Little One

And from Natalie's blog . . .

I will call her Little One.  She is 6 months old with beautiful big brown eyes and silky soft skin.  She has a smile that stretches ear to ear and an adorable little coo.  She is one of Mama's 11 children.  She often wears blue clothes but is every bit a little lady even in her brothers' hand me down clothes.

Little One needs our prayers.  She is currenly on the feeding program but has yet to gain any weight in the 2 months since she's been followed.   She weighs 3.4kg or 7lbs8oz and appears the size of an average newborn.  She is from Sierra Leone but is living at the Hope Center (Mercy Ships off-site building where patients live temporarily, often months, while they await surgery or get outpatient treatment in a clean setting without taking up valuable hospital space on the wards) with Mama awaiting surgery once she gains an appropriate amount of weight.  It is not uncommon for cleft lip babies to be underweight, as the defect in their lip or palate (or both) prevents them from eating or latching on to their mother's breast and getting the proper nutrition.  Haberman feeders (special cleft lip bottles/nipples) are obviously unheard of here, and even if they had access to them, formula is much too expensive with no clean water to mix it.  Little One has been nursing well though, she latches great and gulps down milk.  Mama cup feeds her faithfully with extra calorie formula.  Something just wasn't adding up.  They thought maybe she needed more time.  It's only been 2 months.  She wasn't losing weight, so that alone was a small victory.

Well, three days ago, the Hope Center staff brought Little One to the Ship with respiratory distress.  We admitted her with obvious febrile bronchiolitis and started her antibiotics, O2, nebs, and suction.  Once her lungs quieted down, there was an obvious heart murmer.  A chest x-ray was done and Little One's heart is huge.  Huge.  We don't have radiologists on the ship, so the x-ray was sent to the U.S. for an official reading.  It doesn't take a radiologist to recognize marked cardiomegaly.  We are assuming they would recommend an echocardiogram, which we cannot do on the ship.  Even if we could, it would be of no benefit to her.  We assume she has a congenital heart defect, and if her heart is already that large at 6 months of age, the outlook for Little One is not good.  There is not much we can do for Little One, and tomorrow it will probably be decided that she is not a surgical candiate for her lip repair.

I have taken care of Little One the past three days and bonded with her mama as well.  Mama is Muslim and leaves the ward to pray several times a day to which she promptly hands over Little One to my loving arms, kisses Little One on the forehead, then kisses me on the cheek and says Merci Merci Merci Natalie and something else in Foula I have yet to make out.  I am off the next three days but I will be visiting the ward tomorrow (which conveniently is at the end of the hall on the other side of the fire door).

Please pray for Little One....

"I've been looking for you . . ."

Take a few minutes and read Laura's post . . .

Halima is a petite little grandma...not much left but skin and bones and tumor.  I can feel each of her ribs through her dress as we embrace - the same bright dress she was wearing when we met in the market between here and Mamou. I have been looking for you, she tells me, for a month I have been looking for you.  She takes my hand and places it on her tumor and it throbs warm and alive beneath my bare fingers.  This pains me and chuks (pricks) and suffocates me at night...I just want it to be gone.  Will you take it away?

Halima, I have been looking for you too.

Every day for the last month I have thought of the morning we met in the market, when we came in the land rovers and asked them to find you, when you rode up on the back of a motorcycle and unveiled your face for your neighbors to see your shame.  Every day I think of the first moment I saw you and realized the lump on your face you had covered so carefully was almost as big as your face itself, and I looked past into eyes so full of life and impossibly joyful.  When I lie in my bed at night I remember you told me you had trouble breathing when you sleep, and I looked in your throat then and could not see an airway, only tumor and palate, and I wondered how you were breathing still.

My heart remembers you. 

I have often thought of the morning I unfolded a square of gauze on the rubber mat of the land rover floor, between the backpacks and baskets of food and guitars, and laid out the laboratory equipment in my island of clean white, when I pressed a lancet to your wrinkled finger and read your blood test in the main street as your whole village watched.

I saw them rejoice with you when we gave you the golden ticket: a patient card with your name and a screening date in four days.  I met your husband and your granddaughter and that man who translated for us from French to Pular.  I cannot remember his name...do you?  What do you remember of that sunny morning when we met?  What captures your heart in the darkness as you struggle to breathe?

When your screening date on ship came and went and you were not here, I asked what had happened to you and no one knew.  Did you forget to come?  When your surgery date arrived and you still had not, I wondered if a night had passed when you finally fell asleep and did not wake back up.  Were you lost and alone?  I looked for you but I did not see you.  I prayed for you...God sees you.

Now you are here and your voice has changed and you still struggle to breathe every night.  You tell me the Hope Center is a good place with plenty of milk to make you fat, and you pinch your arm proudly in display.  You look at me with a spark still in your weary eyes and ask me to take away the monster that pains and steals your breath.

I send you away with pillows to prop your head at night and paracetamol and a promise of hope.  Just a few more days, Halima, and the operating rooms will open again.  A few weeks only, and Insha'Allah you will no longer cover your face in shame.  After looking for the last month you have finally found us, and I welcome you with open arms. 

Hadiatou, the Girl With the Well-Loved Name

Hadiatou was born with a cleft lip, a condition so repugnant and frightening to the people in her village that they believed she should not be given a name. Even her father felt this way and refused to allow her to have the traditional baby naming ceremony.

Fatumata, the baby’s mother, remembers these early days all too well. “Ousaman, my husband, had a stone heart that made me very unhappy. I knew that God loved our daughter, so why didn’t he?” Even some sympathetic neighbors implored Ousaman to support his newborn daughter. But Ousaman refused to budge, forcing Fatumata to make a painful decision. She would hold her own ceremony to name her child. “It was very difficult to go against my husband, but our daughter was a human being, and I loved her. No matter her condition, she would have a name.” Fatumata prayed about a good name for her daughter, choosing “Hadiatou,” which means well-loved. She prayed that the love in this name would one day bring Hadiatou the healing she needed.

Despite her cleft lip, Hadiatou was a happy child who touched the hearts of her two brothers, Ousaman and Mamadou, with her unique smile. Fatumata recalls, “Hadiatou’s brothers always thought that Hadiatou was so courageous. They played with her and sang her songs to help her go to sleep.”

Hadiatou, true to her name of being well-loved, also softened her father’s heart. According to Fatumata, “There was something in Hadiatou’s courage that made Ousaman feel differently. While it still pained him to have a daughter with a deformity, he developed a grudging affection for her spirit. Instead of accepting insults about Hadiatou, he would speak up for her.”

While she prayed for God to help Hadiatou, Fatumata admits she was doubtful. “I did not know what caused Hadiatou’s cleft lip. No one in the village had a condition like this, so we all believed it was something that could not be fixed. I could not imagine that there were people who could treat something like this.”  

When Hadiatou was seventeen, something quite unexpected happened. Samba, a fine young farmer she met through her brother Mamadou, fell head over heels in love with her. Samba was drawn to Hadiatou’s kindness and her sense of humor. He saw great beauty in her eyes, and he knew Hadiatou was the wife God had made for him. Fatumata felt a stirring of hope for her daughter. If God sent Hadiatou a husband, maybe he would send her healing too!

When Hadiatou and Samba were blessed with a chubby baby boy, they talked about having a very special baby naming ceremony – to help make up for what Hadiatou missed. But suddenly, plans for the naming ceremony were put on joyful hold. Samba’s cousin Manay, three villages away, confided to Samba that their two-month-old son, Bubacar, had a funny lip like Hadiatou’s, but that a hospital ship in Conakry fixed it. Immediately, Samba borrowed the money needed for Hadiatou, her mother, and the baby to go to Conakry to Mercy Ships. Hadiatou and Fatumata were first taken to the HOPE Center for the weekend, until Hadiatou could be examined first thing Monday morning. Fatumata was overwhelmed by the reception they received.

On Monday, Hadiatou was given an appointment for surgery. And, by the end of the week, her cleft lip was repaired and on the mend. After two weeks of tender post-op care, she was ready to return home. As Hadiatou left the hospital for the last time, Fatumata turned to her and said, “Praise God for this miracle. Thanks to Mercy Ships we will have the most beautiful baby naming ceremony ever . . . with the most beautiful mother there is!”

Written by Joanne Thibault

Edited by Nancy Predaina

Photographs by  Debra Bell and Bright Effowe

Alya

Soriba sits on a stool at the end of an empty hospital bed with his arms folded across his green and blue striped shirt. His eyes are fixed on the door. He is waiting for news of Alya, his son, who has been in surgery for nearly three hours to remove a tumor from his small neck.

Across the narrow hallway of the hospital ship, Alya’s skilled volunteer surgeon, Dr. Neil, works diligently with OR nurses to finish up a successful surgery. “Incredible,” he says of Alya’s tumor, which had grown around his windpipe. “He was a few months away from suffocating from this.”

In his six short years, the tumor Alya has had on his neck since birth grew from the size of a quarter to the size of a potato. But today, because of Mercy Ships, there remains only a crescent-shaped scar, made up of a couple dozen stiches, where that tumor used to be.

Before surgery, Alya was teased by his friends for the
lump on his neck.  He as also out of breath and tired.

Now there is just a small incision
where the tumor used to be.

There is a sacred moment in the hospital wards of the Africa Mercy when a nurse tells a patient’s family member that the surgery was successful. Delivering this news is more than just giving an update – it is telling someone that their loved one’s life is forever changed. Mercy Ships ward nurse Rachel Greenland smiles as she approaches Alya’s father. “The surgery went very well,” she says. Soriba’s eyes flutter between Rachel and the translator as the message is relayed in his language, Susu.

