Waiting

Apparently I'm in good company.

When I clicked on the link to the Blue Letter Bible, I saw Psalm 63:5 & 6:

"My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness; an my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips; when I remember Thee upon my bed, and meditate on Thee in the night watches."

Fitting, as I'm working a nightshift tonight.

a little of this, a little of that

Ok, so unless you want to hear complaining, I don't have much to blog about at the moment. I'm quite frankly feeling close to miserable. I'm exhausted, achy, and can't stop coughing. It's compounded by guilt over not working yet again. A lot of people are sick on the ship, actually. Apparently something particularly nasty is going around the ship. Our poor nurse manager is scrambling to staff each shift, and nurses who aren't out with the bug are pitching in extra shifts. Keep them in your prayers, especially our manager Frankie- she must be afraid to ask people how they're feeling anymore!

On a somewhat humorous note at someone else's expense, I saw something pretty funny the other day. Some unfortunate souls seem to have inherited cases of bedbugs. There's a spray for it and everything gets laundered, but I guess some of it has persisted. I know, I count myself as very lucky. So I walked into a friend's cabin the other day to find her spritzing her mattress, both top and bottom sides, with something. It was a small bottle for such a large task, so I couldn't help but ask what it was.

DEET.

You gotta give her points for creativity. And major points for not permanently setting up camp in the library or common rooms. Bravo, my friend!

Callithump

It's out! It's out!! The new Paperboys album is out!! And I can't get it until I come hooooooome!! Major bummer :(

But many of you can get it. Go. Buy. