As soon as I got to work yesterday, I found out that I was going to switched at noon! I would teach the Water Safety Aid class until noon and then help teach the Water Safety Instructor course. Note: I am not certified to teach the WSI class, but I guess I was mature enough and well-spoken enough that I got chosen! Woo hoo! While I was a bit sad to leave "my" class, I had a blast with my new class! Oh, party on! I got to correct mistakes such as "float like a dead person!" ("No, you wouldn't say that to children!") and wordiness (Who really cares what H.E.L.P. stands for and why do we need to say it seven times!?) and strokes! Goodness, some were bad! Yup, paid to be blunt, honest and direct! The only downside? I worked from 8:30 a.m. - 7 p.m. without a break. I certainly won't be partying late tonight!
. . . of class and some extra help from Kendyl, we did it! We have thirteen future Water Safety Aides who can not only do their freestyle, but they've added elementary backstroke, breaststroke, sidestroke, back crawl and butterfly to their repertoire! Well, it might only be twelve - but their strokes have GREATLY improved! And it only took three of us an hour and a half!
Today while Matt was at the Y renewing his lifeguard certification, I was at ISD 196 teaching teens how to be water safety aides - and we needed a lifeguard! Usually students who take our class CAN swim. Not today! Ashley and I had our rescue tubes out and were ready to save lives if need be! Now we have two days to teach them not only how to be swimming instructors, but how to SWIM!
I have a dear, dear friend who is battling a brain tumor. Truthfully, it feels like she is fighting a never-ending war. But I have the privilege of fighting with her, not on my knees, but in the pool swimming laps and as I walk/run by her house - I pray and I pray and I pray. Today's post is simply to tell you that GOD IS FAITHFUL and He has heard my prayers. Her tumor has not changed, but He has lessened her pain and that was such a big request. And she has kept her vision in her right eye - oh, praise you Jesus! For you are faithful . . .
Back when I was a camper, we sang a song about "Dem Bones Gonna Rise Again". This post has been reblogged from Nurse Jarah Nordin's blog, "Bright Red Cords". Dem bones rised!
She was admitted to bed 6 on a busy Thursday. At the end of my shift I
looked over her admission paperwork and nearly crumbled to the floor
after reading her story. Her young mama was carrying the weight of the
world on her shoulders: a new baby with severe deformities, a fiancé who
left shortly after she was born, and absolutely no way to support
herself. One day it all became too much for her - she slipped pesticides
into her baby's bottle and then proceeded to swallow some herself.
Sadly, she never woke up, but that strong baby girl did. Though
neurologically impaired, the little girl survived. As I looked up at her
now 8-year old fuzzy-headed-dimple-cheeked-toothless-grinned self I
couldn't help but think, "Oh, who wouldn't want you, sweet girl?" My
heart broke for her and for her mama, for the brutality of this broken
world that led her to such a drastic decision.
He was admitted to bed 13 just a few days ago. Our last orthopedic
surgery for the field service, in fact. He is all smiles, full of joy
and giggles and questions about his "new legs." He likes to color and
play with swords and learn English words. Just a few months ago this
sweet child was homeless, begging and scrounging through dumpsters to
survive. At 6-years old he was abandoned by his family, presumably due
to the severity of his bowed legs. A kind-hearted local shop owner found
him digging in her trash late one night and decided to take him in,
raise him as her own.
She is right next to him in bed 12. At 11 years of age she doesn't look a day over 6. She has a horrible genetic disease called Osteogenesis Imperfecta,
which has left her entire skeletal system brittle and incredibly
fragile. A simple fall as a toddler left her legs buckled and
malaligned. Over the past two years teachers have refused to let her
come to school. She's become too great a burden, they claim. This
disease has not only wreaked havoc on her physically, but has now left
her isolated from her classmates and any hope of an education.
Each and every one of our orthopedic patients come with stories of being
outcast because of their knock-knees, windswept legs, club feet, or
bowed legs. In their short lives they have become all-too familiar with
the pain of being ostracized because of their stark physical
differences. The burden of their disease often threatens to crush all
hopes for a brighter future.
