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.
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