enough, I was at peace, and I know that in my heart this was when you all were praying for me.  I had this strange feeling of confidence and awareness that everything was going to be just fine.  Not to sound like the eccentric black lady from the Pinesol commercials, but ‘that’s the power of Prayer, Baby!’

Well, the surgeon was running on “Africa Time”, so though I was told my surgery would be at 9:00 am, I wasn’t wheeled into the Theater (a.k.a. Operating Room), until 2:00 pm.  I wasn’t put fully under, rather I had a saddle block, so I couldn’t feel the bottom half of my body.  The anesthesiologist was extremely nice and when I told him that I was nervous, he talked me through the entire procedure.  I don’t know who the DJ was, but they played a lot of premium Christian music, which also was very soothing.  Again, I knew many of the people working in the theater, so I was pretty embarrassed that they were all witnesses to all of my intimate parts.  One of my Kenyan guy friend’s, who is doing a year-long internship at the hospital, held my hand and I jokingly told him to tell the surgeon to suck out some mafuta (fat) while he was down there.  He didn’t really understand what I was saying, so I quickly told him that I had been joking—surely I wouldn’t mind a little liposuction or tummy-tuck, but I’d prefer to avoid unnecessary trauma to my body during such a major operation. J

Before I knew it, my surgery was complete and I was wheeled out of the theater to wait for my nurses to come get me.  As I was wheeled from the room I gave a quick thumbs-up to the exceptional DJ, while another surgical case was wheeled passed my stretcher into the theater, since there is only one operating room.  The surgeon came out to write some notes about the surgery in my chart and proceeded to make snide remarks to me that appendicitis was a rich person’s disease and that he counted on rich people like me to pay his salary.  If I could’ve felt my legs, I would’ve climbed off that stretcher and shoved my foot so far up—well, you get the picture.  I would like to note here that this is NOT the attitude of the majority of people here.  In fact, most people are very thankful and welcoming, but for some reason this surgeon woke up on the wrong side of the mosquito net that morning and I was not in the mood to be stereotyped.  I have to admit that there may have been a silent hand gesture under my sheet.

When the nursing students who were acting as my nurses came to pick me up, I was too heavy for them to lift me (and my dead legs), so they told me to roll myself onto their stretcher.  This is not a fun experience after having been through surgery, and wouldn’t really be an acceptable practice in America, but I did what I was told.  I felt so helpless as half of my body moved onto the new stretcher and the other half stayed on the old one.  I would also like to point out here that I was only wearing an extremely short operating shirt, so I again exposed myself (and “The Great White”) to the world as I performed this maneuver.  Fortunately, the anesthesiologist to my rescue and brought my body back into alignment on the new stretcher (I was also happy that he scolded the nursing students for not doing their job).  From the theater, my stretcher was transferred outside and rolled across a very bumpy sidewalk.  By the time, I got back to my room and into my bed (which was another struggle), it had been almost an hour since I had been in the OR with pain relievers, so “The Sarg” came back with a vengeance.  This was the worst pain I had ever experienced and the nursing students had left me alone in my room, unable to press the call button.  I focused on my breathing (it had become painful to breathe anything more than “chipmunk breaths”) as I rhythmically pounded the wall with my fist to alleviate some pain.  I’m pretty sure that I asked God to kill me a few times and proceeded to confess some last minute sins, in case He obliged.  When the student finally came back in the room, hot tears began to run down my cheeks and when she realized that I was maybe having some pain, she quickly administered an IM shot of pethidine (strong stuff).  Within 15 minutes my pain was manageable, but I was exhausted from struggling with it for so long.  That, along with the sedative effect of the drug put me to sleep.  I vowed that I would never let my pain get that bad again.

By the time I was able to get someone to run out and get minutes for my phone so I could call home, it was 5:00 or 6:00 pm and my poor parents thought something had happened to me.  Though he tried not to convey it, I could hear panic in my dad’s voice when he answered the phone.  I could only talk for a few minutes, but I’m thankful that my friends here were able to get me phone minutes because my parents were so relieved to hear from me.

During my stay, I was so surprised to see the many people came to visit me, including administrator of the hospital, Stanley, who came every night and visited me for at least an hour.  I had so many, that the day nurse was forced to lock the door periodically, just so I could sleep.  The Americans, with whom I’d been working, had become worried when I didn’t show up with the students for work, and when they found out what had happened, they came bearing gifts of trail mix, Crystal Light packets, a hairbrush, and much more.  I felt so blessed to have such wonderful people surrounding me during this time.

It took forever for the doctor to allow me to start eating again, so when I was finally able to have a cup of broth, I was in a euphoric state.  The cook, Janeveva, had instantaneously become my new best friend—I practically kissed her and told her I love her.  I quickly realized that I had pleased the right person because the next morning, she slipped me the only egg left in the joint.  Hands down, it was the best egg I had ever eaten.  Now that I’m discharged, I miss having Janeveva’s delicious cooking, especially her exquisite tea.

After a week in the hospital, I was finally discharged and ready to be totally independent.  At least my brain decided that I had enough pampering; my body had other ideas.  The first night I came home, I was exhausted and the task of cooking for myself seemed like trying to climb Mount Everest, so I broke into my reserves settled for a piece of bread slathered with a spoonful of peanut butter.  I also took advantage of the trail mix my American acquaintances had brought me.  After that extravagant meal, I heaved my useless body into my bed and drifted off to sleep.

The realization quickly hit me that my body simply wasn’t going to work at the pace my brain demanded.  It was exhausting for me even to walk from the bathroom to my bed.  Moreover, CMMB wisely told me that I needed to take a month off of my nursing duties for recuperation, which left me with very little to do.  I believed that I was going to be a burden to the people here, when I was supposed to come and help.  I pondered my worth here and contemplated going home.  These negative thoughts were bolstered by comments made by some very well-meaning people.  “You’re just a new grad.  Are you really making a difference here, anyway?  You should go home.”  Although, those people were not intending to put me down, their words hit a soft spot, deep down in my heart because they were words, I had once let escaped into my mind and I had been struggling to force them down ever since.

The next morning, I conferenced with two of the coordinators from CMMB.  I told them I was not able to cook or clean for myself and  I confessed that I was contemplating going home for a month for some good old American TLC, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.  The coordinators were very respectful of my wishes and told me that if I would like to go home for a month to recuperate, I was more than welcome.  They also told me that if I wanted to stay then I should talk with the administrator and find someone to cook and clean for me, until I became well enough to perform the tasks myself.  My brain was saying “America?  Yes, please.”, but my in my heart, I felt a nagging tug.  I just didn’t feel like leaving was the right thing to do.  The overwhelming feeling of uncertainty maxed out my emotion-o-meter—and cue uncontrollable bawling.  My apologies to the poor guys who had to scoop me off the floor and tell me I was going to be fine.  I have to say, they did a pretty good job, if I ever need a free therapist, I know who I’m calling. J  I think Richard, the director of the volunteer program, could tell that my complaints were just on the surface of a much deeper concern.  He wisely told me that if I was concerned that I may have further health complications, his recommendation was for me to go home.  However, if what I was really worried about being a burden to people, he recommended that I consider sticking it out.  He had hit the nail right on the head.  Deep-down, I felt frustrated that I couldn’t preform basic daily tasks with my body on strike and further, I was frustrated that instead of functioning as the aid-worker, I became the one in need of aide.  He explained that the American culture tends to value ‘doing’, and when a person cannot ‘do’, they are of less value.  However, the African culture doesn’t place as much value on ‘doing’; rather, more value is place on just ‘being present’.  What a difficult concept to grasp for me.  After this profound conversation, I knew that the nagging and tugging that I felt was God telling me I needed to stay.

A New Arrival

After communicating my needs with the administrators here, the Lord brought me a fifteen year-old girl name, Jael (pronounced ‘jy-EL’; for days I called her “Jail”.)  She has recently finished class 8 and is on break for one month.  Normally, Jael lives with her aunt and 5 other siblings, while she attends school, but since she is on break, she is living here with her mom, Everlynne, who works as a cook at the nursing school cafeteria.  Her mom graciously offered her daughter’s services to help me, until it came time for Jael to go back to school.  At first, I was nervous to have such a young girl doing my work, but I was reassured by the administrator that it is normal in Kenya for a girl Jael’s age to do this kind of work.  The first day she came, I figured that I would have her do my laundry and cook my supper, but Jael had different plans.  Along with the laundry and cooking, she cleaned the entire house, which had previously been a disaster zone. I couldn’t believe how much work she did in ONE day.  She now stays overnight at my house to keep me company.  What a blessing God has placed in my life…

The first day was pretty hilarious because neither of us could understand what the other person was saying.  We have now been together for four days, and fortunately, though we still struggle, we can understand each other much better.  Her sister, Sylvia, is her best friend, so Sylvia comes to visit every day.  They both are teaching me more Swahili, although after an incident in which I said a dirty word, instead of saying “10”, I am much more careful when I speak.  J  (I also made Jael take an oath to tell me if I ever said a naughty word again, which kicked off a whole conversation about other naughty words people say here.  I politely told her that I needed to first master the good words, before she taught me the bad.)  She was so shy at first, but I think that blunder may have broken the ice.  Now, we both ask each other about the other person’s culture.  I have learned so much more about Kenya through these last 4 days, than I have in the whole first month I was here.  Plus, I’m learning how to cook traditional Kenyan food, so that I can survive on my own when I’m healed.

Jael had never used a computer, so when I pulled out my laptop to watch a movie, she stared at it goggle-eyed.  I told her that in America, it is a very important skill to know how to use a computer, so most children take computer class in school.  She seemed very curious about the computer, but was too shy to even touch it, so I have begun to teach her how to use the computer.  It’s so difficult explaining a computer to someone who has never used one before and there’s also the trouble of the language barrier, (now teaching Mom and Dad to use Skype will be a breeze).  The process is slow going, but she is a very bright girl and catches on quickly.  In one day, she learned how to play two games, Solitaire (she had never heard of that game) and another hand-eye coordination game; she knows how to open and close a program; and she knows how to minimize and maximize.  I’m very impressed at how fast she learned these things.

Impressions

Overall, my one month anniversary was definitely full of unexpected twists and turns, but what God has taught me through those experiences is worth far more than that Tusker I originally fancied.  After contemplating my worth here, I decided to truly embraced Mother Theresa’s words: “We cannot do great things in this world, only small things with great love.”  I believe that I will have made a difference if I had shown love and kindness to each individual that I encounter.  It’s not within my abilities to change the world, that power lies with God, but if I face each day with an open mind and, more importantly, an open heart, I believe God will provide opportunities for me to bless others the way He has blessed me.  I hope that if nothing else, you can take that message away from this blog post as well.  As I’ve stated before, Americans have been given copious blessings by God, but with those blessings comes the responsibility and opportunity to share those blessings with others around the world.  Maybe you want to donate your time on Christmas at a homeless shelter, or maybe you want to sponsor a child so they can go to school.  Maybe it’s just showing kindness and understanding to that waiter at the restaurant who dawdles when you are famished, and gives you a burger with extra pickles and onions, instead of the juicy porterhouse you were supposed to receive.  You are so very blessed, so spread that gift to others.

I promise that I’m stepping down from my soapbox (for this post anyway), but lastly, I just want to thank all of you for your prayers.  When my mom told me how many people, parishes, and schools were praying for me, I was shocked and amazed.  You have no idea how much of a difference those prayers have made in my life.  I know that the peace I felt before my surgery was because of your prayers and the easy recovery I’ve had is because of your prayers.  Know that prayer works and you all are such a blessing to me.  I love you all very much.  Merry Christmas!