He came to the ship severely malnourished, pot-belly and all. His bones
cut like butter, said the ortho surgeon. Now, I may not be an expert on
bones, but I do know they should be stronger than butter. His 3 days of
bed rest came and went - it was time to get up and moving! With heavy
casts on both legs that came to the top of his thighs, he just stood
there behind his miniature walker with a deer-in-the-headlights stare
and white-knuckled grip that screamed, "Are you people out of your ever-loving minds? I can't walk!"
The physical therapist and I got on either side of him, moved the
walker one-pace forward, then picked up his heavy little legs one at a
time. Crocodile tears rolled. He was sobbing as we made him walk a few
steps down the corridor and back.
She had her first external pin site care
scheduled for our shift. As soon as we started the procedure, it was
immediately apparent something was wrong. Concerned for potential
infection, I paged the surgeon and we both agreed it was time to pull
the pin. For those of you that aren't in the medical field, this
involves removing a long metal surgical rod out of the bone. This
responsibility fell on me as I was the charge nurse that evening. I did
my best to explain everything to this teenage patient and her father,
then we made our way down the hall to the treatment room. By the time we
got there, her whole body was shaking. I stopped and asked, "Hey...
what's going on?" She took some time to calm down and quietly squeaked,
"I'm just so afraid." So we stopped. The sterile gloves came off, the
procedure was put on hold and we just prayed right then and there. I
asked God to give her courage and calm her heart. And He did, right
there in front of my eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her shaking limbs
stilled and her eyes closed.
He was sitting in the sand when I arrived at the outpatient center. A
group of us came for a visit with a few activities to fill the
afternoon. About halfway through our craft I looked down, saw him pick
up a handful of sand, take a bite and then pour the rest down his cast.
He looked up and gave me a muddy smile and I thought to myself, "Let it
go, Jarah. Just let it go." The reality of kids in casts in a third
world country is exactly what you'd expect it to be.
He was ready for surgery: chlorohexidine scrub done, premedications
given, consent signed, NPO since midnight, checklist complete. Through
it all he was calm as could be. The OR nurse came to pick him up and
take him for surgery when the reality of the situation hit. You could
see it in his face. He clung to my neck completely freaked out, crying
inconsolably. I did my best to talk about how awesome his new legs were
going to be, how he was going to be able to run and jump and play. Of
course he knew all of that, but in the moment all he could see was his
fear. It made me think about how often we grapple with this question:
what if the pain of healing is worse than the pain of the status quo?
How often do we resist change because we're worried it might hurt?
She was a pistol from day 1. I came in for a night shift and heard all
about her spitting red liquid Tylenol in the face of one of my
coworkers. As I sheepishly approached her bedside with the midnight
dose, I was prepared to bust out every pediatric nursing trick in the
book. Much to my surprise, she woke without a peep and took the syringe
out of my hand without a fight. I thought she was going to take the
medicine by herself (you know, like a "big girl"), when she suddenly
threw the syringe across the pitch-black room. She certainly let me know
who was in charge.
He was wheeled off to surgery early one morning in a heap of tears.
Sometimes, even after every positive coping strategy has been
implemented, the kids are just plain scared. And who can blame them?
Though it's quite normal for us as nurses, these kids have never been
inside the walls of a ship or a hospital. And they certainly haven't
been carried away from their parents by tall vazahas (white
people). After he was out of earshot, I saw his sweet mama drop to her
knees. Not having any other way to comfort or advocate for her son, she
did all she knew to do: pray. And pray she did for 2 full hours. What a
beautiful picture of a mother's love.
10:00am & 4:30pm are ward exercise times. It's important to keep the
kids moving... Leg lifts. Shoulder raises. Torso twists. Toe wiggling
races. The kids pretty much hate it, so we do everything possible to
make it fun. Don't ask me how this happened, but the theme song for ward
exercises has become none other but the Macarena. It has turned into
such a fun daily routine, the patients and their parents (and, ahem,
their nurses) get super into it! A-ward is so full of laughter and life
during these silly little exercise sessions. It's become one of the best
parts of my day.
He says the kids are healing at a miraculous pace here in Madagascar and
our orthopedic surgeon isn't one to exaggerate. The 3-week post-op
xrays for our patients have revealed rapid bone growth and ossification.
This is not only the work of skilled human hands, my friends, but of a
good and mighty God.
