Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Alseny's Transformation

You might remember my friend, Tiffany.  She's the mum on the ship who ran to Ghana with me last summer - she's also from Minnesota!  Check out what I copied from her blog:
Meet Alseny. 
This little peanut arrived in November at the age of four months.  He weighed in at six pounds.
His cleft lip and palate prevented him from getting the same nutrition as his TWIN sister, Mariam. 
Here are they are upon their first check in with us on Nov. 15th (yes, the date is important).
Mariam is an average sized baby, breastfeeding regularly from their mama. 
 Alseny is not receiving anywhere near the same amount of nutrition as his "big" sister.

Alseny's fight for life is strong though.  He is alert, active, responsive and engaging.  
Our infant feeding specialist steps in to help provide some tips to plump him up 
so he is big and strong enough to undergo surgery. 

Mama has fought hard for his life - in a culture where this is viewed as a curse - on your entire family and village - the norm is to abandon the babies in the forest to die and escape the curse that has come upon you.  So the courage it takes to love your child wholeheartedly here speaks volumes.
Here he is on NOVEMBER 27th - yes, just 12 days later.  
You might not see the difference immediately, but scroll back and compare  - 
his ribs aren't protruding, there's a bit of meat on his legs, his arms, 
his cheeks have some flesh to them instead of just being pulled taut over his skeleton.
Big sister Roughiatou (roo-guee-ah-too) has come with mom to help care for the twins 
during their time in Conakry awaiting surgery.
Mom, big sis, Mariam and Alseny
Is there anything more beautiful?

We watched Alseny grow at the Hope Center - our weekly visits saw a new - fatter boy each time!

And now....
Meet the February Alseny!  He has surpassed his sissy, Mariam.  
He is happy, chunky, and ready for surgery.
 
We look forward to rejoicing even more with momma as her happy (now FAT) baby 
gets a chance to view life in a whole new way.

How can this be the same teeny baby that lay nearly lifeless on this scale less than three months ago?
God is a god of miracles.


 The night before surgery, the family moves onto the ward to prepare for surgery.

The surgery went very well.

 Alseny gets lots of special love and care from his nurses in the OR, PACU and back in the ward.

 His lip still has some sutures but it's healing so nicely
Can you say, "GLORY!"

A Mother Never Stops Loving . . .

Enjoy this patient story of a young boy who had a large benign facial tumor.


Sory, a frightened, cowering seventeen-year-old boy with a large benign facial tumor, waited for what no one had ever thought was possible . . . a surgery that would remove the growth. Sory shrouded himself completely, leaving only a small gap for one eye to continually survey his surroundings.
His mother, Saran, sat close to him, holding his left hand firmly to her knee. Her gesture – so quiet, yet so enormously significant in a superstitious culture – indicated clearly  that she would never stop loving him. As Sory’s tumor had grown and ballooned its way out of his mouth, his mother had drawn closer to her son. If he was to live a nightmare, then she would live that nightmare too. That is what a mother does for her children.

Before Sory’s tumor started growing from his cheekbone, he and his farming family lived a happy, simple life. Sory’s father and older brother gave him the oxen to care for and work with when he was nine years old. Sory had a special gift with the oxen, naming them Keoulan and Lonni. He expertly guided them through their many farm chores. Sory’s mother also worked the farm field, keeping a proud eye on her younger son as he coaxed steady effort out of Keoulan and Lonni. Saran liked to watch Sory play football, thinking to herself what a fine young man he was becoming.

When Sory complained about the lump that was growing, Saran was immediately worried. “Sory was always such a happy and healthy boy. I knew that something must be very wrong for him to say something.” Over the next two years, Sory experienced regular dizzy spells, but no pain, as the tumor continued to push its way forward. He could no longer hide the now gaping distortion in his face. Saran’s eyes fill with deep sorrow as she recounts how her son’s once promising life crumbled. “I learned quickly how cruel people can be. No one in our small village ever had a condition like this before, so they believed that Sory was cursed. People were so frightened of Sory that they would yell and throw sticks at him. Saran and her husband Balla made a painful decision to keep Sory hidden at home or on the farm field. Saran recalls how her heart shattered as she saw the deep confusion and agony in her son’s eyes. “The more he was consumed by pain and fear, the more love I needed to pour into him,” she explained.

