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!     

Nicknames . . .

This blog is dedicated to MWS staff - current and former!

Some of the regular swimmers at the Y are best known by their nicknames - everyone loves "Sidestroke Guy" who goes by Bruce in the real world;  no one wants to swim with "Splash Boy" for obvious reasons; and "Backstroke Lady", alias Barb, is just a sweet lady with an extremely unique backstroke!   This fall, I've been swimming with a new guy - "Tattoo Man" - and last Thursday, I finally got to talk to him when we arrived at the lap lane at the same time.  In my quest to discover why people have the tattoos they do, I asked "Tattoo Man" why he had such a large tattoo on his right shoulder.  He told me his dad had died when he was 18 and the tattoo was in his memory.  His dad had had a picture of Michael Angelo on his desk and now it was forever on his shoulder - painful at the time and pricey!  I did also ask "Tattoo Man" what his real name was and he said, "Josh" - and it connected with me!  I was talking to Josh Sutherland, local youth pastor, who's mom Cyndee taught with Sam at MWS!  So I said to Josh, "You're Josh Sutherland, your mom is Cyndee and your brother is Jesse and you're 33 years old!"  I think I put him in to shock - then I told him who I was!  Not only did we have a good chat, but so did Dean, "The Guppy", who joined us in the lap lane!       

Found in New Zealand . . .

 

That's Melissa Huestis from Brisbane, Australia 

and I'm holding a sweet little one with a cleft lip.

Reka!

I met my Hungarian friend, Reka, at the airport when we arrived in Lome this summer.  I saw her frequently on the ship as her (and her husband, Darren's) cabin was just around the corner from ours.  When I was seasick, I had Reka!  When I was lost, there was Reka!  Reka - a voice of encouragement!  I stole this from her blog so you could meet her heart and experience screening day through her:

Our photo stand is the last stop before they leave the building. By then they are are extremely tired, both physically and emotionally. Most of them had been standing in line for a good 5+ hours and even though we were giving out water and sandwiches we couldn't protect them from the sun. They are exhausted emotionally as well; many of them are so used to hearing NO that they cannot afford to allow hope sneak into their hearts. As they get closer to the gate...inside the gate...meet the pre-screener...GET PAST the screening station... escorted to the first station, then the second... all the time expecting to hear the dreadful word and yet a tiny hope is rising deep within as they get closer to the last station, our photo booth. It's hard to see their genuine smiles through the veil of wariness!

Outside there was some breeze that helped easy the discomfort of everybody, patients and crew alike. Inside, where we worked, it was hot, humid, stuffy, stinky… you name it. We tried to open the windows, but the generators were placed right outside the walls. We couldn’t hear each other’s words! I opened one slightly. Fresh(er) breeze entered our booth and we could all take a deep breath. Deb was standing 3 meters away from me and I saw her lips moving… darn, we must close that window NOW! :(

We have about an hour before the first patient makes it to our station so I go outside. Screeners stand in front of the patients' line, each with a translator. Their job is to decide if the patient has something we can treat thus sending them towards the building or turning them down. I stood behind Ans, who is a Chaplain on board now, but a nurse by profession. She raises her hand (saying she is ready for the next patient) and a young men steps forward. To my untrained eyes he looks fine. Of course I am neither a doctor nor a nurse, but I did learn a lot since I joined this unique hospital. Ans greets him and asks the standard question : what’s the problem. I can’t see the nurse or the translator as they have their backs to me, but I have a clear view of this man’s face. He is touching his head as he explains his reason for standing in line for so long. The translator conveys his words to the nurse. She nods, asks a few more questions in return. The man’s eyes grow narrow as he listen to the translator, clearly not liking the direction of the conversation. His behaviour changes: he puts his hands on his stomach, then on his back, his speaking becomes  fast, his gestures desperate. The nurse listens patiently, but I guess they both know the answer will be no. He desperately tries to convince the nurse, his eyes are begging, but the answer is still NO. We do not treat back or stomach pain and we do not give out free medicine. We are a surgical hospital!

It’s a tough call! Clearly it’s not the answer this young men was hoping for. His whole body looks broken all of a sudden. It’s a horrible feeling for everybody: for the nurse, for the translator, for the man, even for me, who is only observing the scene from afar. The nurse looks apologetic as she calls for an escort. The man sadly accepts the answer and starts to follow to escort towards the exit gate, which is opposite to the building. On his way out they stop at the prayer station where we offer prayer for those who got ’no’ and would like us to lift them up in prayer. As he walks out he keeps looking back towards the building; the building of hope… 

I go inside and embrace myself for a long and busy day. As the first patient arrives we jump into action. The 2 translators who were promised to us didn't show up so we have to do without a common language. I smile at the lady and force myself not to look at the massive goiter on her neck. I offer my little French to her (Good morning, how are you, my name is Reka, I don't speak French). When she keeps starring at me I realize that she doesn't speak French either. Oh well...