The kids returned back to the ward after some fresh air on Deck 7. This
time outside usually riles the patients up and this day was no
exception. They came back full of energy! One of my fellow A-ward nurses
found these long, crazy green balloons, so we decided to blow one up
for each patient. Before long a massive sword fight broke out and
everyone was in on the battle! We all played so hard and just had good
pure FUN! Sometimes it's the silly things like balloon fights that make
all the difference. Joy spilled over that afternoon and it was
absolutely incredible.
The United States Ambassador visited the ship today. In preparation for
his visit to A-ward, the kiddos practiced Silent Night in Malagasy so
they could perform it for him. They announced that the guest of honor
was coming soon, but when the doors opened, in walked our first ortho
patient, sweet Patricia, cast free and walking on straight legs!
The entire unit stood to their feet and started clapping and cheering
for her. The village gathered together, as they often do, in support of
one of their own. It was a huge encouragement to the patients in the
thick of their recovery to see a walking example of what's to come in
their own lives. It was as if God was saying, "I know you're all
excited about this ambassador, but this is my guest of honor today and
this story of redemption in her life is worth celebrating!" The
Ambassador showed up a few minutes later and, in true A-ward fashion,
the patients ditched the Silent Night plan in favor of a live
performance of the Macarena. I think it goes without saying that it was a
total hit.
“I have heard it said that for hope to
be credible in the future, it must be tangible in the present. The
healing that our patients experience today can become the seeds of hope
for a better future for themselves, their families and their
communities.” - Dr. Gary Parker
Joy from the simple things . . . We drove to Iowa Friday night to celebrate an early Christmas with Dad, coming back late last night, happy, content and tired. No one set alarms for this morning.
When Sam and I woke up, we looked at the clock, looked at kickoff time and decided we had time to visit our "old" church while the kids slept in. And that is where even more joy came in . . .
Imagine seeing the delight in the worship leader's eyes when she saw us there and waved at us while leading worship. What fun to catch up with her after!
The joy of worshiping with our neighbors and catching up with old friends and making new friends . . .
And most of all, the joy of seeing our daughter's youth pastor kneeling on the cold cement floor, pouring out his heart to God Almighty! How we love him and his humility!
This post is reblogged from "Girl.Nurse.Ship.Africa.DreamComeTrue" by nurse Heather Morehouse.
I like to write happy stories. Stories that have victorious
endings and are wrapped in a little package and delivered with a bow on
top. But it’s not all happy stories in this place. A few moments lately,
I’ve found myself standing in a daze in the middle of the ward looking
around at my patients. Thinking that there’s so much injustice in this
world. Injustice in this very place. WHY do they have tumors? WHY were
they born here with no access to healthcare. WHY are they SO poor. WHY
did they have to sell their only Zebu, or rice field to pay for their
daughter to get to the ship. WHY, WHY, WHY? I hate it, and I don’t know
how to process it.
There’s a 4-year-old little boy who lives with his mother and little
brother in bed D8. His brother, Doug is one of the cutest babies I’ve
ever seen. He has the perfect eyelashes, the most beautiful eyes, and
rarely ever cries. He’s the poster child African baby.
But I can’t say the same for Ozile.
Because Ozile has a neurofibroma. The whole right side of his face
was taken over by this incontrollable tumor. The tumor above his right
eye grew so large that it sagged down completely covering his eye. He
hasn’t seen out of that eye since. A second part of the tumor took over
his right cheek making it about double the size his cheek should be. His
face is disfigured. Do you know that even if you cut out a neurofibroma
that it will always grow back? That new tumors will likely grow in
other places? I know it, and it breaks my heart. Ozile had sugery about a
month ago. They took off the top part of his neurofibroma, but removing
the one on his cheek poses too much of a risk of damaging his facial
nerve. So it will stay. And the other will grow back. His eye is still
so swollen from chronic infection that I’ve never seen his right eye.
Does the eye still work? Will it ever see the light of day?
I love this little family. So much that it hurts.
I love Ozile. I love when he runs up to me and puts his arms up
asking me to pick him up. I love his uncontrollable laugh when I pick
out a pair of funny looking shorts for him to wear. I love his shrieks
of joy when he plays with the magnets on the cabinets. I love watching
him on Deck 7 try to pull his plastic motorcycle up the slide, and then
attempt to ride it down before I pick it up and put it back on the safe
ground. I love seeing his little mind spin as he tries to figure out how
the locks on the Xray table work. I don’t mind that I have to change
his gown 2-3 times on my shift because he can’t keep the drool from
running out his mouth. I love this little boy. But I HATE his
neurofibroma.
