On a ship far away . . .

This just happens to be my blog post 1001.  It's also reblogged from "Krissy on Mercy".  I like it because Krissy is a down-home girl.  She's from Duluth.  And she shares the reality of what happens on a medical hospital ship far away.

It’s remarkable how you can forget.

You live in this place that is filled with hope, healing, before-and-after pictures that bring a smile to your face and a tear to your eye.  You share meals and share stories and make coffee and answer emails and fill out forms and teach your students and wash the plates and the pots and the pans… and in all that you can know you are doing a wonderful thing but not realize the gravity of it until the moment.

The moment when you hear “I don’t have any details, but they are resuscitating a 5 year old girl in the OR.”

And you gasp as you remember.

We don’t just change lives.  We save them, too. And sometimes we don’t.  And it’s really not up to us. 

And the managing director makes an overhead page and begins to pray and every single person stops what they are doing – they stop the emails and the teaching and the serving and the cleaning of plates and pots and pans, so we can unite together, this beautiful place of hope and healing, of tongues and accents and faiths; we unite together in speaking life and hope and healing over this little girl, and wisdom and strength and peace over the operating room staff; we unite together to fight to keep that little girl with us for just a little bit longer, and a little longer after that.  We fight together for her to experience the joy of healing, the joy of returning home without the tumor that defined her for so many years, for her family to know what it’s like to live free of shame. 

And slowly you return to your routine of emails or forms or students or dishes or patients but it’s still there, in the back of your mind.  Then a bit later you come together and as a family you hear that the little one has gone to be with Jesus.  And you also hear there are over 5100 patients who we could not help this year.  And your gut twists and turns with the injustice of it all; with the pain, sadness, and with the acknowledgement that somehow, regardless of these things... God is.

And we cry together and we pray together and then we sing together… how great is our God, He is mighty to save, blessed be your name.

This place.  My heart.

Thankful Thursday!

This particular Thursday,

with so much to be thankful for -

I am just choosing one man -

The man with whom I will celebrate

twenty-seven years of marriage on Saturday!

I am so thankful for my

Sam I Am!

My Little Shadow

"My Little Shadow" was reblogged from Nurse Jenny's blog, "Shine Bright". 

 

At 3 years of age, she fell into a fire severely burning her right hand and wrist. Without money to go to the local hospital, her family turned to a Catholic nun nearby for help. Over time, her skin did heal but not without contracting so tightly that her wrist was forced into a bent position and her fingers fused together making them essentially unusable.

Then, they heard about Mercy Ships providing free surgeries and there was hope. This 4 year old little girl and her older brother left their family and traveled for 4 days across Madagascar to the ship for her surgery. They trusted that these white people who didn’t speak their language could possibly heal her arm.

When I first took care of Sasimeny, it was a few hours after her surgery. She lay in her bed, in and out of sleep from anesthesia. Even though she never complained of pain, her grimaced face and the giant tears rolling down her cheek showed evidence of the major surgery she’d just gone through. But she obediently sat up and swallowed every bad tasting medication and tolerated our constant poking and prodding that interrupted her rest. All the while, her brother sat next to her bed patiently stroking her hand and speaking words of comfort that would mean more than anything my English ones ever would.

The first few days are always the worst. That’s what we tell our patients before their operations. Then things get better.

For a while, we all believed Sasimeny was shy and quiet. She kept to herself, coloring in bed or watching the movies that came on TV twice a day. Across the room, there was another 4 year old girl who had surgery around the same time, but she was not shy at all. Variela loved to play and be held by the nurses (and argue with her dad about taking medicine!). Sasimeny would watch from a distance as we played balloon toss or built Lego towers on the floor. Then one day, as I sat holding Variela, Sasimeny reached out to be picked up too. I guess the vazhas (white people) aren’t so bad, now are they? From that moment on, Sasimeny and I have been inseparable.

Sasimeny (right) and her buddy Variela

Now, I call her my ‘little shadow’ because about 95% of my working hours she spends in my arms or very close by. She is a completely different little girl – playful, vibrant and full of life with a bit of a stubborn streak we assume comes from being the baby in a family of 6 older brothers! Some have given her the nickname ‘Sassy’ and it fits well. We taught her to play Jenga, blow bubbles and cover her face in stickers. But her favorite thing is being carried up and down the hallway snuggled in someone’s arms. Occasionally, I force her to walk which usually turns into us racing down the hall holding hands. Secretly, I don’t really mind. She’s been in our hospital now over 50 days and rarely spends a moment in her bed unless she’s sleeping.

Sassy and her balloon with another nurse, Kayla.