Black Thursday Shopping in Kakamega

Thanksgiving Day and the Unforgiving Cow

This was my very first Thanksgiving celebrating without my family, but Patricia and I were bound and determined to make it special.  Therefore, we both requested the day off from our superiors and planned on venturing into Kakamega to dine at our new-found favorite eatery in the main supermarket.  As we flagged a zooming matatu, we set sail for the most bizarre Thanksgiving of my life.

Whenever I see a mtoto (child), be it in the pediatric ward or on the street, I pull out my trusty bag of stickers (compliments of Asha Poepping) and let them choose one.  They all proudly display their newfound treasure on their hands (or their heads, if they are feeling silly).  Unfortunately, I am running out of these stickers and I had a few nursing students nab some while I had my back turned, so I was determined to find some stickers in Kakamega.  I scoured the dusty streets for any shop that may carry stickers--my quest for the Holy Grail commenced.  In every shop I inquired about stickers, the workers would look at me with puzzled looks, but after a brief explanation of what I was looking for, the shopkeepers would all seemingly understand what I needed.  No joke, every single one would scurry towards the back of the store and proudly present to me Sticky-Notes, which is what they believed I meant by “Stickers for Watoto (Children)”.  After carefully telling them that we weren’t exactly on the same page, they all informed me that they had no stickers.  To my dismay, despite a valiant effort, my quest was unsuccessful.

This was the first time that we travelled to Kakamega on a weekday, but it was still just as busy.  Patricia and I had to ‘top up’ our phone minutes, which took an eternity and a half because the workers at the phone store weren’t understanding that Patricia wanted both minutes for calls and minutes for the internet on her phone.  However, I wasn’t too distressed by this because I was excited that it was Thanksgiving and that we were going to have a nice lunch.  As we left the phone store we continue on our path to Nakumatt.  We saw so many Mzungas (white people) at Nakumatt and I, being excited to see them, went up to one and exclaimed, “Happy Thanksgiving”.  The woman gave me a weird look and I realized that she probably wasn’t a Mzunga from America.   My deduction proved correct when she told me she was from Australia.  Oops!  We chatted for a while and she said her church group would be in Kenya for 3 weeks working at a local orphanage.  I asked her if she by any chance had any stickers with her.  Unfortunately, she said that  the ones she had brought were back at her hotel. L

As we parted ways, Patricia and I continued on our journey towards the restaurant.  There, we dined on cheeseburgers (like I said in my last post, I don’t really think it’s beef, but it was magnificent), chips (fries), and despite the fact that it was 11am we both saddled up to the bar and had ourselves a tall Tusker Beer (Hey, it was 5 o’clock somewhere).  We sat outside, so we definitely received a fair amount of glances in our direction and one man asked us why we were drinking so early (and also why we were drinking our beer cold).  It was definitely a memorable Thanksgiving meal, although I couldn’t help but miss the traditional moist turkey legs and homemade stuffing (just thinking about it now, is making me salivate).  After our $10.00 Thanksgiving meal, we stopped at Nakumatt to buy groceries that we aren’t able to buy locally.  At the door, we were searched for weapons with metal-detector wands, and after a brief explanation that the metal object in my purse was a camera and not a gun, we proceeded inside.

After exiting Nakumatt, Patricia realized that the internet on her phone wasn’t working, so we needed to go back to the phone store.  This is of course post-Tusker beer and after walking around the busy streets all day, not to mention that we were carrying a full load of groceries.  Needless to say, we were exhausted by the time we were able to cram ourselves into a Matatu with our groceries stacked on top of us.  As we were driving back to Mukumu, we both stared glossy-eyed in front of us, dreaming of a much needed bath and our welcoming beds.  Well, in the midst of our day dreaming, we lost track of where we were and thought we had missed our stop and frantically we yelled at the Matatu driver to stop.  The Matatu driver looked at us puzzled, but obliged our desperate request.  As we exited the Matatu, however, we realized that our stop was still to come, so we began walking home with our full load of groceries.  I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically because as the matatu drove away and we had our realization, a cow on the side of the road mooed at us, and I was sure that he was mooing in pity.  However, as Patricia trudged passed the cow, he decided to pushed her into the road, at which time I realized he wasn’t mooing in pity, rather he was snarling at us to get off the grass that he had been peacefully munching on before the stupid Wazungu disrupted him.  I only wish I had the chance to grab my camera in time.  Unfortunately, Patricia quickly realized what was happening and moved out of the way of the grumpy cow.  Well, I guess I’d be pissed too if someone was stepping on my Thanksgiving dinner. J

Working as a Nurse in Kenya

Working here in Kenya has proven to be a challenge for this Mzungu.  Most of the medications are under a different trade name (I rarely hear the generic names being used) and further, the medical staffs here use abbreviations for many of the medications.  It took me a while to realize that Paracetamol is just acetaminophen.  Also, all orders, not surprisingly, are hand-written and I have struggle with reading them.  The hospital here is very short staffed, so the main bulk of nursing care comes from the many students here.  On the pediatric ward, we’ve had an average of five patients on a given day and usually about four nursing students on duty.  I find myself wanting to be a role model for the students to show them what is correct and incorrect, but unfortunately nursing care is much different here and being a new nurse myself, I have a hard time figuring out what is completely incorrect care and what is simply different from the way we do it in America.  Finally, one of the biggest challenges is the language barrier.  As I stated before, most of my clients don’t speak English or if they do, it is very minimal.  Any good nurse knows that the crux of proper nursing care is communication.  Of course, I have been trying to communicate nonverbally, but that only goes so far when you are assessing a patient.

I had become a little discouraged because I felt like I wasn’t doing much here, but I had an epiphany, thanks to some wise words from my Dad, and I realized that all I can do is show love to these patients.  Thus, I have tried very hard to play with the children who are well and give as many stickers as I can.