More than once when I’m caught it one of those moments of heartbreak
at Ozile’s situation yelling silently, “it’s not fair!!” I’ve asked,
“Jesus do you see him?” “Do you KNOW him?”
I was recently reminded of the name for God “El Roi”. It means “The
God who sees me”. The first time this name was used for God was by Hagar
in Genesis, when she had fled to the desert after becoming pregnant
with Abraham’s child and being mistreated by Sarah. There she was, all
alone in the desert, pregnant and used. Feeling like no one in the world
cared for her or knew her. Then the Lord appeared to her and she called
him “The God who sees me”. I grab on to this when I feel so much
despair for Ozile that I almost have to walk out of the ward. When I
think that he’ll never look like the other kids. When I think about how
he will be when he gets older. Will he still have that abandoned zeal
for life? Or will he be overcome by what his tumor is doing to his face?
Will his joy be diminished by his disfigurement? I don’t know how to
process this. I don’t know how to bear those thoughts of what his future
will be like.
But for now.
I know that my God, our God, is the God who sees. The God who sees me, The God who sees Ozile.
Taken from the blog of "Nick and Suzanne". That's Nick in the blue scrubs in the first picture!
Here's
a few glimpses into the training that happens each day we spend out at
the Ponseti Clinic. We love the team we get to work with and really
care about their work as professionals and each of them as individuals.
It is a privilege to come alongside them for these months and work
together so that families of children born with clubfoot in this region
can find good treatment!
Every day when the
patients come in to get a new plaster put on, the mamas soak off the old
ones in a bath tub outside the clinic. The mamas have to be so
committed to this treatment, it means coming to lots of appointments and
carrying around their child with heavy plaster casts on their legs for
weeks. When one mama's baby finished treatment and the final casts came
off, the mama exclaimed "oh he's so light to pick up now!" We really enjoy getting to know these ladies and rejoicing with them on the progress in their children's feet!
We just found out this morning that a fifth great-niece was added to our family this year, but so far no nephews! Check out the interesting names . . .
"Sometimes . . ." is reblogged from Canadian Nurse Heather's blog, "I know who holds tomorrow". May it touch your heart as it touched mine.
Sometimes I don't know why I am drawn to the underdogs. To the people
with the biggest struggles and deepest hurts. The ones who wear their
scars on their sleeves and admit to all that they have been through and
overcome. There is a strength inherent in the ability to be honest
about the things that broke you. That continue to break you.
In my job as a nurse, every day brings me face to face with the people
who wear their scars on the outside. They come into the outpatients
tent and bare their wounds and their scars, and trust us with their
stories.
- The small girl who we wrap up every other day in bandages, who comes
skipping and smiling into our tent, giggling at things her mother says,
giving us high fives and curling up in a nurse's lap when she's tired.
At every dressing we hear her cry, and every time we say goodbye she
thanks us for all we do. We are trying to teach her to trust again. I
think we're getting there.
- The young woman waiting on a diagnosis, who comes in full of hope and
dignity. Dressed as though she is showing up to work, impeccable other
than a tumour that mars her physique. We dress her wounds and pray and
hope alongside her.
- The old man with a face that droops and sags on one side like a stroke
victim with a little too much skin. Tales to tell of an overwhelming
tumour that threatened his life and is now gone.
- The small boy who runs around the tent like the ball of a pinball
machine, half his face swollen and misshapen, he is oblivious to any
deformity, and in love with everyone around him. He hangs off of the
nurses and the day crew, riffles through drawers looking for toys, and
giggles at the least provocation.
- The middle-aged woman who has a freshly-drawn scar at the base of her
neck, asking if her goitre will grow back. Smiling and happy to have
her blood drawn to make sure her thyroid levels are okay.
- The young man who stretches out his burn-scarred arm to show where the
scar has been stretched too far and is now a wound. Bashfully grinning
and admitting to games of basketball that may have been a little more
than his arm could handle.
- The family member who sold a cow or a field so that they could pay for
the transportation to get their son/daughter to the ship, even when
everyone else told them not to. And now they look with pride on the
changes, the healing that has taken place since they were brave and came
anyways.