One day soon, Sasimeny will leave our ship and move to the Hope Center to wait for several weeks of outpatient appointments and rehab before she can go home. While the surgery we did here will make it possible for her hand to move again, it’s the months of rehab and exercises after the skin heals that will allow her to use it to its full potential. And that really is the goal. Her right arm will never look completely like the left one again. But hopefully, with lots of practice she will be able to pick up a ball, hold a pencil and carry a bowl. Someday, she will be able to go to school and learn like the other kids. And years from now, she will be able to get a job or care for her children. All things that would have been more difficult or impossible without this surgery.

I can’t deny that I won’t be a tiny bit sad when my little shadow walks (or, let’s be honest, gets carried) up the stairs and down the gangway off the ship. She is only 4 years old and will probably not remember much about her time here. But I hope I will never forget her beautiful face or big, inquisitive brown eyes. As much as I hope she will have memories of nestling into my shoulder after running around Deck 7, it’s a tough reminder that this is not about me. My job is to love each patient and take care of them while they recover from surgery – their job is to use the life we’ve restored to its fullest potential! And I have no doubt that Sasimeny will do just that.

No Fairy Tale Ending

Today's post is reblogged from "Through my Porthole"  and is dedicated to my friend Marilyn who has been asking if I'd heard any more about Olivienne. 

It has been a tough couple of weeks.

One of the reasons is that Olivienne returned to her village.

 

She came to us four months ago; malnourished and close to asphyxiation by the large benign tumour growing into her mouth. A special love for Olivienne crept into our  hearts over the weeks as she gradually gained strength, then received complex surgery to remove the tumour that had also destroyed part of her jaw. It was an uphill battle as bone and skin grafts seemed to take a long time to heal. Finally our beloved Olivienne was strong enough to return home to visit before her last operation. But this fragile young woman was badly beaten before she reached her village. She found her way back to the Mercy Ship with new damage to her face. Something seemed to break within her. Olivienne began to loose weight again and one skin graft would not heal. Sadly, tests showed that the tumour was regrowing. Her body couldn’t sustain her healing, and our dear Olivienne finally went home to her two small children in her remote northern village. Would you stop and pray for her just for a second? For her children, her pain, her remaining weeks – and her eternal days.

In the deck below me, Lanto is in her hospital bed. She is a sparkling 14-year-old who was born with gigantitism in her right leg. She came with her friend, who had six toes on each foot. Her dearest wish was to be able to wear a pair of shoes just like the other girls at school.

We were able to reduce Lanto’s foot so it is now the length and width of the other, but the disease made significantly reducing the depth of the foot impossible. Those cute shoes will be forever out of reach.  Lanto’s deep disappointment is perhaps underscored by the fabulous result her friend received; her feet will look pretty normal as the surgery site heals. Would you take a moment to lift Lanto’s self image, her hopes and dreams to her Maker?

20 year-old Tsima has suffered with an obstetric fistula for 7 years (!) She received a free surgery late last year, but her body refused to heal. She is scheduled for a second surgery in April to repair this permanent incontinence resulting from a birth injury. The tiny teenager lost her child, was abandoned by the baby’s father, and is only tolerated by her family. Please pray Tsima finds the courage to return for the second surgery, and that her body will be healthy enough to heal.

Each day people are leaving this ship healed and whole. But occasionally a patient does not receive the results we expected. A lot of screening, radiology and testing goes into deciding if a patient’s condition can be treated on board; we are not into offering false hope. The complex, tough cases keep us on our knees, and we keep our patients close to our hearts.

Maraie Helene

Today's post was reblogged from "Into the Deep".  Read it all the way to the end . . .

The reality is sometimes we meet people that we cannot help or we have to ask them to live with their condition a little longer. We don’t always like it, we wish we could help every single person that came our way on the spot, but the hard truth is there are only so many surgery spots in a day or a surgery may require a surgeon with a particular expertise that may not be available for a few months. It’s difficult to explain to someone who has lived with a debilitating tumor for many years that they have to wait a little longer or that we can’t help – they often don’t understand, they feel like they’re going to die so why wouldn’t we operate right now; why would we wait? Why would we say no?

The task of assessing patients, hearing their stories and coordinating schedules thankfully falls on people gifted with a grace and ability to juggle moving parts in a way that I am often in awe of. Our screening team this field service has evaluated thousands of potential patients in 11 cities throughout Madagascar. But sometimes we don’t have to go very far to find a patient, some patients come right to our “door step” showing up at our HOPE Center, our land-based facility where patients heal after their surgeries, on the hope that we can help. That’s how I met my friend Marie Helene and her sister-in-law Biviane.

 

About 12 years ago Marie Helene noticed a bump on the right side of her face. She lives in a remote village but was able to have a local healer look at it. She was given some medicinal oils that did nothing but the bump was so small Marie Helene decided she wouldn’t worry too much about it. However, slowly the tumor grew and over the last three years the tumor began growing exponentially. It grew so large that it rested on Marie Helene’s shoulder and she often had to support it with her hand. I’m told it’s not uncommon for these types of tumors to grow very slowly at first and all of a sudden start growing exponentially.