I take her papers and copy her name, patient number and surgery type onto a small white board. This will serve as patient ID and also as the "before picture". I motion to her to follow me. I take her precious yellow card and she looks at me worried. I desperately try to tell her I am not taking her card away, I just need to take a picture of it. I don't think I will ever be able to fully comprehend the significance of this small yellow piece of plastic. For them, it's their life line!

She sits down to my stool. I ask her to smile. She gives me the African smile. (very straight face, no showing of emotions). Suddenly the next patient shouts something at her in susu or pular at which point she offers a tiny smile. I go over there and ask in English if she understands me. "I de tak na sma-sma englis" I jump for joy! She speaks Krio, a language that I more or less understand!!! :)

This lady is from Sierra Leone. She came over the border just to be seen by our doctors. She, too, has a huge goiter on her neck, and to my amusement, her name is also Jane Kamara (well, it's not. I don't want to give out her real name, enough to say Kamara is a very common name in Salone and in Guinea as well. Imagine like Jane Smith x2) So, my first 2 patients had the same name and the same condition...

I happily accepted her help. She was translating my words to Susu as I later found out, one of the many tribal languages here in Guinea. When the first Jane Kamara left, she hopped onto my stool and gave me a wide grin. "Yu de make me pretty, yes?" Yes! :) I showed her the head shots I took of her and her neck from each angle; she approved.  She is scheduled for surgery in a few weeks! I am so looking forward to meeting her in the wards! She told me she had traveled for over a day to make it here. Last year when the ship was in Salone she couldn't make it to our screening and she was over the moon when she found out we are coming to the neighbouring country. Now she WILL RECEIVE a surgery! :)

The next 3 patients I photographed were also called Kamara - some spelled like Camara to show the French influence. Over the course of the day I think we photographed over 50 patients with goiters! Yay!!!
As we suspected, many came from Sierra Leone. Jess, our dietitian shared similar experiences. Last year she treated a little boy who was soooo malnourished due to a cleft lip and palate. He couldn't suck milk from her mum's breast and was too tiny for operation. Jess worked with him for months before he gained enough weight for a surgery. They fixed his cleft lip back then, but he was too young for the palate surgery. Jess told them last year to try to make it here for a second chance. She was looking out for them all day and finally she saw the mum! They didn't have any common language, but the joy in both their eyes spoke loud enough!

Later in the day this little fellow (now over 1 year old) ended up on my table. We had to photograph his palate. Now... THAT was a challenge, let me tell you! To begin with these babies have very tiny mouths! Even if you get them to open their mouths you still won't see the palate without tilting their heads back. Even if you tilt their heads back you can't keep them still long enough to take a picture. Even if they lie still with heads back and mouths open, the flash is not lighting the mouth up enough, because you have 3 extra people hovering over the baby: 1 to make them still, 1 to tilt the head back and 1 to hold the mouth open with a tung depressor. :)

If you stood a bit further away you wouldn't see the baby, just hear their cry and see 3 adults surround the table while I stand on a chair with a huge camera and flash in hand doing my best to get a sharp picture of the palate... Fun times! :) And to make matters worse in some cases the mothers didn't want our male helpers to touch their babies. I understand the whole Muslim thing and tribal beliefs, I really do, but what do you do when you have a long queue of patients to photograph and a reluctant baby with a difficult mother???

Another challenge presented itself in the forms of doctors' hand writing. (see my note on this matter here) Sometimes the condition is obvious, but sometimes the patient looks fine to me. Before I ask them directly, I try to look through their papers and decipher the doctor's scribble. NOT easy! :)

The other big challenge we faced was taking pictures of "Ponseti Kids". (Ponseti is a special technique to fix club feet of little children with a series of casts instead of an operation). The Ortho doctors requested a series of pictures (30+) in different positions and angles to test the abilities of the kids. Before the screening we asked one of the healthy kids on board to be our model so we could take test pictures of each angle and position, also bending and stretching each knee and ankle in every possible direction - it took over 25 minutes! And she understood English, she wasn't afraid of white people, we weren't foreigners to her and above all, her legs and feet were fine! Now, imagine this procedure with a kid who is the exact opposite in everything...

Maybe I shouldn't say it, but by the end of the day I "earned" the name "child torturer" :)))

All in all, it was a very rewarding day! Yes, it was long (we finished taking pictures after 9 pm), yes it was exhausting and yes, sometimes it made us cry, but it was all sooooo worth doing! :) I thank God I could be part of this day and see the Miracle in Action!

$3868.48

Given by you to us to change lives in Guinea!  To God be the glory!