“Everything went well. He hasn’t woken up yet, but he will soon,” Rachel says.

Sitting up a little straighter now, Soriba looks around the room. He smiles and in Susu announces to the ward, “My mind is free, my heart is happy!”

Another patient chimes in from a bed nearby, lifting his head to get a better view, as he says, “Let God bring these kinds of people every year in this country!”

“Amen!” says Soriba.

What had been hushed mumbles quickly turns to chatter from the surrounding patients and caregivers. “May God help them to bring healing for other illnesses we have here,” says a woman in the bed behind Soriba.

Soriba turns and holds up his hands, adding, “Amen. May there be healing for all.”

Four days later, a squirmy Alya sits on his knees at the end of his hospital bed, pulling on his father’s shirt. He is no longer the little boy who can’t catch his breath. He is no longer exhausted from his hindered breathing.

Alya proudly wears a red star sticker on the middle of his forehead and a huge smile on his face. Next to him, his father eyes the door – this time for a different reason.  Today, Alya finally gets to go home, and they are anxious to leave.

“Without this opportunity, we don’t have the means for surgery,” Soriba says. “Now I am happy; may you come every year.”

Written by Catherine Murphy

Edited by Nancy Predaina

Photos by Paul Millgate and Bright Effowe

A very merry Christmas indeed!

Blessed is what we were this morning!  For the past week or so, we've had an $18,000.00 bill for my ankle surgery hanging over our heads.  Now, it really wasn't quite that bleak - our insurance had sent us a check for $8900.00 so we really only owed around $9000.00.  Not knowing how we would ever come up with $90000.00, we turned it over to God.  Fast forward to this morning, Sam went to the Surgery Center to talk with their billing department while I took Matt upstairs for physical therapy on his ankle (do you sense an ankle thing going on at our house?).  It turns out there was a sheet we should have signed the morning of my surgery which we were never given that clarifies that they will accept the amount our insurance will cover minus our deductible.  $400.00 is a definite blessing compared to $9000.00 and we will now have a very merry Christmas indeed!  We hope you have a merry Christmas, too!  

Build-a-Tree Workshop

As the saying goes,  "Only in Africa . . ."

can you build a tree to celebrate Christmas!

 

More Christmas!

It's my festive foot!

The orange color is surgery residue - only 13 more days until it finally gets washed!

Can you imagine having this friendly face teach you?  

He said his kids loved it yesterday!  

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to you from the Deck 3 Halls!

(Deck 3 is where the operating theatres and wards are.) 

Celebrating A Mighty KIng . . .

Who came as a babe . . . Isn't she beautiful?

Hopefully, one day, she'll join in the celebration of the King!

Life's Little Blessings . . .

It just last night that I reminded the kids of their cleaning chores - each had a bathroom to clean and a level to vacuum.  And they actually did it - quickly and without whining.  So why is that important?  Well, this morning I checked Reka's blog and discovered these two photos of bathrooms she was privileged to use in Guinea:

And all I can say is "Thank you, God, for the bathrooms we get to clean."  Amen.
  

Good news!

That's not the good news - but isn't it a great picture Reka took in Guinea?  Somehow, I think we might get in trouble traveling like that here in the States - not to mention, it could be a bit cold traveling during the winter!  Anyway, the good news is that Mercy Ships will be featured on "Sixty Minutes" somewhere between now and Christmas.  Filming took place before we arrived on the ship this summer.  Once I know the date, I'll let you know! 

Another story from the good ship . . .

While Deb isn't the nurse in the attached photo,  it is the right patient and it is Deb's story and as always, it is amazing!

My heart could burst!

During my night shift last week, I came into the ward to find a woman on the ventilator.  She had had quite a large tumour removed from her palate and a tracheostomy put in for her airway.  She wasn’t unstable or particularly sick post operatively but was a little too lazy to breathe on her own.

The following night, she was back in the ward, coping well with her trache and change of airway.  She spoke a language that wasn’t spoken by many of our translators, but she also wasn’t able to speak with her trache in. We were able to communicate well enough with her to meet her needs.

Over the following days, she recovered very well and at the beginning of my shift one day this week, it was time to remove the trache.  With a surgeon, ready with a scalpel to cut the sutures holding it to her skin and several nurses standing around ready, she sat wide eyed on a stool next to her bed.  With the swift motion, cutting the sutures and a gentle sweep of the wrist to pull out the trache, it was gone! The small hole in her neck gapped open as she took more breaths. Eyes still wide, pulse racing, nurses’ hands reassuringly resting on her, we told the translator to ask her to relax and just breathe normally.  Soon enough her wide eyes, calmed and she realised all of a sudden, this strange plastic tube in her neck was really gone! She was back to herself! Her smile spread ear to ear, almost as though her face would burst open with happiness.  She reached for every nurses and doctors hand, shaking it and murmuring her thanks.  We covered the small hole, letting it close over itself as it heals, and she stood to her feet.  One of our other patient’s mothers came over, and began to sing a song of praise and we stood around in a circle clapping along, as our dear patient danced, her arms raised high and her smile splitting all of our hearts open wide with joy! As she hugged every person she could reach, my heart danced. This, these moments, are exactly why I love my job here, where my heart could burst any moment because it just can’t contain any more joy!

