I have hit the proverbial brick wall. There is work to be done and I cannot do it. I don’t have the heart to play with the kids on Delmas 91. I can’t sleep at night unless I take sleeping pills. I can count on one hand the number of times that I have really laughed since the quake. G has to force me to eat because I am not hungry. I keep picking up rocks and having an insatiable urge to throw them, hard. I feel myself starting to cry constantly.
It is time to get out. Time to go to a safe haven and let myself cry, let myself process, let myself recover. I don’t want to leave G and Delmas 91 but if I don’t, what good am I to anyone? People keep reminding me that this is not a sprint; it is a marathon. And this marathon runner needs to take a break if she intends to finish the race.
I will arrive in Boston on Saturday. I will be happy to receive calls and visits after Saturday. Please email me (kezgho@yahoo.com) to schedule visits or to get my phone number if you don’t already have it.
I appreciate your prayers at this time. In some ways, it is the hardest thing I have done yet.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The amazing "G"
Before the earthquake, when I would leave my house, I always walked past a young man whose back, chest and arms were covered with tatoos. He would lounge in front of his house at the top of my street and he always asked me to take him along. "Where?" I would ask. "Wherever you're going!" he would respond with a cheeky smile. I would just wave him off and keep walking. Haitian men frequently say that sort of thing to me and I have become quite talented at ignoring them.
Three days before the earthquake, I took my 5 gallon water cooler up the hill to get it filled at Caribbean market. The store was closed for inventory though and since I didn't know another place within walking distance, I returned home with my empty cooler. When I walked past the tatoo man, he asked why I hadn't gotten water and offered to show me a store right around the corner that sells water. For some reason, I accepted, and the man, who introduced himself as "G", escorted me to the little store and then insisted on carrying the water all the way home for me.
Thus it was that in the middle of the night after the quake when I needed someone to hold a flashlight for me, I looked around and the only person I saw whose name I knew was G. I called to him and he instantly came to help. I did not ask him to help all night; I just needed him for a moment while Walnes and Abbey were busy. But he stayed. And remarkably, he was better than any flashlight-holder I've ever had. Most people get distracted and tired while I stitch people up, but G not only stayed focused, he also figured out by our second or third victim when to come closer, when to shift angles and when to illuminate my surgical kit instead of the wound. Then he started recognizing what instruments or supplies I needed and handing them to me before I could even ask. Eventually, at 5 in the morning, when the constant arrival of patients had waned, he sent me to rest while he stayed up and on the lookout for injuries.
As soon as it was clear that things in our camp were temporarily calm, G urged me to pack up my supplies and walk into the ravine behind St Joseph's to treat people there. I was exhausted and wanted to do nothing more than sit with Bill and TiPatrick, but G urged me on. "There are lots of people who need help! C'mon, Keeez."
Every day was like that. G would find me early in the morning, we would load up our bags and we would set out on foot to find refugee camps where people needed stitching and bandaging and medications. I would get exhausted and he would push me to keep going. We walked 6 or 7 miles every day, carrying all my medical supplies and sometimes also carrying bags of formula to deliver to Dorothy's en route. In the evenings, I would come home, take care of Bill all night, and then get up the next morning and do it again.
Back at Delmas 91, there were about 300 people camped out in my neighbor Alex' field. I raided my house for towels, diapers, baby formula, soap, sanitary pads, sheets, baby blankets, extra clothes - everything I could find, I loaded into boxes and with the help of my neighborhood kids, brought it all up to the field. Haiti is full of horror stories of riots whenever donations are being distributed, but I would just hand it all to G and he would peacefully and equitably pass it out.
A week after the quake, I told G, "I need to go across town to check on the kids at HFC today. Do you want to come with me or do you want to stay here and watch out for the camp?" He said he would come with me. Later, as we were walking down the street, he nudged me, "Kez, I don't like it when you ask me if I'm coming with you. Wherever you go, I am coming too. You need to just accept that!"
He has been true to his word. Everywhere I go, G comes along, just like he always wanted. He guides me around parts of the city that I am unfamiliar with. He buys me food and drink when we are far from home. He holds my hand and leads me through throngs of people downtown. He saved my life one morning, yelling my name and pulling me back as a taptap came flying around the corner too close to the curb. As I jerked away, I felt the mirror clip my arm but thanks to him, I was unharmed.