Every day we see 30 or more patients come through our doors. Every
story is different, and yet they are all so similar. They involve pain,
strength, courage, hope. They involve journeys across country, and
overcoming barriers. They include naysayers who told them no one would
help them, it's all a lie, you're too broken.
We do our best for them. But our best isn't always good enough. Some
of the wounds are slow to heal. Some of the tumours are the wrong kind
and we just can't do surgery on them. Some of the babies are too small
or the patient is too sick for surgery. And all too often these are
the patients that steal my heart and leave it scarred. We see some of
the more broken ones very frequently, trying to make them ready, strong
enough for surgery. Waiting for a yes or no for surgery after a
biopsy. Trying to heal wounds after surgery. And in the waiting, or
the prolonged healing, we grow attached. We pray and we hope... and
sometimes we end up crying with the patients.
There have been a couple of "no's" this week that were rather difficult.
Pray with me for these people and their families. That this time with
them would be the seed planted for love, hope, a God that loves no
matter the circumstance. Pray for miracles.
“For hope to be credible in the
future, it must be tangible in the present. The healing that our
patients experience today can become the seeds of hope for a better
future for themselves, their families and their communities.” Dr. Gary Parker
This story was reblogged from "Through My Porthole". It's a wonderful just before Christmas story. Enjoy!
Thérèse’s seventh child was born with a cleft lip and palate
marring her tiny mouth. Thérèse knew something was terribly wrong; she
had never seen or heard of anything like this before. Her neighbours
openly laughed at Elisabeth’s face, saying there was nothing Thérèse
could do to save her baby. Elisabeth was unable to breast feed
successfully due to her malformed palate. She began to lose weight
dramatically. Even her father thought the she would die.
Elisabeth was a tiny wee button when I met her and her
Mum in September.
Picture by Josh Callow, Mercy
Ships
Thérèse did the very best she could, and barely kept her baby alive
by feeding her diluted sweetened condensed milk. She felt burdened by
the thought that Elisabeth would be like this for the remainder of her
life.
A couple of months later someone at church told Thérèse the Mercy
Ship was returning to Madagascar soon. They were sure Elisabeth’s
condition could be fixed on board – for free. Thérèse was anxious and
overjoyed, hopeful and fearful all at the same time as she waited for
the ship to come.
Elisabeth was three months old and weighed a fragile 2.1 kg (4.6 lbs)
when Thérèse first brought her to be accessed. For eight weeks they
received care from our Infant Feeding Program, and she doubled her
weight. At that point she was strong enough to be admitted for her first
surgery – the restoration of her cleft lip. It was such a joy to visit
Mum and baby in the ward, and just watch her transformation. In just a
little over a week after surgery her stitches were out, and her tiny
lips were beautifully formed.
Thérèse’s village neighbours were completely shocked when mother and
daughter returned. Elisabeth looked like every other baby. “It’s done!
It really happened, God was really with them!” they exclaimed.
Most weeks I catch up with Thérèse and Elisabeth as they continue to
received dietary support. When the baby is 10 months old she will be
able to have the second operation she needs on board – the restoration
of her palate.
Elisabeth will then have the ability to eat and speak normally – for the first time in her life.
Elisabeth after her cleft lip surgery Picture: Justine Forrest, Mercy Ships
When I read this in "Frontier Ventures", I thought, "Wow! Only You, God, care so much and see what really is the truth."
Acts 9:1-2, NET "Meanwhile Saul, still breathing out threats to murder the Lord’s disciples, went to the high priest and requested letters from him to the synagogues in Damascus, so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, either men or women, he could bring them as prisoners to Jerusalem."
Saul was a perfect example of a man who thought he was doing the will of God but was mistaken. Many of the ISIS members also think they are doing the will of God.
Pray that the church throughout the world would follow Jesus’ words to love and pray for their enemies. Pray that the Church will fight with the most powerful weapons: prayer, fasting, and love. Pray that, like Paul, ISIS members will see the light of Christ.—Windows International Network
And I gave the fastest I've ever given! I cut almost three minutes off my time, going from a little over eight minutes in July to a little over five today! Dad and I used to race but I never won. He'd be eating cookies and ready to go and I'd still be squishing the ball!