Another story from the good ship . . .

"Volunteer nurse Melinda Kaney joyfully exclaimed, “The eight-plate surgery to straighten Fooday’s legs worked wonderfully!” Aladji, Fooday’s father, was so grateful that his eldest son’s journey to healing was complete. Fooday would now return to school and perhaps, one day, be a teacher – something his mother Yakha dreamed about for her son.

Fooday’s start in life was tenuous, Aladji recalls. “Fooday was born prematurely. He was so tiny and weak, we didn’t think he would live. All of our family and the neighbors prayed for Fooday to pull through. By the grace of God, he did.”

When Fooday began walking at eighteen months, his parents noticed that his legs were bowed. The family’s meager income wasn’t enough to pay for the herbal poultices offered by the traditional healer. In desperation, Aladji resorted to beggging to raise money for Fooday’s sessions. Sadly, the traditional medicine did not help – the abnormal curve in Fooday’s legs worsened.

Yakha explains how much they worried for their son. “Fooday had pain that kept him crying all night. But worse was the shame and hurt that I knew Fooday would go through with bent legs.” Yakha’s fears were well-founded. When Fooday started school at age five, other children continually laughed at him. After a few steps Fooday’s unsteady gait would falter, and he would fall. With each tumble Fooday faced another barrage of insults. Aladji and Yakha were heartbroken. The only safe place for Fooday was at home. He could no longer go to school.

Praying continually, Yakha and Aladji asked God for a miracle of healing for Fooday. Aladji clearly recalls the morning that their prayers were answered. “There was an announcement on the radio that a hospital ship was coming to provide free medical care. I heard that the hospital did surgeries for children with bent legs. Yakha and I were overjoyed.”

Within three weeks Fooday was onboard the Africa Mercy hospital ship for his free surgery. A small metal plate, in the shape of a figure eight, was attached to the outside of each of his leg bones. The eight-plate, designed to slowly correct the bow in Fooday’s legs, would also allow the bones to grow straight in the future. When successful, this technique avoids a much larger operation that requires the bones to be broken and reset. 

Now, only one step remained until everyone could breathe a complete sigh of relief. After doing their straightening job, the eight-plates would need to be removed. Otherwise, the legs would bow out the other way! So, over the next eighteen months, while back at home, Fooday’s legs gradually straightened. His eventual return to school was a cause for amazement as his schoolmates could already see a dramatic change in his legs.

At the eighteen-month point, Aladji and Fooday eagerly travelled to the Africa Mercy hospital, now docked in Conakry, Guinea, for his final surgery.

Fooday’s reunion with nurse Melinda was filled with excitement, hugs and giggles. “Melinda took such good care of me when I had my first surgery, and I always hoped I would see her again. Now, here she is giving me the best hug of my life!” he declared.

As it turned out, Fooday’s eight-plate removal was not the only step in store for the family. To Aladji’s surprise, Mercy Ships had a greatly appreciated treatment in store for him too. For years Aladji had focused entirely on Fooday’s healing, while ignoring the pain of his own four decayed teeth and infected gums. At the same time that Fooday was in the Africa Mercy hospital, Aladji had an appointment at the Mercy Ships Dental Clinic. Aladji, with the tormenting dental pain completely gone, shared a warm smile with Fooday back at the ship. Aladji whispered in his son’s ear, “Fooday, thanks to Mercy Ships, it is happy teeth for me and back to school for you!! God is good!”

Written by Joanne Thibault

Edited by Nancy Predain

Not one, not two, but . . .

THREE!  Yes, I am on my third cast this week - and it's only Thursday!  Monday morning my very wonderful cast cover made specifically for showering in got a very small hole - smaller than a pencil eraser.  And in that very small hole, water poured in and soaked my cast!  After spending a day with a blow dryer attached to my toes, I decided maybe I should call the doctor on Tuesday and see if there was something else I should be trying.  I called the doctor and the doctor said, "New cast.  Can you be here at 1?"  I said, "Sure".  Know that it was 11:58 a.m. and I can't drive.  But in only three (see a theme going through here?) phone calls, I had a driver and three hours later, I was home with my new hot green cast - that was too short in the toes, probably by about 3 centimeters - just short enough to make me rock when I walked and throw my hip off.  So I called the doctor about 8 p.m. Tuesday night and got a call back Wednesday morning.  If I could come in on Thursday morning, they would put on a new cast AND take my stitches out and I wouldn't have to come back for five more weeks!  Note:  new word - five.  Double that and you'll see I had ten stitches taken out and a new hot green cast (it is Christmas!) put on!  The moral of the story:  God IS in control!  Glory!   