That same day, my tough guardian finally broke down. We were walking back to Delmas when a woman called his name. A moment later, a man appeared and G fell into his arms, crying. It was his father. The man lives in another part of Port-au-Prince and neither G nor his father had known that the other was alive. We got home that day in the late afternoon, more exhausted than I think we'd ever been, but I packed up a bag with all the food I had left in the house and G took it back downtown to give to his hungry father, aunt and cousins.
One evening after our day's work, G and I went for a walk. We took no supplies and just walked through the neighborhoods behind Delmas 91, enjoying the coolness of nighttime and the little signs of life returning to normal. He took me to the back side of Caribbean market and pointed out the sidewalk where he had been walking when the quake struck. It was completely buried in large concrete slabes and rubble. Somehow, he was fast enough to run up the street before the walls came down and crushed him.
It has been three weeks since the quake and G continues to be my amazing assistant. We argue and get on each other's nerves, but most of the time, I am thrilled that he is here. He and Alex, the overseer of the field where everyone is camped out, are fully responsible for the distribution of food and water and supplies to the refugees. G also organizes the neighborhood men into teams of night watchmen. They work in 3 hour shifts all night long, monitoring the camp and the surrounding streets. I sleep better knowing that at 1am every night, G and his boys are checking on my house.
I don't know where he gets his strength from. He didn't sleep at all the first 3 nights. I tried to convince him to stop working and rest, but he told me he couldn't, even if he tried. "There is so much that needs to be done and the people are looking to me to do it," he explained. "I can't rest yet." The first time he slept after the quake was on Friday when we hiked down to Dorothy's. While I was inside talking to her, G curled up under a bush in the yard and fell fast asleep.
I cannot express in words how blessed I am to have G beside me. He has been the greatest assistant, bodyguard and friend that I could have asked for. In many ways, he is the reason that I have gotten through the past 3 weeks. But when I thank him, he just shakes it off. "I should be thanking you, Kez," he says. "You aren't Haitian but here you are, working to help Haiti. This is my country, my people. If I don't help them, what am I worth?"
Three days before the earthquake, I took my 5 gallon water cooler up the hill to get it filled at Caribbean market. The store was closed for inventory though and since I didn't know another place within walking distance, I returned home with my empty cooler. When I walked past the tatoo man, he asked why I hadn't gotten water and offered to show me a store right around the corner that sells water. For some reason, I accepted, and the man, who introduced himself as "G", escorted me to the little store and then insisted on carrying the water all the way home for me.
Thus it was that in the middle of the night after the quake when I needed someone to hold a flashlight for me, I looked around and the only person I saw whose name I knew was G. I called to him and he instantly came to help. I did not ask him to help all night; I just needed him for a moment while Walnes and Abbey were busy. But he stayed. And remarkably, he was better than any flashlight-holder I've ever had. Most people get distracted and tired while I stitch people up, but G not only stayed focused, he also figured out by our second or third victim when to come closer, when to shift angles and when to illuminate my surgical kit instead of the wound. Then he started recognizing what instruments or supplies I needed and handing them to me before I could even ask. Eventually, at 5 in the morning, when the constant arrival of patients had waned, he sent me to rest while he stayed up and on the lookout for injuries.
As soon as it was clear that things in our camp were temporarily calm, G urged me to pack up my supplies and walk into the ravine behind St Joseph's to treat people there. I was exhausted and wanted to do nothing more than sit with Bill and TiPatrick, but G urged me on. "There are lots of people who need help! C'mon, Keeez."
Every day was like that. G would find me early in the morning, we would load up our bags and we would set out on foot to find refugee camps where people needed stitching and bandaging and medications. I would get exhausted and he would push me to keep going. We walked 6 or 7 miles every day, carrying all my medical supplies and sometimes also carrying bags of formula to deliver to Dorothy's en route. In the evenings, I would come home, take care of Bill all night, and then get up the next morning and do it again.
Back at Delmas 91, there were about 300 people camped out in my neighbor Alex' field. I raided my house for towels, diapers, baby formula, soap, sanitary pads, sheets, baby blankets, extra clothes - everything I could find, I loaded into boxes and with the help of my neighborhood kids, brought it all up to the field. Haiti is full of horror stories of riots whenever donations are being distributed, but I would just hand it all to G and he would peacefully and equitably pass it out.