There is a little mtoto here (I’ll call her Katie) that has been at the pediatric ward for almost 3 weeks now.  At this hospital, when patients are unable to pay their bill, they are required to stay in the hospital until they can pay (adding $150 shillings every day that they are discharged in).  In the case of Katie, her grandmother is unable to pay the bill, so they have been discharged-in for almost 2 weeks now.  Katie is probably the most sociable mtoto I have seen, in fact I refer to her as our little P.R. representative for the hospital because she goes around to everyone and quickly become best buddies with them.  Soon after my arrival in pediatrics, Katie decided that I was HER Mzungu, not only because I have stickers, but also because I have become her personal airplane pilot, flying her all around the ward.  The first time I met her, she was completely covered in dirt and didn’t exactly smell like flowers, but her inviting smile and infectious giggle helped me to move pass my germ-o-phobia and play with her.  Later on, I noticed these circles on her shaven head and the nurse casually informed me that the child must have ringworm!  I had a slight internal freak-out, since I had been playing her for two weeks and ring worm is pretty contagious.  However after careful inspection, I have not found a single ring on my body.  Thank you, God!

Finding my Sea Legs

In the US, patients are usually pre-medicated with an analgesic prior to a painful procedure such as doing a wet-to-dry packing on an open wound.  Here, patients aren’t given pre—medication, not even children.  There was a little boy (I’ll call him Elliot) in the pediatric ward with a large wound on the back of his leg from a bicycle accident and the dressing on the wound was to be removed and replaced every day.  The first day I had observed, Elliot struggled and screamed and his mother was forced to hold him down.  It was very heart-wrenching to watch such a sweet little boy writhe in pain and beg his mother to make them stop.  The next day, I decided that I would try my best to make him a little more comfortable.  I knew Elliot spoke a little English, so I told him to squeeze my hands when it hurt and that he was going to be my Kiswahili mwalimu (‘teacher’).  As I held his hands, we counted together in Swahili up to 50.  Elliot barely even screamed and I felt proud knowing that in a small way, I had helped the boy to remain calm in a normally traumatic experience for him.  For the rest of the day, I called him ‘mwalimu mzuri’ (‘good teacher’).

On Wednesday, we had four patients discharged (which is actually quite a lengthy process).  One three year old girl (I’ll call her Sophie) was just about ready to leave—in fact, her mother had just gone with a nursing student to the billing office to pay (the final step in the discharge process).  Another nursing student and I were serving lunch at the time and the grandmother came to us and said that her granddaughter felt very warm.  Upon assessment, I discovered that Sophie had a fever of 39⁰C axillary (which is extremely high), her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she was restless.  A fever this high can result in convulsions, so I knew we needed to act quickly.  I removed all of her clothes and instructed the grandmother to tepid sponge her.  Meanwhile, I went to the nurse’s desk to find the head nurse, only to discover that she was gone.  I was now supposed to act as the head nurse with several nursing students, who didn’t seem to grasp the severity of the situation.  I delegated the task of finding the doctor to a student, but she responded that the child was being discharged and she was working on something else.  I decided that I needed to go myself to search out a doctor.  Thankfully, I found a doctor just a few minutes later, and begged him to see my patient.  By the time I had returned with the doctor, in had been about 20 minutes since I last checked Sohpie’s temperature, so I felt it necessary to check again: 39.4⁰C!!!  The doctor ordered a stat IM injection to lower her temperature and readmitted her.  After just one day of receiving new medication, Sophie’s temperature was back down to virtually normal and she was toddling around the ward.  It goes to show how important it is to take vital signs on pediatric patients because their status can change as quick as lightening.  This was the first time I felt like a real nurse since I’ve been in Kenya.

Patricia…where’s my chocolate bar?!

Patricia and I have a habit of hiding our money in various places around the house just in case we have uninvited guests (we’re not talking about rats here), so on Wednesday, when I went into my purse to double check that I had 350/- shillings left ($3.50) and found nothing, I didn’t think much of it.  Of course, I am positively the most absent minded person I know and so I figured I must’ve hid it in one of my ingenious hiding spots.  I explained to Patricia that I have already begun to lose my mind at 22!  As I sifted through my inventory, Patricia came out of her room with an empty satchel, one which she had kept a large sum of money.  By this time, we began to realize that maybe we weren’t just being senile.  We had been robbed!  What was bizarre was that there were no signs of a break in, no broken windows or open doors.  Since we are compulsive about locking our doors (even when we are in the house), Patricia and I have hypothesized that whatever bold person traipsed into our house must’ve had a key (we are missing the key to the door for my bedroom).  As I looked further, I realized that they had also stolen a $100 US dollar bill from my wallet.  Luckily, they hadn’t taken any of our electronics (computers, cameras, ipads, etc), which hadn’t even been locked up.  The administrators of the hospital as well as the security guards have been extremely on top of the situation and have ensured us that they will be changing the locks.  In the mean time they have bought us pad locks to secure on the doors we don’t use.  Of course, I decided to take matters into my own hands and I now sleep with an Ugali stick in one hand and my Bible in the other.  (For those of you who don’t know, an Ugali stick is a long wooden utensil used to stir Ugali, it sort of looks like a Cricket Bat).  I informed Patricia that if I saw anyone (or thing) gallivanting through my room at night, I would swing first, and ask questions later.  Needless to say, Patricia has wisely decided to stay out of my room during the night. J

The next day, Patricia had gone on an outreach trip and I was eating lunch by myself in our house (of course, I thoroughly inspected each room beforehand, Ugali stick in hand).  After I finished lunch, I decided that I had been through a lot this week, so I resolved to treat myself then with a scrumptious piece of Cadbury chocolate from the fridge.  I scoured the fridge for our stash of chocolate bars, but I found nothing.  I thought that perhaps Patricia had taken the chocolate for sustenance on the outreach, but when she returned home devoid of the chocolate later that evening, I decided that I started getting suspicious.  Although it wasn’t like Patricia to take anything of mine without asking, I politely asked her anyway if she had had an overzealous sweet-tooth and had finished off the chocolate.  She looked at me puzzled and shook her head.  After a thorough hunt through our food stash, we realized that the naughty robbers had taken our stinkin’ chocolate.  That’s right folks, they seized our chocolate, but they left the computer?!  What is this world coming to?  I mean, it is one thing to steal all my money, but taking a girl’s chocolate bar after such a taxing week…that’s just a low-blow, man.  That’s not kosher in my book! J

In all seriousness, Patricia and I are safe.  We are so thankful that we weren’t home when the robbers were here, not only because I would have crapped my pants and packed my bags for America, but also because we might have been seriously injured otherwise.  We are also extremely thankful that they left all of our credit cards, passports, and electronic devices.  Finally, we are extremely thankful that the hospital has taken this matter so seriously and ensured our safety is their priority here.  Thank you, Heavenly Father, for taking care of us while we are here.

