The last few months, things have been fine, nothing seriously significant has happened to act a catalyst for this, but I’ve found myself losing my faith again. It’s so ridiculous how quickly it waxes and wanes. In losing my faith, I find myself creeping back to bad habits and unchristian actions, including not going to church, which in turn brings me farther and farther away from Christ’s love. I think it’s a big part of the reason I haven’t been in good communication with people at home. I’m sorry if it had seemed like I had abandoned you all (including this blog). Every time I tried to start writing, I felt this dullness inside me (not the usual passionate flame amid my typically procrastinating self) and everything that came through my fingers onto the screen was like bland oatmeal. I can’t tell you how many abandoned Microsoft Word documents I have saved in my blog folder with two words, a sentence, a short paragraph—none of which will ever have the honor of appearing on the ‘big screen’.
The uncertainty about my soon-to-be-present future is also contributing to this loss of faith. Where do I go from here? What do I want to do with my life? Do I really want to leave this beautiful country? DO I really want to leave HOME behind? Will I even fit in anywhere anymore? I feel so changed in so many ways and sometimes I fear that I’m not going to perfectly fit in the place that I fit before I came, but on some level, I know I’ll never TRULY fit here either. I am stumbling here. I’ve regressed from walking to crawling and soon I’ll just curl up in a little ball and cry a little. And amid all this uncertainty, I feel alone—so utterly alone in this dilemma. I don’t feel God’s gentle hands pushing me one way; I don’t feel that warm, gentle breeze of the Holy Spirit tickling the hairs on the back of my neck, enveloping me and carrying me to the right path. Maybe God’s testing me—trying to make me rely more on Him. Or maybe my worldly ways are blocking those ‘receptors’ from feeling that Wind. It’s probably both, but that empty, lonely feeling leaves my soul aching and wondering if the God I had come to love is really out there. I know that I’ll get through this time, but right now, it just seems like an impassable mountain for this little mustard seed.
In any case, I have realized that I can’t just sit here and wallow in self-pity and utter disbelief. That ain’t gonna get me out of the middle of this thick jungle. Inch by inch, I’m dragging my wounded body out of the muck and through the dense labyrinth of bushes—nerves raw from the jagged thorns entwined in the foliage etching tiny slits into my skin. Baby steps, people. I’ve started to listen to Christian Music again, which in itself has made a huge impact on my struggle. I’ve begun playing what my mom calls “bible roulette” and reading small passages of the bible before I go to sleep (although I have to admit that when I stumble across a fire and brimstone passage in which all sinners are condemned to hell, I immediately shut the book, feeling a little uneasy about what God is trying to tell me). My faith is so fragile—the littlest incident can either ignite a wildfire of passion in my heart or douse the tiny candle flame that’s struggling to stay lit. I hate to admit that, but this blog isn’t called “Voyage of a Tiny Mustard Seed” for shits and giggles. I have dreams that one day this little mustard seed will move mountains, but for now, I’m just attempting to get out of the thick of this forest, so I can at least start to feel that Wind again. And hopefully soon I’ll be able to plant myself in fertile soil, so I prepare myself for God’s plans for me. Faith isn’t easy, and I know that, but it’s surprising to me how easily I can fall back into my bad habits and humanly ways.
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So, now that I’m back online, I’m sure you all want to know, what I’ve been up to the last 3-4 months. Let’s try and conquer this mountain shall we? *insert long stretch, followed by a quick crack of the knuckles*
After I wrote you last, I had been feeling very isolated here, and I asked God to help me out of this slump. Well, I think he was listening because within a week of me beseeching, the administrator of the hospital called me into his office and told me that there would be two wazungu from U.K. coming to stay at the hospital as they work at a local school here. He was wondering if I would be willing to host them in my house, since it is absolutely huge for one person to live in. Shocked and slightly euphoric, I kept my cool and nonchalantly replied “Hakuna shida” (“No problem”). Of course, in my mind, I was doing a very embarrassing Irish jig and screaming for joy. So, that was that and a week later Tom and Verena arrived at my doorstep, luggage in hand. Tom is British and a student at Oxford University. Verena is German and a student at King’s College in London. So yeah, the Big Wig Universities!! They, along with about 40 others, were working with a small organization KEP, which targets universities students from Cambridge, Oxford, and King’s College to raise money and then use it to help improve local schools around Kenya. They were working at a school in Mukumu called Shidodo. It’s amazing what these guys accomplished in 2 months. It was so nice to hang with wazungu who understood the struggles that I had gone through/was still going through. We watched movies and listened to a wide array of quality music (Michael Bolton, George Gershwin, and Disney definitely made the playlist on numerous occasions); had great conversations about life, politics, and relationships; drank many a Tusker; cooked great feasts, including hosting several dinner parties; and travelled into Kakamega and Kisumu together (I’ll never forget our bus ride into Kisumu, in which the bus almost tipped over and Tom decided that he was going to play Superman for the day—this is after being dropped by a matatu in the middle of nowhere at the top of a hill). I also had many opportunities to meet other people from there program, one who was an American going to Cambridge (shout out to Kate—miss you lady).
At the end of their two months, Verena decided that she was going to go to the coast with a couple of other KEP volunteers, Beth and Patrick. During that time, I was doing night duty at work, in which you do 7 days of 12 hour shifts followed by 7 days off, so I decided to take my week off and join them. I left Totes in the hands of a good friend here and boarded a matatu on route to Naivasha with the rest of the gang in Kakamega (we started travelling with a group of about 13 people and then we all split up in Naivasha and Nairobi). The car ride was FREEZING!! I was sitting next to a window that was stuck open, so I threw a bunch of my packed clothes on top of myself and listened to the radio on my new phone and a distraction (yes, I finally had to break and buy a new phone, as my cheap 500/= shilling phone, pooped out on me 2 months before I had to leave). We stopped once in Nakuru, which seemed like a very nice area, although we didn’t get to see the full city before packing into the tight matatu and continuing onward, Naivasha Bound! We arrived in Naivasha at our cute campsite at night. Yes, that’s right, people. I got to CAMP in Kenya next to a lake where the hippopotami roam! There were literally three of us squished in a dinky tent during the night, but the tight living quarters were actually conducive to the weather, since it was FREAKING FRIGID!!! The next day, we rented bikes and rode through Hell’s Gate National Park (I biked in a skirt, which was superbly breezy; Shout out to my buddy Kaia—you know what I’m talkin’ about). It was a beautiful day, full of climbing, laughter, bicycle break downs, and much more. At one point, we literally biked about 50 meters from a pack of zebras grazing in a field. After that beautiful ride, we were welcomed back to the camp with a shower with HOT running water!!! Such a beautiful experience, after having been painted with a film of grit, bike grease, and salty sweat—not to mention I hadn’t had a REAL shower in over 10 months. Needless to say, I took the longest shower in my entire life and I’m not gonna lie, I diligently followed the instructions on my shampoo bottle and rinsed and REPEATED!
That evening, after I forced myself to get out of the shower, we parted ways with a few volunteers and headed to Nairobi where we met up with some more of the volunteers. For dinner, I had a burrito, but the restaurant was out of tortillas, so I got my burrito on fries (shout out to Jess, who had this brilliant idea). Then we headed to our hotel, named “Terminal Hotel” (a little morbid, but surprisingly adequate accommodation for the price). The next morning Verena and I were determined that we were going to find a Starbucks somwhere and get REAL coffee, because for the last 2 months we had been drinking NesCafe and enough was enough. For weeks we had been joking that we would Google search Starbucks in Kenya and if we found one we would hop on a bus right that second and find it. As we waited in the hotel lobby for the others dreaming about the chance to taste a Starbucks coffee, one of the hotel managers overheard us and delighted us when he said “You want Starbucks? Oh I know exactly where that is. I’ll even take you in my car for free.” Verena and I gazed at each with glossy eyes and jumped for joy, laughing hysterically. I decided that I was going to order a grande Caramel Macchiato and Verena just wanted a cappuccino. This was just too good to be true. My life in Kenya was now complete: I was going to drink COFFEEE!!!!! So, these two jolly gals and two other volunteers jumped into the back of this man’s car and started on our way to the Holy Grail! As we were driving the anticipation was creeping up on me and I started wiggling in my chair and my mouth started watering. All of a sudden, I was jolted out of my euphoria when the driver asked, “So where do you want to go?” Verena and I looked at each other with confusion, as this man had assured us he knew where Starbucks was. “Well any Starbucks will do,” I said. The man looked with confusion and replied, “Yeah, but WHERE are you going?” On of the other volunteers whispered, “Maybe he means what are you getting?” As our anxiety and confusion grew as we tried to explain that we were trying to get to a coffee shop, the driver sheepishly replied, “Ohhhhhh! I thought you were saying ‘Starbus’. No, there’s no Starbucks coffee in Nairobi.” Verena and I sank to the very bottom of our chairs as the reality set in that we were not getting our coffee. I gnawed my bottom lip and stifled a sniffle as we thanked the man for trying, and hey, at least he gave us a lift to the train station, where we needed to buy tickets to the Coast. Luckily, we later found a legitimate local coffee shop with incredible coffee that had just opened, so we even promoted local business instead of corporate Starbucks. Yay us!