A week after the quake, I told G, "I need to go across town to check on the kids at HFC today. Do you want to come with me or do you want to stay here and watch out for the camp?" He said he would come with me. Later, as we were walking down the street, he nudged me, "Kez, I don't like it when you ask me if I'm coming with you. Wherever you go, I am coming too. You need to just accept that!"
He has been true to his word. Everywhere I go, G comes along, just like he always wanted. He guides me around parts of the city that I am unfamiliar with. He buys me food and drink when we are far from home. He holds my hand and leads me through throngs of people downtown. He saved my life one morning, yelling my name and pulling me back as a taptap came flying around the corner too close to the curb. As I jerked away, I felt the mirror clip my arm but thanks to him, I was unharmed.
That same day, my tough guardian finally broke down. We were walking back to Delmas when a woman called his name. A moment later, a man appeared and G fell into his arms, crying. It was his father. The man lives in another part of Port-au-Prince and neither G nor his father had known that the other was alive. We got home that day in the late afternoon, more exhausted than I think we'd ever been, but I packed up a bag with all the food I had left in the house and G took it back downtown to give to his hungry father, aunt and cousins.
One evening after our day's work, G and I went for a walk. We took no supplies and just walked through the neighborhoods behind Delmas 91, enjoying the coolness of nighttime and the little signs of life returning to normal. He took me to the back side of Caribbean market and pointed out the sidewalk where he had been walking when the quake struck. It was completely buried in large concrete slabes and rubble. Somehow, he was fast enough to run up the street before the walls came down and crushed him.
It has been three weeks since the quake and G continues to be my amazing assistant. We argue and get on each other's nerves, but most of the time, I am thrilled that he is here. He and Alex, the overseer of the field where everyone is camped out, are fully responsible for the distribution of food and water and supplies to the refugees. G also organizes the neighborhood men into teams of night watchmen. They work in 3 hour shifts all night long, monitoring the camp and the surrounding streets. I sleep better knowing that at 1am every night, G and his boys are checking on my house.
I don't know where he gets his strength from. He didn't sleep at all the first 3 nights. I tried to convince him to stop working and rest, but he told me he couldn't, even if he tried. "There is so much that needs to be done and the people are looking to me to do it," he explained. "I can't rest yet." The first time he slept after the quake was on Friday when we hiked down to Dorothy's. While I was inside talking to her, G curled up under a bush in the yard and fell fast asleep.
I cannot express in words how blessed I am to have G beside me. He has been the greatest assistant, bodyguard and friend that I could have asked for. In many ways, he is the reason that I have gotten through the past 3 weeks. But when I thank him, he just shakes it off. "I should be thanking you, Kez," he says. "You aren't Haitian but here you are, working to help Haiti. This is my country, my people. If I don't help them, what am I worth?"
Monday, February 1, 2010
Why?
Anytime I sit down to pray since the earthquake, I end up sobbing. If I could have a guaranteed hour of solitude, I would let the tears come, but I rarely get more than a few minutes alone. And when I pray, through the tears, all I want to say to God is “Why did you let this happen?”
I haven’t heard the answer to my question yet. But the other questions I ask show me again and again that God has been with me and with the country of Haiti from the very beginning. There is no other explanation.
Why did the quake happen exactly when it did instead of a few hours earlier when tens of thousands of children would have been in school or a few hours later when the entire country would have been in bed? Why did the quake happen during dry season instead of rainy season or the very hot months when thousands in refugee camps would have died of heat stroke and dehydration?
Why was my house perfectly intact so that I had access to all my medical supplies during that first critical 48 hours? Why did I already have a surgical kit prepared with suture materials and bandages? Why was I able to instantly find all my emergency equipment when they starting carrying up victims? Why did all the furniture in my house fall over except the shelves when I stock my pharmacy?
Why did I know how to suture wounds when most second year nurses have not gotten to learn that? Why did the ABC reporter call immediately after the quake so that I was able to get a message to my family that I was alive? Why had I met G three days before the quake so that in the middle of the night when I needed a helper, he was someone I trusted? Why did I have one precious bottle of vicodin, just enough to control Bill’s pain until he got evacuated to the US? Why did I have the connections to Commander Strong and the military that have kept us supplied with formula and food?
The only answer that I have is that God’s hand has been on me every step of the way. And though I still do not understand the big WHY, I see enough evidence of His goodness in those little things to continue trusting that He is sovereign and He has not abandoned this country.