While Saran prayed continually for her son, she started to feel her own crushing despair. Sory’s struggles with eating and his difficulty breathing were all signs that more growth in his tumor would surely bring an end to his life. Saran never let Sory see her sorrow or fear. Instead, as Sory recalls, “My mother gave me hope. I cried so many times because I could not attend celebrations or play outside, and she would always comfort me. We would pray together, and she would tell me over and over how there would be healing for me.”

Sory believes his mother’s steadfast love, support and encouragement bought him the precious time he needed until the healing they prayed for arrived. Saran recalls that day with great emotion. “The tumor had taken over Sory’s entire life. He could only swallow a little meat broth, and he was desperately weak. He lost all consciousness of the world around him. Then, when I felt he was close to his last breath, my husband’s brother, Moussa, called us. He said, ‘Balla, bring Sory to Conakry right away. There is a ship here that does operations.’ Within two weeks Sory was admitted into the Mercy Ships hospital.”

During the hours that Sory was in surgery, Saran found herself seized by a flood of memories. She explains, “I recalled every moment of pain Sory had suffered – especially the rejection, the insults and the whispers that it would be better if he died. And now, my boy was being healed. God heard our prayers, and He gave Sory his life back.”

According to Sory, God heard the infinite faithfulness of his mother. “God knows my mother never gave up on me. God knows that when no one else could love me, she loved me. God knows that when no one else would eat with me, she ate with me. God knows that my mother would have given her own life for me to be healed. God knows it, and I know it too.”

Following two months of recovery, there are only a few reminders of the voracious tumor that threatened to consume Sory’s young life. The smile he shares with his mother reveals some missing upper teeth. While his nose is a bit askew, every day his facial features take on more of their original contours. Sory’s most important thoughts these days center on  returning to the farm and the future he wants to fill with friends, a wife and some grandchildren for his mother.

Before making their way home to Northern Guinea, a very special moment occurred between Sory and his mother. A few days earlier Sory confided to a Mercy Ships volunteer that if he could give his mother anything in the world it would be a dress as beautiful as she was. Jillian, the volunteer, found a lovely dress at the Guinean Women’s Co-operative for Sory to give to his mother. Sory’s eyes danced with delight as he gently put the dress in his mother’s lap. Saran gazed up at her son’s face – the face she had never stopped loving – and  her heart was once again whole. She hugged Sory, murmuring softly, “Thank you, God, for the miracle of my son’s continuing life and love.”

Sory, a frightened, cowering seventeen-year-old boy with a large benign facial tumor, waited for the near impossible in West Africa . . . a life-changing surgery. Sory shrouded himself completely, leaving only a small gap for one eye to continually survey his surroundings.

Sory’s mother, Saran, stays constantly at her son’s side. As Sory’s tumor grew and ballooned its way out of his mouth, his mother drew closer to her son. If he was to live a nightmare, then she would live that nightmare too. That is what a mother does for her children.

Saran keeps a watchful eye on her son Sory who has just returned to the hospital ward following successful surgery to remove his large benign tumor. Saran had prayed continually for her son. She believes that, “God heard our prayers, and He gave Sory his life back.”

During the years that Sory suffered with a massive benign facial tumor his mother drew him very close to her. According to Sory, “God knows my mother never gave up on me. God knows that when no one else could love me, she loved me. God knows that when no one else would eat with me, she ate with me. God knows that my mother would have given her own life for me to be healed. God knows it, and I know it too.”

Mother and son share a happy moment – just one of the many they can now look forward to. Sory is eager to return home to farming and hopes to one day give his mother lots of grandchildren to love her as much as he does.

Sory, now recovering from surgery to remove his massive tumor, has a new focus in his life. His most important thoughts are about returning to the farm and the future he wants to fill with friends, a wife and some grandchildren for his mother.

Sory, his mother, and Jillian (a volunteer crew member with Mercy Ships) have a special bond. Sory had confided to Jillian that if he could give his mother anything in the world it would be a dress as beautiful as she was. Jillian found a lovely dress at the Guinean Women’s Co-operative for Sory to give to his mother. When Saran received the dress from her son, she murmured softly, “Thank you God for the miracle of my son’s continuing life and love.”

Written by Joanne Thibault
Edited by Nancy Predaina

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Love Unblind


Fodé had been living in quiet isolation for more than a year when the Africa Mercy hospital ship arrived in Conakry, Guinea. Fodé is deaf and mute from a childhood illness; when he began to lose his eyesight to bilateral cataracts almost two years ago, he grieved for the loss of his only remaining means of communication.