Interior Screening . . .

The ship has sent out a team to do interior screening.  They're traveling the back roads of Guinea, looking for those whose lives can be changed on the good ship Mercy.  Here's Laura's story:

 The whole purpose of this trip is to find surgical patients, but we came with limited surgical slots, a few handfuls of hope to share among hundreds.

Because these hours of dirt roads in between towns, a minor inconvenience or adventure for me, are the difference in medical access for thousands.

And they came, as the sun began to rise.  Young and old, wearing their shame under a carefully wrapped lappa or nursing it along on crutches or hidden under a keffiyeh.  There were the cleft palates and noma patients I rejoiced to find, a boldly written MAXFAX across the top of the pink screening sheet.  An alcohol-cleaned finger held out in a prayer that the HIV test would be negative and the immune system strong enough for surgery.  A tentative smile that danced in brown eyes with a carefully held patient card - the golden ticket for a screening slot on ship and a chance at surgery.

And there were the moments that ripped my heart in half again and again and again.  A double line on an HIV test, a plastic surgery desperately needed but no spaces in the surgery schedule and a waiting list already too long, a medical illness with no medical doctors or medication available to help, a brand-new baby in my arms and no orthopedic slots to straighten tiny deformed legs.

 
From town to town the schedule steadily filled with the carefully reserved spots I had counted out for each location.  From town to town they came, and the need was great.  My own wisdom could not possibly have been enough to make the choices on which so many lives depended, and I was left in freefall - trusting in the wisdom and guidance that could only come from the One with the power to see and touch every life, the only One who can truly heal.

When Jesus heard what had happened, he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. 

Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. 

When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick...

And when the men of that place recognized Jesus, they sent word to all the surrounding country. People brought all their sick to him and begged him to let the sick just touch the edge of his cloak, and all who touched him were healed.

 ~ Matthew 14:13-14, 35-36

Thanksgiving Photos!

'Twas the day of Thanksgiving

And we'd just finished lunch . . .

The dishes were stacked

we had quite a bunch!

Chef Andy was tired -

I confess, so was I!

So off to the couch -

where we hid on the sly . . .

 As Tamara called out to the children,

"Come, Haley and Trae, you, too, Keegan!

Matt, Micah, and Andrew -

 And you, Miss Megan!

The dishes are yours - 

time for some fun!

You can't leave the kitchen

until they are done!"

The kids did just great -

it was quite fun to see!

Happy Thanksgiving to all -

time to put up a tree!

Miss Betty

You know, I'm not sure when we first met Becca - it may have been Benin, it may have been Sierra Leone, but what I do remember is her joy in serving us this summer while we sailed to Tenerife - in the galley - and she's a nurse.  Her's one of her stories.  It's long, but so worth the time.  

 