I haven’t heard the answer to my question yet. But the other questions I ask show me again and again that God has been with me and with the country of Haiti from the very beginning. There is no other explanation.
Why did the quake happen exactly when it did instead of a few hours earlier when tens of thousands of children would have been in school or a few hours later when the entire country would have been in bed? Why did the quake happen during dry season instead of rainy season or the very hot months when thousands in refugee camps would have died of heat stroke and dehydration?
Why was my house perfectly intact so that I had access to all my medical supplies during that first critical 48 hours? Why did I already have a surgical kit prepared with suture materials and bandages? Why was I able to instantly find all my emergency equipment when they starting carrying up victims? Why did all the furniture in my house fall over except the shelves when I stock my pharmacy?
Why did I know how to suture wounds when most second year nurses have not gotten to learn that? Why did the ABC reporter call immediately after the quake so that I was able to get a message to my family that I was alive? Why had I met G three days before the quake so that in the middle of the night when I needed a helper, he was someone I trusted? Why did I have one precious bottle of vicodin, just enough to control Bill’s pain until he got evacuated to the US? Why did I have the connections to Commander Strong and the military that have kept us supplied with formula and food?
The only answer that I have is that God’s hand has been on me every step of the way. And though I still do not understand the big WHY, I see enough evidence of His goodness in those little things to continue trusting that He is sovereign and He has not abandoned this country.
Our baby
This story is the greatest testimony to Haitian culture that I can tell.
In my neighborhood of Delmas 91, there is a beautiful baby girl named Jennifer. She is 6 months old and she was orphaned by the earthquake. Since the first day, people in the community have been caring for her and I have been providing them with the baby formula and the medications to do so.
At a time like this, when our homes have been destroyed, when food and water are in short supply, and when no one truly knows if we will survive till next week, an orphan child should be unwanted. A few days ago, UNICEF appeared in our camp when I was out doing rounds. They offered to take Jennifer. But instead of jumping at the opportunity to shoulder that burden onto someone else, the wonderful people in my community ripped up the UNICEF paperwork. "She's our baby!" they proclaimed. "She belongs here on Delmas 91!"
I was so proud when I heard that story. Jennifer continues to thrive in the loving care of every member of the camp. There are 2 sisters, young nursing students, who have taken the role as her primary caregivers, but everyone watches over Jennifer. It seems like each time I walk up to the camp, a different person is holding her. They dress her up, they kiss her, they tickle her, they show her off to anyone who will stop and listen.
She's our baby.
In my neighborhood of Delmas 91, there is a beautiful baby girl named Jennifer. She is 6 months old and she was orphaned by the earthquake. Since the first day, people in the community have been caring for her and I have been providing them with the baby formula and the medications to do so.
At a time like this, when our homes have been destroyed, when food and water are in short supply, and when no one truly knows if we will survive till next week, an orphan child should be unwanted. A few days ago, UNICEF appeared in our camp when I was out doing rounds. They offered to take Jennifer. But instead of jumping at the opportunity to shoulder that burden onto someone else, the wonderful people in my community ripped up the UNICEF paperwork. "She's our baby!" they proclaimed. "She belongs here on Delmas 91!"
I was so proud when I heard that story. Jennifer continues to thrive in the loving care of every member of the camp. There are 2 sisters, young nursing students, who have taken the role as her primary caregivers, but everyone watches over Jennifer. It seems like each time I walk up to the camp, a different person is holding her. They dress her up, they kiss her, they tickle her, they show her off to anyone who will stop and listen.
She's our baby.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A new life
I used to have a life. It is gone. Can you imagine that? Everything that you knew, everything that made up your day – gone. Now, I have a new life, but it does not resemble my old life.
I used to have a job, several jobs actually. They are gone, buildings disappeared into piles of rubble and patients disappeared to the countryside. Now, I have a new job, but it does not resemble my old job.
I used to have friends. They are gone: dead, injured, or evacuated. Now, I have new friends, friends that I love, but they do not resemble my old friends.
I used to have a home. It’s gone, replaced by a dormitory for relief workers and a storage room constantly filling and emptying. I have a home, but it does not resemble my old home.
I used to have a community. It is gone, shattered by death, fear, forced evacuation, and insecurity. Now, I have a new community, made of amazing neighbors and little children, but it does not resemble my old community.