According to the World Health Organization, cataracts are the leading cause of visual impairment worldwide in developing countries where surgical treatment is inaccessible. In sub-Saharan Africa, there is approximately one ophthalmologist for every 1 million people. (Source: Vision 2020). Therefore, Fodé had little hope for any medical assistance.


 Fodé is 45 years old and is married to Hawa, who is also deaf and mute. They met as students at L’Ecole des Ourdes, the school for the deaf in Conakry. The first time Fodé saw Hawa, he knew that he loved her. He wrote a love letter to her, and shortly thereafter they were married.

For anyone to lose his or her eyesight to cataracts is a tragedy. But for Fodé, losing his eyesight meant losing his livelihood, as well as his ability to read, write, communicate and take care of himself. He was unable to go anywhere alone and required a constant caretaker. Hawa, along with his brothers and sisters, shared the responsibility of taking care of him. The family developed a unique signing method by moving their hands on Fodé’s chest – human touch was his last way to express himself. 

When Mercy Ships arrived in Conakry, Fodé’s family began to hope – a surgery to repair Fodé’s eyesight was a reality that his family had never considered possible. 

Because of her own handicap, Hawa did not come for Fodé’s follow-up appointment after his surgery. She waited at home for her husband, and Fodé was accompanied by his two sisters instead. When the bandages came off, Fodé blinked cautiously as the world around him came into focus. Then he brought his hands to his face and cried tears of happiness and relief. He has been released from the prison of dark isolation that confined him for the past 18 months.


And, of course, his wonderfully supportive family rejoiced! “Now Fodé is happy,” his sister said, “because he can go home and see his wife again.”


 Story by Catherine Murphy

Need Directions?

In Africa:   “Take a right two minutes after the gum tree,
it’s the next hut.”
DSCN5662

Heather

Heather is a nurse from Canada whom we may or may not have met.  She joined the ship in 2011 while it was in Sierra Leone, but I'm afraid we were gone by the time she arrived.  Maybe we met in Togo or Tenerife . . . doesn't matter - I hope you'll take the time to read her story:

I have moments... moments when I am ready to leave this place, to move on, to live a normal life.  I have moments when I just can't do it anymore, to be so far from family, to miss out on my friends' changing lives, to say goodbye to one more person on the ship.  I have moments when all I want to do is hide, and be and forget why I am here.  I have moments when I question if I am needed, or if things wouldn't run just as well without my presence.

And then I step back onto the wards, and my heart is at peace.  I am where I am supposed to be and there are no questions.  I cannot describe to you the rightness of those moments.  The happy greeting of the day workers who greet me like I am their long-lost best friend EVERY SINGLE DAY that I see them.  The nurses who somehow always seem to be in the mood to work, who complain when they don't get to spend their workday on the ward.  The patients... with their thankfulness, their smiles... and most of all, their hope.  How can I look in their eyes and ever imagine that I am in the wrong place?  I greet them, and even making the effort to say hello in their own language is enough to make them glow with excitement and happily greet me back.  And when I don't have the words or the language, reaching out with a handshake or hug or even a hand on their shoulder... speaks volumes. 

The small children that I've never met before who let me pick them up and happily cuddle in.  The older children who grab a stool and settle themselves beside me at my desk, eager to learn, to glean, to be near.  The adults who figure out that I speak french and won't let me work because they just want to visit with me, tell me about themselves, learn about me.  The community that develops on the wards... it drips of expectation and acceptance.

I think what touches me most is watching the untouchables change.  They come in with their problems, the growths, the tumours, the leaking, the deformities, the smells... these are why they come, what they think they are here to fix.  The true challenge is to stop the lies that run through their heads, the untruths they have heard as long as they can remember... that is what we work the hardest to treat.  They are told: you are worthless, you are cursed, you are a burden, you are evil, you cannot come near me, you cannot go to school, you should not be seen, you cannot be helped, you are not lovable.  And so, even before they step onto the ward, our true work begins.

We begin by inviting them to be seen, we look them in the eye, we offer them hope.  On the wards, a smile, a touch, a kind word, a game... all the beginning of breaking down the walls around their hearts. Our secret challenge: can I get this one to smile at me or laugh?  Can I make her understand that she is WORTH my time, that she is lovable?  Can I make him see that I recognize the human behind the hurt?