Marie Helene and her family didn’t know what to do. Unable to work and help her children out in the fields, Marie Helene was looked after quite often by her sister-in-law Biviane. The two ladies, both in their 70’s, vowed to care for one another after they both became widows just a few months apart. They were more than sisters-in-law; they were the best of friends.

Biviane was concerned that if Marie Helene did not receive help soon she would soon die. For months the two ladies had listened to travelers on their way home to the northern parts of Madagascar come through their village. They told a strange tale of returning from a hospital ship where they had experienced tremendous healing. People spoke of the foreigners on the ship and how well they were cared for and how everything provided was free. And then one day Biviane was visiting a friend in a larger city and she saw a news story of a man named Sambany, whose tumor was larger than Marie Helene’s and was removed. Biviane convinced Marie Helene to make the journey as the last hope to save her life. Marie Helene agreed and the two set off on a Saturday down the river from their village. After a half day canoe ride, the women rode public transportation for another half day before resting for the night. The journey continued with more public transportation, a cramped bus with people sitting shoulder to shoulder and no leg room through the winding Malagasy roads.

By the time they arrived, the ladies were exhausted, but glad to have arrived and eager to discover if we could help. A battery of tests and evaluation confirmed that Marie Helene was actually in excellent health except for the massive tumor on her face on a low iron count. She weighed in at about 95 pounds and it was estimated that about eight of those pounds was her tumor. I enjoyed getting to know the two ladies as the screening nurse worked on her tests and finding a surgery slot for her. They shared about life in their village. I showed them pictures of my family on my iPod. They giggled at the pictures of my two month old niece and said she had very chubby cheeks. We passed the time and became friends.

Although she was older than our typical surgery age of 60, Marie Helene was scheduled for admissions on Friday, March 4, which was three months away. For most patients that we meet, receiving an appointment date for surgery is an exciting moment, but for Marie Helene and Biviane, who just made a difficult journey, especially for two elderly women, they were crushed.  Marie Helene pleaded,  “I’m dead already. Please do the surgery now.”

Hearing her words I was reminded of Sambany, whose story inspired the ladies to place their hope in us in the first place; he said the very same words 10 months earlier when he also just appeared at our HOPE Center.  However, a surgery cannot be done simply because a patient wants it. In Marie Helene’s case, her iron deficiency needed to be treated ahead of her surgery and she needed to put weight on her very small frame to have the best chance for healing and survival during and after the surgery. The whole situation was complicated by the fact that we were beyond maximum capacity at the HOPE Center with more patients arriving that week; we couldn’t even house them for a night and sent them back home straight away. And this is the razor’s edge where logistics and compassion collide. Sometimes, like in Sambany’s case, everything lines up perfectly and we can bring the patient onto the ship immediately while we get them ready for surgery and sometimes like in Marie Helene’s case, not everything lines up perfectly and we do the best we can demonstrating love and compassion as we work through the logistics.

The screening team supplied Marie Helene with everything she would need for the next three months including protein packets to add weight. The screening nurse, translator and I stood on the dock as the two ladies boarded a bus, encouraging them that we would be standing on this very dock waiting for them on the morning of Friday, March and we expected them to be here.

Although today is March 4, I’ve known for some time that there would be no reunion on the dock this morning. I woke with Marie Helene on my mind and honestly, I couldn’t even bring myself to looking at the space until late in the day. As I finally made my way out there this evening and stared at the empty dock space, I thought about Marie Helene for a long time. I thought about the courage she showed in making the journey to the ship. I thought about her sweet spirit and determination. Most of all I thought about how she was no longer in pain, having succumbed to her tumor just a few weeks after visiting us.

When I do share these stories with friends back home, some inevitably ask me why I am still here. They ask why I sacrifice so much to be a part of what appears to be an uphill battle in a region of the world that isn’t getting better. There are two answers to that questions. One is, I believe we are winning this battle. I believe that healthcare can, and will be accessible to everyone one day.

And the second answer is that Marie Helene’s story deserves to be told outside her village. And sure this blog space has a small following and only a very small fraction of the world might read this but maybe these words will inspire one more volunteer or one more donor to support our cause. And that donor or volunteer may just be the tipping point needed to win this fight.

The need is great. Will you join us?

Elvie

Thankful Thursday!

Who would think that on this particular Thursday, I would be thankful for work - especially when I'm teaching the dreaded "Sea Turtle" class, also know as "Parent/Child".  But what a hoot!  I kicked out my two year old, Leah.  She was far too advanced to be in with the babies so that left me with five babies, half with a grandparent and half with a parent.  I followed that class up with an "Eel" class who last session were in my 10:00 a.m. and 11:10 a.m. "Pike" classes.  Now they're absolutely delightful eels - all four of them!  Then came the "Sunfish" - just two of them!  And they've already gotten their heads wet without tears!  Could the day get any better?  Swim on!