After spending WAAAAAAAAAY too much money in Nairobi, we boarded a train to Mombasa, which is on the Coast of Kenya. Getting to the train itself was an adventure because traffic in Nairobi is absolutely ridiculous. It’s much worse than the worst traffic jam you could see in Detroit. We gave ourselves an hour to get to the station, but it took so much longer than we expected and we ended up having to JUMP out of the car, luggage and all, and RUN to the station, because it was faster than driving. Fortunately for us, we made it right before our take off time. This was the first time I had taken a train to any destination, so it was kind of exciting, although much more expensive than I had originally expected. It was a night train, so we slept there, and having gone first class, the four of us shared two compartments with 4 beds total. When dinner was served, a woman in uniform came around and rang a bell. Dinner wasn’t anything special, but it was still cool because, after all, we were eating on a train. After dinner, we were all exhausted so we hit the sack. Unfortunately, there were times during the journey that the train started continuously LURCHING, to the point where I was just waiting for us to derail (I think I’ve seen far too many thriller movies involving fast moving, almost derailing trains). Needless to say, I didn’t get too much sleep. When we reached Mombasa we had to take a matatu 2 hours North to our destination: Malindi. Mombasa is a typical vacation site for many wazungu, but recently there had been some violent activity, so we decided to avoid that area, due to constraints from the others’ organization.
In Malindi, we had some issues with getting a hotel in our price range, but ended up finding a very nice place a little bit way from the Ocean front. It was so much nicer than the other accomodatiosn we were looking at (it even included breakfast), that I became a little suspicious that there was something wrong with the place. As we were shown to our rooms, I pointed out that there was a Mosque right next door , noting how beautiful it was, and the trusty host assured us (much too quickly) that we wouldn’t even hear the noise from it. Noise? What noise? The fact that the man was reassuring us, made me nervous. Sure enough, the mosque makes noise…A LOT of noise. It has a loudspeaker with a dude who sings to the WORLD 3 times over at 4a, and 6am EVERY morning to come for prayers. It was so ridiculous that I just had to laugh. Even Verena, who never has anything bad to say about anything, was a little testy after 2 days of “HUWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! BLABBITY BLAH BLAH BLAH! WAKE UP MZUNGU!” caterwauling. The beach, which was absolutely gorgeous with smooth white sand, and turquoise-blue water, definitely made up for the routine wake up calls.
Every day, we went to the beach we were greet by “beach boys”, who backslapped Patrick for having THREE women, and also at the same time, shamelessly flirted with the three of us girls. I could lie and say it was just ridiculous and annoying (at times it could be), but in reality, it was definitely ego-boosting and at the end of that trip, it took all of my strength to resist looking at other people with cool eyes and thinking ‘yeah, that’s right. You know you want me.’ Ha. In all honesty, though, the people on the coast were very nice and helpful (Yes, even the beach boys).
I hated leaving Malindi, but the time came for me to go back home and get back to work. Reluctantly, I left the other three and travelled back to Mukumu via a 16-ish hour bus ride home. As a cloud of exhaust clear and the bus passed, I met the familiar sights of the Mukumu Hospital sign and the guards welcoming me home, asking me jokingly if I had brought them some coconuts. It was an amazing trip and travelling by myself on the way home gave me courage to do it again sometime.