We had a lovely time with the FOO's (Family of Origin) at the Mall of America this evening! My pictures aren't that great, but I have one that is sharable:
Don't the smiles totally spell "f-a-m-i-l-y"? You really can't tell from this picture, but little brother will be joining us in February. My kids are most excited about that, especially Matt who's outnumbered with three sisters!
. . . Subbing for Joe this week! After hearing my concerns about Advanced Swim Crew ("their strokes SUCK!"), my supervisor and I came up with a new plan! I led them in stroke drills to "warm up" and their strokes looked so much better. We spent some time on starts and flip turns and then went back to Joe's original lesson plans. The next two classes were wonderful as always with the highlight being one of my adults who was deathly afraid of the deep end of the pool swam down there THREE times! Bonus!
Did you know that you can use your Stampin' Up Dimensionals (you know - those little hexagon shaped stickies!) on the bottom of a candle to keep the candle upright? It's a happy day at my house! And our candles look nice!
Micah and I met Andrea while we were at the Mercy Ships International Operations Center in Tyler, Texas in 2014. Andrea became a good friend who was always willing to help me do Micah's hair, even though Micah would never let her!
It started off with me backing my car out of the garage this morning and taking off the driver's side mirror. To my credit, I did not park my car in the garage last night. Unfortunately, no matter who parked it where - I should have paid more attention as I left.
I arrived at the Y in time to swim before work, only to discover the two slowest/least straight swimmers in the world were already in the lap lane. The lifeguards just laughed - it was going to be a long day!
Fast forward to this afternoon when I was unpacking groceries and trying to get the cold food into the fridge. Someone (pretty sure it was the same person who parked my car last night) hadn't put the lid tightly on the chili and I will "chilled" from the knees down. Fortunately, we have a dog and she is a lab and labs like to eat . . . Enough said.
Nothing could have prepared me for the disastrous time I had at the Y this morning while I was subbing for Joe! Fortunately, it was only my first class - Advanced Swim Crew. Oh, my . . . First of all, I have never swam competitively. I was told that a "50" was two laps - by three different staff! It's not. A "50" is one lap - and I had six children tell me that repeatedly this morning. Then there was the not-so-funny child who pushed another child into the pool. Can you say "dumb idea"? I said, "Time out." If looks could have killed . . . Add to that - the worst strokes I have ever seen! I mean - we're talking beyond bad - this was ADVANCED swim crew! No one who knows anything about swimming would ever do their back crawl one arm at a time, but I had six kids who did! Can you do freestyle without a bent arm? Six kids thought so - they were wrong! Watching them swim was more painful than nails being pulled down a chalkboard! So what am I going to do next week? Well, I'm going to start off by trying to find Joe - he may be in country - and get his approval to do 40 minutes of stroke drills. I already have some nasty ones in mind - and I've never swam competitively, remember? If he doesn't respond, I'll go to my supervisor because I see no reason to make a class swim BAD strokes when I can teach them so much more with a few strategic drills. Stay tuned . . .
Of course, that was only the first class. The second class consisted of five delightful young girls. For some unknown reason, the deck manager decided to do an evaluation on me during that time (we get them quarterly) - while I was subbing for a class I've never actually taught before. You'll be glad to know I got a rave review! The only "improve" comment was I did not stop class on time - because I didn't remember what time class ended! Ah, they survived five extra minutes with me!
The last class I was able to teach with my friend Ashley. We always have fun together and we only had two out of five students show up. Awesome day because one of the adults nailed the back crawl for the first time ever in her life way better than the entire ADVANCED swim crew.
As soon as I got to work yesterday, I found out that I was going to switched at noon! I would teach the Water Safety Aid class until noon and then help teach the Water Safety Instructor course. Note: I am not certified to teach the WSI class, but I guess I was mature enough and well-spoken enough that I got chosen! Woo hoo! While I was a bit sad to leave "my" class, I had a blast with my new class! Oh, party on! I got to correct mistakes such as "float like a dead person!" ("No, you wouldn't say that to children!") and wordiness (Who really cares what H.E.L.P. stands for and why do we need to say it seven times!?) and strokes! Goodness, some were bad! Yup, paid to be blunt, honest and direct! The only downside? I worked from 8:30 a.m. - 7 p.m. without a break. I certainly won't be partying late tonight! 