Little by little, action by action, as we pour out love and acceptance, change happens.  To see the melancholy child break out with giggles... priceless.  To find the quirky smile hidden beneath the sadness of a woman who has known rejection for more years than I have been alive... melts my heart. To see the dignity return to the man who has used scarves and towels to hide behind... beautiful. 

I can't describe how it changes you, to pour out love to such a measure and yet feel that the love that comes back to you is beyond measuring.  When you see the beauty behind the deformity and help someone to realize their true worth... that is why we are here... that is the healing we are aiming for. And if we happen to make some physical changes happen as well, then praise the Lord, for HE is good!  

Friday, February 22, 2013

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Not this year . . .

We found out maybe last week, that for the second time since 2003 (2003 being the first we're aware of), Mercy Ships will not be having a Summer Program.  This summer we will not be joining the great white ship . . . 

that brings hope and healing to so many . . .
and yes, we are saddened . . . but we rejoice in the fact that as Mercy Ships operates under their new surgical schedule, they will be able to reach so many more in Africa, bringing life changing surgeries that will enable the blind to see, the lame to walk and to give those without hope, hope.

Nothing is Wasted

Song by Jason Gray/Jason Ingram/Doug McKelvey

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope’s a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It’s from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what’s lost will be found again

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted
When hope is more than you can bear
And it’s too hard to believe it could be true
And your strength fails you half way there
You can lean on me and I’ll believe for you
Give it time, you will believe it too

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
Sometimes we are waiting
In the sorrow we have tasted
But joy will replace it
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

Sunday, February 17, 2013

We were on "60 Minutes'!

Yes, it's true!  Matt and I were on "60 Minutes" tonight!  At the very end of the Mercy Ships episode, when they pulled up the gangway as the ship left Togo, Matt and I were right there on Deck 7 with all the children - waving!  Did you see us?  

When the episode goes on-line tomorrow (http://www.cbsnews.com/60-minutes/), we're going to go try to blow up the frames of the ship leaving to see if you can ACTUALLY see us because we REALLY were there!

We hope you enjoyed the episode as much as we did and that you enjoyed your time the on the good ship Mercy where the blind see and the lame walk and those without hope, find hope.

The Red Curtain


Hasanatou After
Hasanatu 8 days post-operative.
Photo by Debra Bell
 
In a nation with 59% illiteracy it should not be too surprising to find that Guinean society is primarily built upon symbols. Thus, in Guinea, (as throughout much of Africa) symbols are a powerful medium for communication.  Yet those of us from the word-saturated West are, for the most part, oblivious to this fundamental difference in our two cultures.

For example among the Pla people of Benin, offering a guest a glass of water is much more than just good manners. If you are offered a glass of water in a Pla home, your host is wanting to communicate, "I am at peace with you."  If you decline the water, (perhaps you are quite justifiably worried about the possible after effects) in essence, you are saying, "I do not accept your offer of peace; I am at war with you." As you can well imagine, uncovering the deep level meaning of everyday gestures is very important for us as we work among people from traditional African societies.

The other day, I happened to be in the Maxillofacial/ENT ward while Dr. Gary was making rounds.  As he stopped at Hasanatu's bed, one of the nurses mentioned that whenever she used the privacy curtain to change Hasanatu's hospital gown, she became visibly agitated.  Being naturally curious, I asked the nurse where the curtain in question was.  She pointed across the room towards a  full length curtain hanging from the deck head by magnetic hooks.  It was a deep red-wine color.  I turned to our local Fula translator and asked him if the color red had any symbolic value in the Fula culture.  "No," he said. He couldn't think of anything.  I asked him to ask Hasanatu. He quickly translated, but she looked confused.  "She doesn't know," he said. 

Could it be that when her bed was shrouded in that long red curtain, it made her feel isolated from the other patients…cut off from community; alone and vulnerable in a very strange place?  Maybe that was it.  Maybe...

I turned to the translator one last time and probed a little deeper, "What color do the Fula wear when attending a funeral?"  Without blinking an eye he replied, "Why, red, of course."

Good to know.  Good to know.

by Susan Parker

Friday, February 15, 2013

Oh, Happy Day . . .

Since August 31, 2012, my poor right ankle has been in a boot or a cast or a brace of some sort - until today!  I am FREE!  FREE to NOT wear my brace in the house, FREE to NOT wear my brace at the pool, FREE to use my brain when I'm outside (ice = brace!).  Here's a look at the ankle . . . 