He wipes away the tears

The first time I saw her, my heart sank at the sight of the tumor. Betty had come from Sierra Leone in hopes that we could remove the tumor on her chin that had already grown from the size of an orange to a grapefruit in only a few months. As I began to remove the bandage for the first time, I tried not to react in horror at the sight and smell of a tumor unlike any I had ever seen before. I could see her gazing deeply into my eyes, searching for a response, trying to find reassurance that everything would be ok. I looked past the tumor and into her eyes and smiled, trying to forget the nausea I was feeling over the smell. I practiced the small bit of Krio that I remembered from Sierra Leone and began to form a bond with this amazing woman and the sweet sister who had brought her to us.
Weeks passed and Betty and her sister Safiatou came every day without fail to see us in outpatients. It didn't take long for every person in our department to fall in love with Betty. Although she was timid and ashamed during the first few dressing changes, we soon grew to know and love the real Betty that was hiding behind the massive ugly tumor and the shame that came with it. Betty latched onto me quickly and became very comfortable with me changing her bandages. We had a lot of fun on her visits, as I would play my African music from Sierra Leone, dance around and attempt to speak Krio. It made my heart so happy to see her smile and watch her sister laugh, even if that meant I had to dance around to the lyrics that I could barely remember. Betty and Safi grew to be more than "patient" and "caregiver"...they became our dear friends. The hope still lit up their eyes as they prayed and hoped that we would remove the tumor and be able to celebrate the new Betty together. I pictured what Betty would look like after she had her surgery. I prayed that her biopsy results would come back negative and that we would be able to do the surgery soon.
But the tumor began to grow rapidly and along with that, the fears of all of us began to rise. From one week to the next, the number of supplies that I needed for each dressing change was mulitplying quickly. Betty and her sister noticed it too and the look of hope in their eyes began to diminish. Biopsy results can take up to four weeks to come back here and the waiting time felt like an eternity. The agony of the waiting was almost as hard for all of the nurses as it was for Betty and her sister. But seeing how fast it was growing, I began to prepare myself for the worst. Betty was losing hope as well. We began talking about her three children one day and she fought hard to hold back the tears. Her husband had died two years beforehand and her youngest child was only five years old. "Please God, don't let her die," I begged silently. What would her children do without their beloved mother? Her youngest was so little that she would probably only retain a few faint memories of her mother if she died. I could tell that Betty was thinking about her children. Her tears began to roll down her cheeks and I did my best to hold back my own as they welled up in my eyes. I had to step out of the room before I broke down. "Please God, I know you can heal. Don't let Betty die."
A few days later, our team leader came back with a stack of new pathology results.  "Betty's results are back and it's not good," she told me sadly. I started blankly at the piece of paper in front of me and read the awful word "adenocarcinoma." Her tumor was cancerous and they would not be able to operate. Betty had already left for the day and we were heading injto the weekend, so we wouldn't be able to tell her until Monday when our hospital chaplaincy team could meet with her. I swallowed the lump in my throat and said a silent prayer for God to prepare Betty's heart for the news that would follow.
Monday came and there was a sadness in the air. We told our translators the news that morning and they were struck with grief over this woman that we had prayed for together for God to heal. The moment Betty stepped in the door for her dressing change, I think she knew something was wrong. We all tried to smile, but the translators didn't want to come near to Betty because it was just too hard for them to face her and hide their own emotions. After her dressing change had been done, she and her sister went inside to meet with Clementine, our hospital chaplain. They were inside for a very long time and when they came back out, I was inside for an appointment and didn't get to see them before they got into the shuttle to go back to the Hope Center where they were staying. I was disappointed I had missed them and couldn't hug them and wipe their tears, but said a prayer for them and saved my hugs for the next day.
Betty and Safi walked into Outpatients the following day, heads hung low and sadness in their eyes. There were few words to say, just hugs to give. I began preparing the supplies for Betty's dressing change and Safiatou broke down in tears. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her and we cried together. I know that it's important to hold everything together at times as a nurse, but in that moment, I just needed to be a friend and share her tears. The tears I had been holding back began to pour out and we sat and cried together. I told her I was so sorry for the bad news and that I knew how scary it was to face losing a family member, that it was ok to cry, and that we loved them both. After a few minutes, I hugged her again and encouraged her to be strong for her sister. She wiped her tears and we began to do Betty's dressing change together. I wanted to give them a little more time to just process everything, but I had already been asked to begin the teaching process with Safiatou so that she and Betty would be ready to go back to Sierra Leone a few days later. As I explained what Safi needed to do, she mustered all the strength that she had and focused intently on performing Betty's dressing change as best as she could. She did a great job and I told that that we were now going to call her "Dr. Safiatou" and she responded with half a smile. We shared more hugs and the two of them headed back to the Hope Center.
The following day, we finished all of the teaching with Safiatou and Betty, gave them the huge box of supplies that they would use for the dressing changes at home, and gathered around them to say one last prayer. When I opened my eyes, Betty's tears were rolling down her cheeks. I brushed a tear away and thought of God's promise to wipe away all of our tears in heaven. I don't know when Betty will go home to be with Jesus, but I know she'll be in His arms soon. And when she gets there, she won't have an ugly tumor on her chin anymore....just a beautiful smile on her face and a heart full of joy...because when she enters into heaven with Jesus, she will experience the ultimate healing of the wholeness of His love.
I often find myself overwhelmed by the suffering and pain I see around me in Africa. I ask God why he allows the pain, the suffering, and poverty. My heart aches over knowing that a woman like Betty would have a good chance at life if she had been diagnosed in my own country instead of a poverty-striken West African country where the resources of chemotherapy and radiation are not readily available. I question why God doesn't miraculously heal her for the sake of her three little children and her loving sister. But, the truth is, no matter how many times I ask why, I know that I will never fully understand until I get to heaven. Maybe God's plan of healing is not for Betty's tumor to be removed, but for the full healing and restoration of entering into heaven with Him, a place where no suffering and disease can exist. Even though I may not understand, I cling to the truth that God is good and that He does what is best for His children. So, I leave Betty in His hands and rest in knowing that she is headed to a better place.
The truth is, we live in a broken world, tainted by sin and evil. The truth is, people still die every day from treatable diseases all over the world. The truth is, life isn't always fair and even if I volunteer in Africa for the rest of my life, I won't be able to save everyone. The truth is, I don't have all the answers and I can't carry all the burdens I encounter. If I try to, I will be crushed under the weight of it all and unable to move forward and make a difference in the lives of those who I can help. So I have been reminded this week by the One who called me here that I can give my burdens to Him and allow Him to carry them for me. He is the only One who is strong enough to carry them anyway.
I'm not sure what God's purpose was in bringing Betty to us, but I am grateful to have known such a beautiful, strong, amazing woman. Even though she couldn't have her surgery, I know that the last month spent with her was not wasted. I feel privileged to have been given the opportunity to walk with her through a difficult part of her journey, to love her, and to help her experience a deeper emotional healing through the love of Christ. I look forward to the day that I see her in heaven and we can dance together in the presence of our loving Saviour.

