My boys

Johnny J, my "son" at Dorothy's house, is 3 and a half now. He was sitting in mini-school on the porch when I walked in and just stared at me. Good little man didn't move until I beckoned and then he came running. He clung to me and was not pleased when I put him down after a few minutes and told him to go back to school. He continues his ARVs and is doing better than I hoped. He is still the skinniest kid ever - 18 month old shorts fall off his non-existent butt - and his lisp is incredible, a result of his recurrent ear infections before he went on the AIDS meds. When I first moved to Dorothy's, he was one of the high chair babies, but now, he is one of the Big Boys and gets to come upstairs with Cha-Cha and Mich to play, especially if I'm there.



In my neighborhood, Frantz is still my best man. He is at my door every day and when I'm not too tired or too seriously working, he is inside the house too. He plays with blocks, sweeps, practices writing letters, answers the phone for me, and most often fiddles with my radio and blasts music throughout the entire Shoebox. Sometimes he is my son; other times he is my boyfriend. He has a tendancy to start instantly punching any men or teenage boys that walk into my house, which, considering I live next door to St Joseph's, happens on a regular basis.



I have many other "boys" in my life: the St Joe's boys, staff and demo crew, my youth group boys and co-leaders, Tweedledee and Tweedledum who have taken to following me around again now that exams are over, and my guys at Delmas 24, but it is Johnny and Frantz who truly rule in my heart.

Medical visas

It has been very busy on the medical visa front since my return to Haiti. We are working actively on 5 cases at the moment: a boy with urinary obstruction, a baby with an imperforate anus, a little club foot boy, a severe case of scoliosis in one of Dorothy's children, and a congenital amputee named Whitney who is a little spitfire! She talked to me on the phone last night and commanded, "Miss Kez, don't you forget about me, OK?"

On Monday, I saw 12 patients here at the Shoebox. Some were not visa candidates but here are a few that were:

Emerson, a little cleft lip baby from the ravine


Widenico has a bowed leg



Nervens' scapula pops out of joint with any movement. I need to get a second opinion on him; with my limited expertise, I'm not sure if his problem could be repaired surgically.


Casimyr is another urinary obstruction. I don't think he wanted his photo taken :)


Mackencia was 9 days old when a candle fell on her mattress and caught it on fire. She was burned on both feet, so severely on the right foot that she now has a burn contracture that has deformed her foot and makes it very painful for her to walk. She will probably need orthopedic and plastic surgery.



Sendhie, Edjour, and I spend hours on each case here in Haiti getting together the necessary paperwork on each child, while Vanessa, Tami and the team in the US spend days finding doctors, hospitals, and host families. At the moment, our biggest obstacle is the Haitian passport office. It was closed for several months after the earthquake and though it is open now, it is working at a snail's pace. In a place of such corruption as Haiti, the options are to wait months for each passport or to slip money to someone and hope that they actually deliver. We don't want to do either. Currently, we have spoken with several employees at the National Archives, explaining what we do and how the children cannot wait months, and now we pray that sympathy and honesty will win over greed. Please join us in our prayer!

In the ravine

Everyone in the ravine has been very happy to have me back. My first walk through upon my return to Haiti consisted of very little medical care and a whole lot of catching up on both ends. This week was a little more routine - lots of diarrhea, coughs, colds, and some malaria.




I don't care what country you are in: children everywhere love to listen to their own heartbeat!




Why is it that my regulars, the kids I have known for over 2 years in the ravine, are so terrified of me? You'd think I gave them shots or something, but I never have. They get their vaccinations at the local clinic or from the government teams that used to walk through and set up vaccine stations.



At least Fabiola, my little white baby, (less white now that she is older and running around outside more) remembers me happily. Her dad told me that she can find me in their family photo album and calls me her "other Mommy". It warms my heart when Haitians can spend time in my presence without asking for anything. In the 20 minutes that I sat with Fabiola's mom and dad, the only mention of giving anything came from the other direction. "I wish we had something better to offer you," they said.