   

Ponder this . . .

“In Africa, we have time, but not hours. In the West, you have hours, but not time.”

Fridays are now cancelled . . .

Work last Friday was a bit challenging.  After Berk (one of my two-year-olds) fell off the step and went under and was rescued by our lifeguard Ana, he managed to throw up over all of my equipment closing the leisure pool.  Since we could still have lessons in the lap pool, I went back to the break/storage room to get clean equipment at the same time D'wan (our larger-than-me male lifeguard) slipped and crashed to the floor.  After rescuing D'wan (who just injured an ankle), all I wanted to do was eat chocolate!  

Fast forward to today - we couldn't have two bad Fridays in a row, could we?  I was in the locker room putting on my ankle brace to leave the pool when this sweet lady from water ex crashed to the floor.  I got to make the call, "Someone call 911!"  When the paramedics arrived, they determined that she actually hadn't injured anything, but she was left with a nice bruise on her forehead and both knees.  And once again, all I wanted to do was eat chocolate!

So until further notice, Fridays are now cancelled because I've eaten way too much chocolate and I need to find a different stress release!

Thursday, February 14, 2013

A Sneak Peek into Sunday's "60 Minutes" ...

Before you read this, let me do a "personal status" report.  We were able to talk with Dr. Gary Parker our first day back on the ship last summer (he left for the summer shortly thereafter) and he and Matt stood back to back with Gary still coming out taller.  Ali was already home on maternity leave when we arrived, but her husband Phil lived just two doors down.  We were able to share some meals with him and he carried our suitcases up the stairs when we left to return home.  

Few have changed the lives of people the way the volunteers on the Africa Mercy have. Serving aboard the world's largest civilian hospital ship, they have restored sight to thousands of people suffering from cataracts and returned smiles to victims of facial tumors and cleft palates whose deformities made them social outcasts. Scott Pelley goes to Togo on Africa's West Coast to report on the Africa Mercy ship's patients and the dedicated doctors and nurses who have made the ship and its mission a way of life. Pelley's report will be broadcast on 60 Minutes Sunday, Feb. 17 at 7:00 p.m. ET/PT.

The Africa Mercy spent five months docked in Togo, where its staff removed 281 tumors, repaired 34 cleft palates and restored sight to 794 cataract patients who had been blind, some for decades. Maxillofacial surgeon Dr. Gary Parker left his native California and UCLA where he trained and volunteered for what he thought might be a temporary assignment removing facial tumors and performing other procedures on Third World patients. That was 26 years ago. He has since married his wife, whom he met onboard, and raised two children on the ship, all along transforming the lives of people, some of whom could literally not show their faces in the light of day.

"These are people that go out at night and they forage for food and then, in the day, they hide," Parker tells Pelley, about those horribly deformed by benign facial tumors. "They can't go to market...school. They are isolated."

To nurse Ali Chandra of New Jersey, the work they do helps to humanize those deemed inhuman through no fault of their own, whose maladies are often blamed on curses or evil spirits. Asked by Pelley what she would say to those in her profession who would be unable to work with such disfigured people, she answers, "People have been saying that to these people their whole lives and someone has to look them in the eye and tell them 'you're human and I recognize that in you.'"

A four-year veteran, Chandra also met her spouse onboard -- a fairly common scenario that has earned the ship another name, "the Love Boat" -- and plans to stay awhile, perhaps, like Parker, raising her family onboard, sending them to the ship's school and vacationing periodically in the U.S.
She is quite content with her life. "I miss strawberries and I miss fresh milk and I miss my family -- not in that order," she tells Pelley. "You have no idea how awesome this life is. I get to see the world...take care of incredible people. Why would you want to live in a house on land? This is way more fun," says Chandra.
 
© 2013 CBS Interactive Inc. All Rights Reserved.

A Pink Post for Valentine's Day!


Hasantou
Photo by Debra Bell

Meet Hasanatou from the hinterlands of Guinea

I first saw her a few weeks ago in our maxillofacial ward. I was there to visit a patient in an adjacent bed, but couldn't help noticing those beautifully painted pink nails!  