I hold onto this hope and the promise that He brings

There will be a place with no more suffering

There will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, and no more fears

There will be a day when the burdens of this place will be no more

We'll see Jesus face to face

But until that day, we'll hold onto You always

 

~Jeremy Camp~

Theirno

Meet Deb - I met her this summer on our sail!  And I stole this from her blog . . . to God be the glory!

This man, is the patient that had the huge surgery I have blogged about several times in the last few weeks.  Look at him!!!  This is two weeks post operative and he has now been discharged to the outpatients department! I can hardly believe how well he has done! His face will continue to heal and the extra skin will continue to shrink back in the coming months.  He is eating soft food for the first time in years and loving every mouthful! What an amazing recovery and story!

It's NOT What I Expected!

Hmmm . . . all that time in Africa had me thinking that my boot and cast would look more like this, but I guess I live in a developed nation because my boot and cast look more like this:

Well, at least it would if you made the boot black instead of pink and the cast blue instead of gray!  To all who prayed - THANK YOU!  I'm doing well - not well enough to help out much with the cooking and cleaning, but well enough to direct everyone else in how to do it!  Happy Thanksgiving - just a day late!  Hugs . . .

To God Be the Glory!

It was a successful day of surgery yesterday on the Guinean football player with the massive tumor - make that the four pound tumor!  It's been weighed and now it's gone, he's had reconstructive surgery and he's doing so well he may get out of ICU tomorrow and return to the ward.  Thank you, Jesus, for restoring Thierno's life!   

'Twas the Night Before Surgery . . .

This post was taken from one of the nurses' blogs . . . pray!

 

We have arrived to a crucial moment on the Africa Mercy. It is the night before the surgery that will change our friend’s life permanently. There’s no going back. He is as fit as he can be for such a huge operation. His surgical team gathered this afternoon to go over the logistics and details of the case, carefully mapping out all the steps that will take place. It’s going to be a very long case. Please pray for all involved. Pray for the team to be alert, rested, energetic, focused, and totally relying on God for every move they make. Pray for Dr Gary and Dr John to be filled with the wisdom that comes from above to make every incision precisely and carefully. Pray for the anesthesia team to be vigilant to every nuance in vital signs, prepared to respond quickly and appropriately. Pray for the lab personal to be standing by with all the life saving blood at the ready as soon as it is needed. Pray for our friend to be at peace, trusting God to be with him all the way through. Pray for him to come out of surgery alive and well that he may give glory to God. Pray for him to have no doubt that he has a Savior in Jesus Christ. Finally, no matter the outcome, let’s all remember to praise and thank God for all He has done, all He is doing, and all He’s yet to do because He is GOOD!
 

 

 

Keep Praying, Trinity!

Last Sunday, I had the opportunity to share Mercy Ships three times at church.  One of the stories I shared was about a 38 year old former Guinean National soccer player who is currently on the ward waiting for his quite larger tumor to be removed.  I asked those that were there to pray for him and found this (stole this?) on a nurse's blog . . . God is faithfully answering our prayers!

As a nurse you often have a special place in your heart for certain patients. Here actually it is most of them, but there are always some that really get to you. We have one particular patient on our ward at the moment who everyone is rallying behind and is much loved by all. He has a large tumour on one side of his face, and came to us a couple of weeks ago malnourished, unable to eat, barely managing to take some liquids and visibly weak on his feet. Initially we were unsure as to whether he could have surgery or not but after some tests and discussions with him we are ‘building him up’ for surgery hopefully next week. Slowly slowly he is putting on some weight and is now walking the four flights of stairs from deck 3 to deck 7 when we take the patients outside once a day. He has established a workout routine and the last 2 evenings has had me taking him for exercises down the corridor doing various squats and step-aerobics on the stairs. We sat down afterwards (so I could recover, he was doing fine) and he just held my hand as I talked in my poor French about his surgery next week. I asked him if he was afraid and he immediately shook his head no. He has such hope. I will be praying, praying, praying that he gets through this ok. It will be a complicated surgery because of his physical state to begin with but also because of the size and location of the tumour. There will be many of us waiting that day to see how he gets on.

One Week before Micah turns 13 . . .

Go down two flights of stairs on the Africa Mercy and you’ll find you’ve stepped out of a ship and into a busy buzzing hospital. On the wards you’ll find kids playing, patients visiting, and plenty of African music. Listen and you’ll hear conversations in English echoed by translators in French or one of Guinea’s three local languages – the chatter abounds like white noise.

 One would expect that a 13-year-old girl would be among the chattiest, but not Memouna.