Week One in the African Jungle

I have been settled here in Mukumu for a little over a week now, but it feels as though I have been here for a month because I have seen and experienced so much.

Little House on the Prairie

With 5 bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a living room for just the two of us, our house is the nicest I have seen since my arrival in Kenya.  I am becoming more and more comfortable here and I am just beginning to feel that this abode is mine.  As I expressed in my last post, we have a few other ‘residents’ that have become part of the squeaks and creaks of the house.  The first night I was here I was shocked to discover two salamanders making themselves at home in my room and another about half the size of the other two scampered away from my backpack as I lifted it the next morning.  We also have some resident rats that apparently host a WWF smack-down every evening in the attic above my head (while I’m trying to sleep) and also in the bathroom (they have taken a liking to our laundry soap).  One particularly gutsy rat is the food scout for the clan and he scurries into the kitchen at nightfall looking for leftover crumbs of Ugali.  We refer to him as “Blackie” (actually the first time I saw him, I referred to him as “What the H*** was that”).  Okay, anyone who knows me KNOWS that critters and I are arch-nemeses.  We are like the Montagu’s and the Capulet’s…the Jets and the Sharks…the Jetsons and the Flintstones…you get the point.  So, needless to say, I’ve had to learn to get over my phobia, with a little help from my trusty Walkman and a lot of prayers pleading God to spare my toes from the disease-infested teeth of these critters.  I have been able to convince myself that I am perfectly safe while I’m sleeping because I am well encapsulated in my mosquito net which I tuck under my mattress.  Patricia and I went to Kakamega on Saturday (yesterday) and bought some rat poison…say your prayers, Blackie! Mwahaha….

I have to say that I am so grateful to have Patricia to talk with.  When we miss America, Patricia and I reminisce about things (mostly food) that are readily available in America.  I probably would trade my right leg for a big greasy slice of pizza or a Happy Meal from McDonald’s.  Patricia misses raisins (a little healthier than my grease-filled pizza slice). J

Ring the Dinner Bell!

The staple food in Kenya is called Ugali, which is made from maize flour and has a play-dough like consistency.  It is usually eaten with cooked Sacomowiki (kale) and a dish that resembles scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onions (and LOTS of lard).  The nursing students here have taught me how to cook the Ugali, which consists of nonstop stirring for about 20-30 minutes (a.k.a. a fantastic workout for your triceps.  Goodbye Lunch Lady arms).  If you aren’t sweating and your triceps and deltoid aren’t burning, you aren’t making Ugali right. Also, they typically do not use utensils…that’s right Mom, I get to eat with my hands. J  Because of this, it is a very important custom to wash your hands before eating food, and it’s actually considered rude if you don’t.

Kenyans also drink a lot of tea.  As a matter of fact, they have two breaks every workday that are dedicated to drinking tea (or hot chocolate).  They typically have their tea with milk and A LOT of sugar.  It’s very sweet and not my favorite, but I usually drink it to be polite.  Plus, teatime is a great way to make friends and socialize with people (if they aren’t speaking Swahili).

Originally, when Patricia informed me that Thanksgiving is this coming Thursday, I said that we must bake a chicken, so we can have a little tradition.  However, when I told my friend Nyangweso of our plans, she asked me if I was going to slaughter the chicken myself.  In horror, I replied “no way” and hesitantly asked her if she had ever slaughtered a chicken.  She casually replied that she had many times and continued to explain the process to me.  As I braced the sides of my chair and stared wide-eyed at her, she exclaimed, “You will slaughter a chicken before you leave Kenya.”  Needless to say, I’ve decided on Ugali and Socomawiki for Thanksgiving instead. ;-)

The Quest for Kakamega

Every Saturday, Patricia and I venture to Kakamega to buy essential groceries and phone minutes.  Kakamega is a large town about 5 km from Mukumu, which doesn’t seem far, but going to there is truly an all-day affair.  We leave between 8:00 and 9:00 in the morning and hail a Matatu, which is a 14 passenger van.  (Really the Matatu’s don’t need ‘hailing’, if they see people loitering on the side of the road they come careening towards you in hopes that they can smash two more passengers inside the van).  I say ‘smash’ because typically these vans are full to the brim and I’ve been in a van with as many as 18 or 19 people (the guy who takes your money and tells the driver when to stop, literally hangs outside the van with the sliding door wide open as it careens down the bumpy road)…talk about lack of personal space.  Then you get dropped off in Kakamega, where you find many people selling all kinds of stuff on the sides of the road in what is called ‘the market’.  It’s overwhelming because they see the Mazungu’s (white people) walking and know that we have money.  Many of them follow us for a short while and ask us several times to buy their products.  My first trip there, I was very scared of this and positive that I would be mugged, but this second time that I went, I really felt saddened to see so many of them.  There is a 40% unemployment rate in Kenya and so as I passed by them saying ,”hapana” (“No”), I couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt because I know that these people are doing anything that they can to make enough money to bring food home to their children.  I’ve seen some people cutting up the worn rubber from old tires and making them into shoes to sell.  We were told by one of our Kenyan friends that this area is the poorest area in Kenya.  It’s definitely a wake-up call to me.  I always thought that I was grateful for what I had, but I never truly understood the magnitude of poverty in this world until I have seen it with my own eyes.