You might be wondering what causes a giant tumor such as this? But where Hasanatou comes from, the question is not what caused her tumor, but rather, who caused it?  Here, suspicion, distrust and fear are the constant companions of those suffering from disfiguring disease. Was she cursed? Were the ancestors unhappy with her behaviour? What terrible act did she commit to bring such a thing  about? Over time, as the tumor grew, Hasanatou felt herself pushed further and further towards the fringes of her community, until one day it seemed as if she were no longer human.  

Which brings me back to the pink painted nails. 

Hasanatou spent a couple of days, prior to being admitted, at our Hope Center about a mile down the road from the ship.  The Hope Center is something like a youth hostel for our patients who come from outside the capital city of Conakry, where we're docked. The Hope Center was renovated and is staffed by our crew -- so that patients who arrive early for surgery, or need to stay post operatively for physiotherapy or further healing will have a safe and clean environment in which to wait.

It seems that one of our crew members at the Hope Center had painted Hasantou's nails bright pink while she waited for her surgical date.  Someone thought she was in need of a little nail polish.  Someone thought she was worth it. 

I remember when I was first married I read an article about Mother Teresa in a British newspaper. The column had a hard, cynical edge to it. In essence the reporter wanted the reader to know that Mother Teresa was wasting her time picking up half-dead beggars from Calcutta's streets and providing them with a clean and safe environment in which to die.  "What good is she doing?" he asked.  "She doesn't have a medical degree.  She can't make them well.  She isn't involved in training or development or capacity building of any kind.  The world is no better for the work she does.  What difference does it make?"

What difference does it make?  Ask Hasanatou.

Because sometimes the difference between being shunned and feeling human is found in a bottle of bright pink nail polish.

Story by Susan Parker

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

60 Minutes!

Just before Matt and i joined the Africa Mercy in Lome, Togo, last summer 60 Minutes had been there!  Here's the promo:

Mercy Ships
 
On Sunday, February 17, the CBS television program 60 Minutes will air a segment about Mercy Ships and our mission to bring hope and healing to the world’s forgotten poor. The feature on 60 Minutes allows us to share our story with a national audience. It also gives you an opportunity to share your Mercy Ships experience with those in your own circle of influence.

The hour-long program begins at 7 p.m. Eastern & Pacific Time and 6 p.m. Central Time on your local CBS station.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Binta's Journey

What could possibly compel a poor woman in West Africa to travel over 1000 kilometers – a journey that would take six months and exhaust all of her resources and ingenuity – to get to a hospital ship? The answer is stark in its simplicity – the journey was born out of a desperate, fragile hope that she could find healing and restoration.

Binta lives in southeast Guinea. Six months ago, a man in her village told her about news he had heard on the radio – a hospital ship was coming to the nation’s capital, Conakry. “The ship has doctors that can help you,” the man said.

Binta is in her late thirties and has suffered from vesicovaginal fistula (VVF), a devastating childbirth injury, since she was a teenager. During several days of prolonged, obstructed labor, Binta’s baby was stillborn during a traumatizing delivery. The injury to her birth canal made Binta incontinent; she has been continuously leaking urine for years. Her condition made her an outcast within her own remote village. But now there was news that she could be “fixed” and she dared to hope.

With the little money she had, Binta set out on her journey.

She traveled from her village in the dense rainforest region to the city of Senko. Once there, she used what little money she had to pay for transportation to the next city – Beyla. It was her first time to ever ride in a car.

Image

From Beyla to Nzerekore to Macenta to Gueckedou to Kissidougou to Conakry – a blur of new sights and sounds. She stopped when she had to, staying in one city for up to two months where she worked doing laundry to save enough money for the next leg of her journey. She paid people with cars or motorbikes to give her a lift. Binta traveled more than 661 miles (1063 km) in 6 months to seek help from Mercy Ships.

Finally, she arrived on the dock – with no money and only the clothes on her back. “It was something inside of me that told me, ‘Do it!’” Binta said. The Africa Mercy is the first ship she has ever seen.

Image 

Last week, Mercy Ships volunteer surgeon Dr. Steve Arrowsmith repaired Binta’s fistula. Today she is dry. She no longer leaks urine; she no longer smells. And now, Binta longs to return home to her sister’s children, triplets, whom she has cared for since her sister passed away in 2011. Because there are no phones there, Binta hasn’t spoken with her family since she left. Fortunately, she will get home to them soon – a much simpler journey this time, with assistance from Mercy Ships.

And Binta will return home with a dry skirt, a full heart and a new life.