Memouna’s pronounced facial tumor began above her left eyebrow, spilling down her face to the corner her mouth, displacing her left eye. This tumor, a neurofibroma Memouna has had since birth, left her looking like one side of her face was sliding off, like Dali’s famous melting clock in a desert. From behind the curtain of her deformity, Memouna saw the world with her good right eye. And to her despair, the world saw Memouna.

For 13 years she was taunted for her appearance. Moreover, superstitions run deep in West African culture and physical deformities are believed to be the sinister mark of someone cursed. Memouna was not only teased by peers; she was dismissed as something less than human. From the drooping facial tumor came the source of a broken spirit.

“She was not happy because in Africa people stay away from her. She would cry because she did not understand why no one liked her,” said Memouna’s 17-year-old sister Aminata, the oldest of her nine siblings.

On Wednesday September 26, 2012, Mercy Ships surgeons removed Memouna’s tumor. After her operation, even under layers of bandages, the transformation was profound. Memouna’s profile no longer appeared rough and misshapen; her face had been physically lifted from the weight of the tumor. Nurses hoped her spirits would follow, but countering years of social isolation is a much more invasive procedure.

 In the days after her surgery, quiet Memouna said nothing while her father and sister took turns staying at the hospital and speaking on her behalf. “I’m sorry, maybe she will talk another day,” her sister would say.

“It was a long time before I realized she spoke. She was so silent that I didn’t think she could,” said Lynne White, a Mercy Ships ward nurse. “But I can understand it, she went from spending her life keeping to herself with no friends and then she came here and was overwhelmed by the attention.”

- – -

On a night about a week after her surgery, Lynne came into the ward to find Memouna listening to headphones, nodding her head to music and mouthing the words. For the first time, Memouna seemed…happy.

“I couldn’t believe it, so I did whatever I could to try to get a laugh out of her – I started dancing!” Lynne said. “Memouna, oh she just laughed and laughed. It was wonderful.”

Two weeks later Memouna arrived on the dock with her father for a check-up. She kept to herself, waiting on the benches when she was spotted. “Is that my Memouna!?” Lynne said. At her name, Memouna glanced around to find Lynne not walking, but dancing over to her. “It’s you, you’re here!” Lynne cheered, waving her arms in the air. 

Memouna clapped her hands and covered her mouth, trying, and failing, to hold back her giggles.

 Now, even though she does not give up her laughs easily, we can see the real Memouna. In those moments, there is a cute teenager in a pink sweatshirt and orange nail polish where a timid, downcast child used to be.

 With the removal of Memouna’s tumor comes the chance for physical and spiritual healing.

The Saga of the Right Ankle Continues . . .

Some of you may remember that on October 7, 2011, I sprained my right ankle.  After ten days in an air cast, I was pronounced well and ready to run.  Fast forward to April 2012 when my ankle went bonkers again.  This time, I wore a brace and went through a month of physical therapy.  In May, I was again pronounced well and on June 3, I ran to Ghana with my friend, Tiffany.  Somewhere between then and August, my ankle went out again and I saw my doctor at Twin Cities Orthopedic on August 28.  He order an MRI and on August 31, I found out I had a tear in my peroneus brevis muscle (under the outside of my right ankle) and I was put in a cam boot for thirty-three days!  I began to wean myself off of the cam boot on October 2, but by October 19 when I saw the good doctor again, I knew things were just not right.  Sure enough, he said it was time to stop the conservative measures and look at surgery.  He gave me the names of two surgeons, one in his office and one he had went to college with.

I called his co-worker first and he was booked out until January 2013 - wait!  He did have an opening in December - would I like it?  Sure, why not!  So I called the colleague from college - who had one opening last week and it just happened to be on my day off - Wednesday!

The colleague agreed that it was time for surgery and gave me his game plan - four weeks in a cam boot with my leg elevated, followed by another four weeks in a cam boot while my ankle continued to heal.  He had one opening day for surgery - November 14 - or I would have to wait until after the holidays.  His nurse would let me know.

I got home to a phone call from Twin Cities Orthopedics - the co-worker had an opening the following day - would I like it?  Yes!  The colleague was fine, but I wasn't excited and I wanted to see the co-worker.  And I did - on Thursday!  Wow!  Talk about a difference - I was shown my torn peroneus brevis muscle.  I was told that my ankle was weak - he showed me how each of my ankles responded to pressure and movement - which meant he would also do surgery on my ligament which had been stretched like taffy.  He had me off my ankle for 24-72 hours, then I would have a weight bearing cast, although he didn't recommend me doing too much of anything while I was in the cast for the next six weeks.  I liked him, I liked his explanations when I questioned him about what the other doctor had said, and I scheduled surgery for November 19.  I don't know what time yet, but I do know Sam and the kids will be home to take care of me the first week (except the 20th) and maybe by Christmas, or at least by the first of the year, I'll have my cast off!  

And then . . . maybe some day, I can run again!