We don’t always just pass by these markets.  In fact, Patricia and I have found that we can get very fresh produce for very cheap at these markets.  Today, we found a man selling fresh pineapples for the price of $1.00 USD.  Of course, we have to be careful of how much we buy because we still need to take the cramped matatu back to Mukumu.  (There is a smaller version of this street market near Mukumu where we buy fresh mangoes, tomatoes, onions, and other produce, but we haven’t been able to find bananas at this market yet).  Anyway, after we pass the street vendors, we journey on the dirty road towards Nakumatt (kind of like Kmart), where we can buy other foods, like milk, cheese, and meat, that we probably wouldn’t buy from the street vendors.  Today, we discovered that Nakumatt has a small restaurant attached to it, complete with burgers, fries, and Tusker beer (the popular Kenyan Beer), so Patricia treated me to a luxuries lunch.  I don’t think the burger was actually cow’s meat (It tasted like it was vegetarian), but it was delicious anyway and the beer (which came in a 500mL bottle!) was cool, crisp, and refreshing.  We definitely thanked God over and over for such a blessing.  Between the two of us, we spent $11 (including tip) for the entire meal!  When we actually made our way into the store, we found (among other things) a six-pack of beer and a carton of wine, which we decided was worth the extra bulk on the matatu ride home.  What a great day!

After again navigating through the heckling vendors and white-knuckling it on a zigzagging matatu, we arrive back at our cozy house, thankful that we are blessed with such a wonderful place to call home (critters and all).  After this journey, I am always absolutely filthy and must take a bath (the water is usually a greyish-black by the time I have finished cleaning).  I forgot to mention that the streets are full of garbage, including a plethora of old plastic bag pieces, so you really walk through some sludge when you travel anywhere (hence the black bath water).  If you buy anything here, it goes into a plastic bag and even the street vendors have plastic bags for your goods.  When I refuse the bags because I can carry whatever I’m buying in my purse, they look at me astounded.  Perhaps the “going green” movement hasn’t yet hit Kenya, the way it has in America.

Nursing at Mukumu Hospital

This week I began a two week long orientation at the hospital, first starting at the Maternal Child health clinic, where we give immunizations to babies and maternal screenings.  Tuesday and Friday, we did community outreach and took the ambulance into the nearby towns (at two churches) to vaccinate babies and screen pregnant women.   Side note, a mother will typically carry her baby by wrapping him onto her back with a long cloth (I will have to get a picture to show you).  It is such a great idea and it seems that the babies are really quite comfortable.

Because technology is lacking, it seems that everything takes much more time and many more steps.  For example, in the maternal screenings, the nurse listens for the heart rate of the fetus by using a fetalscope, which is a metal, cone-shaped instrument with a hole at the end to place your ear for listening.  It is very difficult for me to hear the heartbeat, but the nursing students who were working with me, said that they could hear it quite clearly.  I suppose with practice, I’ll get the hang of it.

There are many, many nursing students at this hospital and there is a shortage of nurses.  Therefore, nursing students are the bulk of the work force here at the hospital and the students and very independent from the few nurses that are here.  It’s very strange because I feel like the students are orientating me in the units.  In fact, I feel like a student myself!  Nursing in Kenya is very different from nursing in America and I am trying to take it all in.  For example, nurses deliver babies here.  WAIT!  WHAT?!  In fact, I have a good friend here who is a nursing student and she claims to have delivered over 50 babies!!!

One barrier for me nursing over here is the language.  I speak…one language: English.  The Kenyans typically speak three languages: English (if they are well educated), Swahili, and their native tribal language.  Most of the clients who come in do not speak English, and if they do, I have a hard time understanding what they are saying because of the strong accent and they are often very soft-spoken (unlike us loud Americans).  In order to be a good nurse, I need to be able to communicate with my patients (basically the fundamental step in nursing) and right now I can’t.  Therefore, I have begun to learn Swahili.  The nursing students have been a great help with teaching me simple words and phrases and I have already learned a lot in just the one week that I have been here, but I still can’t effectively communicate in Swahili.  I have to keep reminding myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day and I can’t learned an entire language in a week…but it would be much easier if I could.

Sister Claire is a second year nursing student and has been such a wonderful support to me.  She is (as evinced by her name) a nun at the convent here and after teaching in a primary school for several years, she decided to go back to fulfill her dream to become a nurse.  This woman is so amazing and is truly a blessing to me.  She is always taking the time to teach me when I don’t understand something and she constantly tells me that I am doing very well.  Thursday, she invited me to tea at her room and she has promise to show me the convent.  I’m so happy the God has placed us in each other’s lives.

Church in Kenya

Church here is very unique.  The children dance up at down the aisle during each song here.  I think we should have the kids in America do this because it gives them a job and makes them a heck of a lot less squirmy.  The music is sung a capella with an African polyrhythmic beat and many colorful harmonies to complement the melody.  Of course, the mass is said in Swahili (and most the songs are in Swahili), making it difficult for Patricia and I to sing with the songs.  Actually, I do sing along with some of the repetitive songs, but I have no idea what I’m singing.  I hope   There is also a lot of clapping and some swaying during the songs (much different from many Catholic masses in America).  Since we are the only two mazungus in Mass, everyone knows if we were to skip, so I have many truant officers (including the priest) to make sure I go to mass every week.  Haha.

This week’s message: Loving God includes loving people.  You’ve got to love both.  Think about that person in your life that drives you nuts or you’ve had a bad scrap with and refuse to resolve the issue until that person admits they are wrong.  Remember, that person has God in them, and you must reconcile in order to feel God’s peace.