"This is all I want," I answered. "For you to invite me to sit with you and talk as friends. That means more to me than anything you could give me."

My two Haiti's

In my 2 month absence, Haiti has not changed very much. The open spaces are still full of tent cities and people are still more desperate for jobs, food, school and medical care than they were before the quake. On Delmas 91, my tent city looks very similar. The tarps have been fortified a little, but my neighbors still get wet when it rains hard. A few people have moved home or to other areas, but in their wake, new families have come. We are lucky to have such a small and well managed tent city; others are not so fortunate. My collegue, a Haitian doctor named Joey, spent a week living in one of the large tent cities and was horrified at what he saw. He commented particularly on the young women who are taken advantage of by the men on the tent city committee in exchange for food, protection, and other favors.



The only progress that I have seen with my own eyes is the demolition of some of the collapsed buildings in the Delmas area. Caribbean Market is being taken down, level by level, and the large building that was blocking my street for months is finally being removed.



As buildings are demolished, the rubble is simply dumped in the streets. Many roads that were already painfully narrow are now nigh upassable. Some people, like St Joseph's, are able to pay for a private dump truck to come regularly to remove rubble, but others leave it there. Presumably, they hope that the government will send trucks to remove it. Seems a vain hope.





It's all rather depressing. And so I turn back to my Two Haiti Philosophy. In my mind, there are 2 Haiti's: the entire nation of Haiti and the little Haiti that includes the people that I personally interact with on a regular basis. When I look at Haiti as a whole, I am deeply discouraged. The country's problems appear to multiple each year that I am here and in some ways, I feel like by being here, I am contributing to the pit that Haiti has been dug into. However, when I look at mini-Haiti, Kez's Haiti, I smile. In this Haiti, I see parents learning how to better care for their children. I see young people growing in faith and in love for those around them. I see babies who should have died thriving. When I look at little Haiti, I am hopeful.

A young artist has been painting a slogan on the walls of the city. It proclaims in bold letters and drawings the attitude of the Haitian people. Living here, I have learned to cling to that same manifesto: Haiti will not perish!

Third World children

...can be very demanding. "Kez, give me a deck of cards!" "Kez, show us a movie!" "Kez, where's my doll?" Sometimes, I want to slam the door in their faces. But other days, it's different. It's "Kez, do you want some pate (fried pastry)?" or "Kez, I watered your plants," or "Kez, these hair clips are for you."



My neighborhood kids are just grand. They are my little eyes and ears up in the tent city - "Kez, come quick! A lady just passed out!" They are my "Good morning's" and my "Good night's", every single day. They assure that I am never alone. They are always ready for a game or a crazy laugh when the sillies hit me....such as the day that we found a dead pigeon and proceeded to have an elaborate pigeon funeral. Odd, but distinctly enjoyable.

Gonaives

I got the call early Tuesday morning to pack my bags; I was going to Gonaives with my friends from Much Ministries. Gonaives is a city that lies on the coast of the bay, about 3 hours north of Port-au-Prince. I have visited it several times to run clinics for friends who live there. Gonaives was unaffected by the earthquake, but it sits in a valley that floods every few years when hurricanes hit. On my first trip to Gonaives, the city was literally swamped in mud after 3 hurricanes hit it back-to-back-to-back in 2008, creating a wall of water 14 feet high that rushed through, destroying many of the homes and claiming many lives. Since September 2008, Gonaives has been flood-free and it is steadily recovering. It is remarkable to me to return to a city that I first knew as a bog and see the streets clear of mud and trees growing on what was once mud flats.

The team from Much Ministries consisted mostly of teenagers, many of whom are new to Haiti. I acted as a translator and guide sometimes, but I also got to help with the feeding program, run clinic for one day and do some teaching with the Haitian nurse who runs their little clinic. One morning, I had the opportunity to lead a Sunday school program with 40 small children from a local church. Of the 4 Americans assigned to this group, I was the only one who spoke Creole fluently, so I was completely hoarse by the end of the day. We had a great time though, singing songs in English and Creole, acting out Bible stories, and playing Kabrit Kabrit Zwazo (my Haiti version of Duck Duck Goose). The kids could have played that all day!