WorkLife
In the last month, I’ve started acting as the covering nurse for the hospital one day a week in the evenings. This duty sounds a lot more prestigious than it actually is. It entails going to each ward and making sure that everything is okay, all orders made by the clinicians during doctor’s ward rounds are completed, and if a ward is having a problem with a patient, I help where I can, and then have the responsibility for contacting the doctor to review him or her. It’s actually very fun, because it changes up the monotony of my day in the ward. However, I’m still too nervous to go and deliver a baby in maternity. Everyone wants me to do it here, but I know so many things can go wrong during delivery and I can hardly remember anything from my Obstetrics course in college. We’ll see. I’ll start refreshing myself on obstetrics here and, who knows, maybe before I leave, I’ll have delivered a baby.
When I’m not covering the hospital, I am still working in the paediatric ward at the hospital here. For over a month now, there has been a strike of the doctors in the public hospitals (Mukumu is a private hospital). Because of this, those hospitals have not been admitting and we have started to get another influx of patients. All of the big referral hospitals are public, so as of late we are trying to manage cases that are too complex for our facilities here. From an education standpoint, it’s nice because I’m starting to see much more variety in patients, instead of mostly Malaria cases. However, it is so hard to see patients suffer and even die because our facilities are not adequate to sustain them and the hospitals that could help them are either far too expensive or not admitting patients. Yes, I said that: Too Expensive. We see so many patients here that could get better care elsewhere, but are unable to afford the better care. Still think that universal healthcare is too socialist for America? Come to Kenya and see the suffering that takes place because so many people are unable to afford the ‘better’ care. Many referral hospitals here have hefty entrance fees that are supposed to act as a down payment for the final bill, but in turn, it weeds out those citizens in the lower socioeconomic status from getting proper care.
My Precious Butterfly
There is a little girl in my ward whose infectious smile and shy eyes mask the pain she feels inside and she falls into that unfortunate category of those “Weeded out” by the healthcare system. This beautiful 13 year old, is in a messy, destructive war with her own body: she has recently won a battle over Malaria and septicemia, is currently surviving sickle cell anemia (a very painful and demanding disease found mostly in people of African descent), and the doctors here are now querying leukemia and lymphoma. I call her a precious butterfly—so beautiful and yet so unknowingly fragile. As I load her little butterfly hands and plump butterfly face with stickers, underneath the smiles and silly giggles and playful jokes, I wonder and worry. I watch as my precious butterfly holds back tears when she’s burning with fevers and unable to swallow the juice I sneaked to her because her glands are so swollen. I hold her little butterfly hand as the bitter drugs are forced down her throat and into her tender veins, and gulp back my own tears knowing that these piercing drugs hurting my precious butterfly are only masking the symptoms of the terrible forces brewing beneath her precious butterfly skin. I know that time is essential and my precious butterfly needs a full battery of tests and some serious medication to get her through this mess, but the system and the unfortunate economic status in which she was born doesn’t allow it. I come home and pray that God will find them a way. As the time ticks by and my weak heart worries for my precious butterfly, she continues to flutter playfully around the ward and the more I watch her, the more I realize that my precious butterfly has the strength of a lion. She knows she’s sick; she may even know that she’s dying, but my precious butterfly knows on some level that life has to keep moving, and so she smiles and giggles and flutters all day long. No one would know my precious butterfly has this dark cloud always following her around because the rays from her precious butterfly smile hide it. And yet I still wonder—why does this happen to children? My butterfly deserves to live. She deserves to fly beyond that looming cloud that threatens her safety.
I have this and so many more unfortunate stories of the other precious butterflies who happen to pass through my ward and get carelessly swept under the rug by the 'system' and it makes me feel blessed to live in a country where no matter our financial situation, our most precious little bug-a-boos will always get care and treatment they deserve. Fly precious butterflies, fly. One day you all will reach the stars.
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That’s it for now, but when I get back home, ask me about other stories, because believe me, they are here. May God bless you all in this day and every day to come. When you start to feel like you are drowning in the waves of life, go grab your blow up raft and come join me out in the sea. I’m heading there now, just so I can float, and let the Wind of God carry me to where I need to be. Mungu anaweza…