Baby Moses: The Survivor

As you pass through the long maternity ward, you will find a tiny babe named Moses swaddled in a green fleece blanket.  This little boy is a survivor and his story really touched my heart.  Moses’ mother had abandoned him at birth and left him to die in a latrine.  God was looking out for this fragile infant and two men found the infant struggling for his life, covered in feces and maggots.  The men quickly brought Moses to the hospital to get treatment.  This babe struggled and fought for his life and despite his poor prognosis survived the tragedy.  At two months, he cannot hold his head up without support and we suspect that he may be suffering from some other illnesses, but this little guy is a survivor.  I find myself peering into his crib and holding him tightly, hoping that maybe some love will seep from my skin into his.  His tiny fingers grasp onto yours and his chocolaty eyes stare into yours as if studying your soul.  I wish I could take this precious child home with me and spare him from a life in the local orphanage.  Moses still has a mountain to scale, but I have faith that he will keep climbing because he is a survivor.

Be thankful for all you have because you truly are blessed by God more than you even realize.

Travelling into the Unknown

It took three full days of travel before I reached Mukumu.  Of course, this post will be quite long winded because there is just so much to tell.

Detroit and that Crazy Airline Representative:

Sitting on the plane in the Metro-Detroit Airport listening to my favorite CD by NeedtoBreathe, hot tears streaming down my blotchy cheeks, I began my journey as a nomad working my way towards Africa.  It really hadn’t hit me that I was leaving for a year until I reached the airport.  But, this was only half of the reason I was creating a puddle in my lap.  Of course, this wouldn’t be a story unless God threw me a curve ball somewhere along the way.  I had had trouble getting on the plane because my printed ticket stated that I needed a visa to leave.  However, I had been informed by CMMB that I didn’t need to obtain a visa until I arrived in Nairobi.  The attendant was rather irritated and brash as she scolded me for not having my visa and told me that she could not let me have a boarding pass.  She argued back and forth with me as I try to explain that I was told to buy my visa when I arrived in Nairobi.  She was not going to let me get on the plane!  My stress-o-meter maxed out at this point and I began to bawl my brains out.  Finally, by the grace of God (and after a stern tongue-lashing from my dad and a quick check of the airline rules and regulations), she decided to ‘let’ me keep my boarding pass and continue towards my flight.  However, my anxiety was not relieved because she sternly warned me that I may be sent back home on any of my upcoming flights because I had no visa.  I knew that I had received an email sent from St. Elizabeth’s Hospital that welcomed me to Mukumu, Kenya for a year and I decided that I needed to download that onto my computer as proof that I would be doing missionary work in Kenya.  I paid a lovely $10 for use of the internet café in the airport, so I could download the welcome note.  For everyone’s information, no else even inquired about where my visa was or for proof of my work.  In fact, when I arrived in Nairobi they hardly even asked me questions, they just asked for my 50 bucks and gave me a visa.  Sidnote, as I was going through security, they randomly searching my bag (which was stuff extremely full) and took my beloved peanut butter, saying that they counted it as a liquid!  WHAT?!  You enjoy that peanut butter, dirt-bag.

Amsterdam and the concert at Carnegie Hall:

When I arrived in the Amsterdam airport, I had almost a three hour delay until my flight left for Nairobi, so I figured that I would wander a bit to waste some time.  As I trekked through the airport, I heard the familiar clinking of the keys to a piano and I immediately had to venture towards the sound (kind of like a radiant bug lamp).  Sure enough, as I walked towards a very contemporary looking lounge, there was a little girl carefully plunking out her very own magnificat.  I patiently waited until she was satisfied with her performance and left the bench, all the while too embarrassed to figure out how to sit in the avant-garde chairs that filled the lounge.  As I strolled up to the Baby Grand Kawaii, I noted a sign on the piano that stated anyone and everyone was allowed to play it.  It just so happens that I threw a couple of piano books in my carry-on, just in case.  Thank the Lord!  This was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves and to make me feel less alone in this very big airport.  I began to play the songs in the books and the people who had been slumbering in the lounge awoke and perked up their ears.  I seriously felt like I was having my very own concert in the renowned Carnegie Hall.  People stopped in their tracks to listen to the music and stare at this grubby-looking American with her bulky luggage, playing the piano.  When I finally decided that I had played a little too long and needed to get back to my gate, the entire lounge applauded and one woman thanked me profusely as I walked by.  That was definitely my ego boost for the day.  I had this strong urge to proclaim: “Thank you!  I’ll be here all week!”  haha.

Nairobi and the kind-of-sort-of-not-really Banana:

After another long 8 hour flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi (I would’ve rather plucked my eyes out with venom-infested bamboo shoots than sit in that crammed plane for another minute), I arrived in Nairobi, met by my kind driver, Francis, who took me to the CHAK guest house.  Sidenote, there are these freakin’ gargantuan birds sitting in the trees along the road that are 1.5 meters in height and basically can digested bone into liquid…don’t want to turn your back on those babies!  The CHAK house was beautiful hotel that had a garden in the middle (instead of a swimming pool like in America).  It was a wonderful place where I had my first taste of Kenyan food (I put what looked like a banana on my plate, but it tasted bland and —nothing like a banana).  The next morning, I met the branch of CMMB in Nairobi and got to see a familiar face in Anand, one of the volunteer coordinators from New York that I had been working with.  It was a very tiring day as I was extremely jet-lagged and I really didn’t do much.

Kisumu and the American Jesus:

The next day, I was off to the airport again, where I would fly to Kisumu and meet Patricia (my roommate) and Martha (The nursing school principal).  At this point, I was feeling very alone and afraid, sitting all by myself at an airport café, where I could even buy myself some breakfast or coffee because I hadn’t exchanged any money yet and they (like most places in Kenya) do not take credit cards.