I had one of my best laughs in a long time when a group of little boys led us down to the waterfront on the edge of the ghetto. My friends Sam and Kevin stripped to their boxers and jumped in the ocean with the boys. When they came out of the water 10 minutes later, I turned the other way to give the guys some privacy as they pulled shorts over wet boxers. Behind me I heard the Haitian boys begin to whoop and laugh and over their shrill voices, I heard Kevin yelling, "Stop it!!" I looked and there was Kevin, yelping and jumping backwards, trying to keep half a dozen little boys from looking down his boxers. They wanted to know if he was indeed white all over!



My favorite part of the week was visiting the homes of several children who live in the slums of Gonaives. I go to the slums of Port-au-Prince regularly, but the neighborhood of Jubile in Gonaives takes it to a whole new level. The people here have less than nothing (if that's possible) because the little they did have was lost in the floods. They showed me how they gather driftwood and salt from the sand flats to sell in the market, one huge basket of salt for only 15 American cents. It is hard to not be able to do more to help them, but simultaneously, it is incredible to see how much it means to them to have us visit their homes and hear their stories. All I can do is listen and then offer to pray for them but just that little gesture puts smiles on all their faces.

So long sweet summer

Camp has ended. My vacation has ended. My Chop Point rehab has ended. And, as I sometimes feel, my dream life has ended.



I love working in Haiti. I truly do. It keeps me on my toes with fresh adventures and fresh challenges every day. It encompasses me with people who build me up simply by their constant attention directed at me. It gives me children to love year round. It saves me from winter weather and from long hours in an American hospital. It teaches me that being alive is a rare and precious gift.



But working in Haiti is also incredibly difficult. I am faced daily by situations that are beyond my skills and my wisdom. I have to always be at least a little bit on my guard for both physical danger and for dishonesty in those I interact with. I am asked a million times a day to give, sometimes that which is within my power to give, frequently, that which is not. And though I am always with people, we share such different life stories that I sometimes feel very alone.



At Chop Point, the demands on me are demands that I can meet. "Listen to me talk about my parents' divorce." "Take me to a doctor's appointment so I can have a strep test." "Come play frisbee!" At Chop Point, I don't have to face that awful question: do I believe this person's story and give them money or do I not? At Chop Point, I don't wonder at bedtime if I will survive the night. At Chop Point, I truly feel like those around me love me, simply because they love me, not because they are hoping to get some material thing in return.



It is hard to walk away from that dream life now and return to the harsh reality of Haiti. But this year, even more so than past years, I needed that time at Chop Point. Several senior staff members commented when they bid me farewell that I look completely different now than I did at the beginning of the summer. They're right. My 2 months at Chop Point gave me lasting security for the first time since January. It allowed me to shed the burden of responsibility for so many people and let others take care of me for a little while. It provided the time and the sanctuary to cry. Perhaps most powerfully, it reminded me that life can be fun.



In the midst of infirmary time, ultimate games of ultimate, lifeguarding, and sailboat seaweed attacks (instead of cannonballs - much easier to clean up) I was able to set aside time to read books about suffering and to cry at God. For the first few weeks, those moments were the best part of my day. Later, as the kids and staff grew into my mini-family, I realized that I was able to share my story with them and include them on the journey. Though I can speak confidently at chapel about talking to God no matter what state of mind you're in, I continue to struggle to redefine my relationship with God. It's a process, and I am slowly coming to grips with the probable truth that I will battle these questions for the rest of my life. The grief which is still relatively fresh will fade, but the "Why?" will always be there. So long as my mangled faith survives, so will I.


So thank you. Thank you Haiti-world for letting me take a leave of absence. Thank you family for sharing me with others, yet again. Thank you Chop Point extended community for your constant prayer and hospitality. Thank you staff for never failing to ask how I was and for showing me such love and solidarity. Thank you campers for telling me in a million silly ways that it's OK to laugh and that life is, in fact, worth living.