My new life is strange. It is different. It is not what I expected my life to look like as a 24 year old single white woman alone in Haiti. Yet, for all its strangeness, this new life is a good one. I am more connected to the community of Delmas 91 than I would ever have become had the quake not occurred. My new friends are people that I would never have befriended had the quake not occurred. My new job and my new home, as hectic as they are, fit me, my experiences and my personality.
I am still reeling from the emotional and spiritual toll of all that I have seen and done in the past 3 weeks. There is so much to process and so much to forget. Some things are a total blur; others are branded into my memory and will always be there. I wish I could forget them.
A dump truck full of corpses driving past me. The sinking feeling in my stomach when I looked at that woman with crushed legs and told the men to cover her back up, there was nothing I could do for her. Standing at the edge of a massive refugee camp and feeling too exhausted to treat a single patient. The smell of rotting bodies emanating from collapsed buildings. Lying on a pad on the floor as the building shook from aftershocks and assuring Bill that everything would be OK even though my heart was beating a mile a minute. The panicked screams on the streets of Delmas and the cloud of dust that cloaked the city. Watching TiPatrick shiver and thinking, “He’s going to die tonight because I was not more experienced.” The look of death on a little boy’s face after he was rescued from his home only to die 10 minutes later in his mother’s arms. My bloody hands at dawn after that never-ending first night.
It happened. An earthquake hit Haiti and my life vanished. But I am alive. I am unharmed. And I have work to do. Lots of work to do. So I embrace this new life and step forward, one dusty, tired step at a time.
I used to have a job, several jobs actually. They are gone, buildings disappeared into piles of rubble and patients disappeared to the countryside. Now, I have a new job, but it does not resemble my old job.
I used to have friends. They are gone: dead, injured, or evacuated. Now, I have new friends, friends that I love, but they do not resemble my old friends.
I used to have a home. It’s gone, replaced by a dormitory for relief workers and a storage room constantly filling and emptying. I have a home, but it does not resemble my old home.
I used to have a community. It is gone, shattered by death, fear, forced evacuation, and insecurity. Now, I have a new community, made of amazing neighbors and little children, but it does not resemble my old community.
My new life is strange. It is different. It is not what I expected my life to look like as a 24 year old single white woman alone in Haiti. Yet, for all its strangeness, this new life is a good one. I am more connected to the community of Delmas 91 than I would ever have become had the quake not occurred. My new friends are people that I would never have befriended had the quake not occurred. My new job and my new home, as hectic as they are, fit me, my experiences and my personality.
I am still reeling from the emotional and spiritual toll of all that I have seen and done in the past 3 weeks. There is so much to process and so much to forget. Some things are a total blur; others are branded into my memory and will always be there. I wish I could forget them.
A dump truck full of corpses driving past me. The sinking feeling in my stomach when I looked at that woman with crushed legs and told the men to cover her back up, there was nothing I could do for her. Standing at the edge of a massive refugee camp and feeling too exhausted to treat a single patient. The smell of rotting bodies emanating from collapsed buildings. Lying on a pad on the floor as the building shook from aftershocks and assuring Bill that everything would be OK even though my heart was beating a mile a minute. The panicked screams on the streets of Delmas and the cloud of dust that cloaked the city. Watching TiPatrick shiver and thinking, “He’s going to die tonight because I was not more experienced.” The look of death on a little boy’s face after he was rescued from his home only to die 10 minutes later in his mother’s arms. My bloody hands at dawn after that never-ending first night.
It happened. An earthquake hit Haiti and my life vanished. But I am alive. I am unharmed. And I have work to do. Lots of work to do. So I embrace this new life and step forward, one dusty, tired step at a time.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Beauty in the midst of destruction
The past 2 weeks has taken me all over Port-au-Prince, to little corners of the city that I never would have seen if this silly quake had not happened. And though most of the time, I want to cry because of the destruction and chaos that I see, every now and then, I catch a glimpse of Haiti underneath and I want to cry because of how beautiful it is.
My new best buds!
Jean-Andre aka "G", my assistant, bodyguard, mother, guide, tickler, chef, best friend. I will tell his whole amazing story someday when I have lots of time.
And Frann, a little orphan boy who is being taken care of by people in my refugee camp. He is the most adorable thing I've ever met. Look at that dimple!!
And Frann, a little orphan boy who is being taken care of by people in my refugee camp. He is the most adorable thing I've ever met. Look at that dimple!!
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