Enter Daniel:  Daniel, a clearly American looking man wearing blue jeans, a hoodie, and a red bandana, had requested to sit at my tiny little table, stating, “You look like a familiar face” (not gonna lie, this guy looked a little like a modern day Jesus).  Being a skeptical traveller, I gave him a visual pat-down to ensure that he wasn’t going to scam me and steal everything I owned.  As he sat drinking his Kenyan coffee, he told me his story.  He was also going to Kisumu where his friend was running an orphanage.  He would stay for two weeks and get the lay of the land to ensure that the area would be safe for his two boys and wife to come live.  He was such a wonderful person, encouraging me that I would be just fine because God would protect me.  He asked if I was a Christian and I flashed him the devotional that I had been reading as he approached me, so we talked a while about how we both had felt a strong calling to Africa.  He took another small sip of his coffee and exclaimed that it was possibly the best coffee he’d ever tasted and he offered me a sip.  As this sweet nectar of the gods caressed each of my taste buds, I thought to myself, “With coffee like this, I can survive anything”.  He assured me that I should buy a cup because it was extremely cheap.  I sheepishly told him that I had no money and without hesitation, Daniel handed me a 1000 Kenyan Shilling (roughly $10) and said, “You have to get some.  Just bring me back the change”.  I waited in line, all the while glancing back at him to ensure that he wasn’t stealing any off my stuff.  Best.  Coffee.  Ever!  We chatted for a little longer and soon after, he needed to leave, but not before we said a prayer, exchanged emails, and he handed me another devotional that he said was excellent.  As he was leaving he smiled and said, “If we meet again, you owe me a cup of coffee.”  God is so good.  He placed this man, Daniel, along my path when I felt so weak, to let me know that he would always be here for me.

Mukumu and the crazy Kenyan Drivers:

I finally arrived in Kisumu early that morning where Patricia (my roommate) and Martha (the nursing school principal) met me.  It was so amazing to see a familiar face that I ran up to her and gave her a big hug.  We went travelled into the town of Kisumu via the school’s van and Patricia and I exchanged our American money for Kenyan Shillings at the Bank.  Unfortunately, I had a one hundred dollar bill that they would not exchange because it was too old (granted it was okay that they gave me mushy old Kenyan bills).  As we travelled the 70 km toward Mukumu, I noticed that Mukumu had much more green foliage than Nairobi.  About every kilometer or so, there is a speed bump on the road.  Kenyans are crazy aggressive drivers, swerving into oncoming traffic to pass another car and not slowly down for pedestrians.  Sidenote, the anti-malarials that I have to take every day make me very nauseous, so riding on a bumpy road in a swerving van for an hour and a half is not very conducive to my condition.  I also noticed that almost everyone owns a cow, but the poor cows have barely anything to eat, so you can see their rib cages.  Where’s PETA when you need them…  We finally arrived at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital and I saw my house which is way bigger than what it looks like in pictures.  It’s not without a few resident critters, but it is home.  Karibu.

My Kenyan House

The Procelain Throne (My personal favorite pic)

My bedroom

The Living Room (or what Americans would call the dining room)

The Quaint Kitchen, complete with stove 

Tee Minus Three...

Hu Jambo!  Well, three more days and I'll be starting my journey to Kenya.  It is so surreal that I'm going to be gone for over a year.  I keep saying 'see ya later' to people, but it really hasn't hit me yet that I'm leaving.  I'm sure that when I get to the airport everything will start hitting me (especially when my mom starts to cry) and I'll start bawling.  Then, shortly following an episode of sheer panic and a probable pat-down of this suspicious-looking passenger, I'll pull myself up by my boot straps and carry on.  A friend recently gave me a card that I feel deserves to be shared here.  It described a fierce wind pummeling an oak tree attempting to make it tumble over, tearing leaves and bark and branches from it; but to no avail.  The strong wind ashamed of it's futile attempts asks the oak why it hasn't fallen, to which the oak replies that it is because of its strong roots buried deeply underground that were nurtured along the way of its life that make the oak so unyielding.  This card really spoke to me because I have been shown so much love and support from all my family and friends throughout my life--but especially in the last few months--that has nurtured my walk with Christ.  Because of this, I know that my spirit cannot be broken no matter what little mishaps (or gigantic winds) come my way.  Thank you so much everyone for your prayers and support.  They do not go unacknowledged.  So, that being said, I will make it through airport security without being pulled aside and interrogated in a small dark room for causing a seen.

Since there are only three days left until my departure, I have just begun to pack my bag.  Now I know what you're thinking: HOLY MOLEY SHE'S JUST STARTING TO PACK NOW?!  However, I have to say that I am impressed with myself for starting the packing now, because anyone who knew my habits in college (leaving the majority of my 40 page synthesis paper unfinished until the night before it was due), knows that normally I would start this "I'd-rather-poke-my-eye-with-a-dull-spoon-fifteen-times-than-do-this" task the night before, or worse the day of my flight.  This is a very tedious process that takes a certain amount of planning in order to accomplish because I am only allowed to take ONE 44 lbs bag (62 inches lenghth+width+height) on my flight from Nairobi to Kisumu and instead of shipping a second bag with the risk of it never reaching me, I'm hoping that I can fit my life for a year in that measly 44 pound bag.  Of course, I am a woman and more importantly my mother's child, so I like to pack for the "what ifs".  What if I get caught in a rainstorm in my last pair of underwear? Well, better pack 15 more pairs, just in case.  What if I run out of soap and I can't find any??  (can't find soap, really?!)  I better pack 10 more bars, just in case.  What if our sink stops working?  Better pack the spare sink...mmmhhmmm...sure Natalie.  Typically, I over pack for a week long trip (14 t-shirts, 5 dress shirts, 5 pairs of pants, etc. just in case and a boat load of shoes), so you can imagine the difficulty of fitting a years worth of clothing and miscellaneous garb in the space provided.  It gets a little overwhelming and I have to admit that I tend to take extensive 'smoke' breaks (hence, why I'm writing such a lengthy novel here).

My roommate, Patricia has kindly sent me 5 wonderfully awesome pictures of our abode (my favorite being the one of the flush-able toilet), so I will try to figure out how to post those on here.  She has also informed me that the day after I get there, the nursing school is having there graduation, which is a huge celebration complete with dancing (so for those of you who wanted me to learn a tribal dance, this may happen quicker than I previously anticipated).  Anywho, I suppose my break is up, so it's back to work for me.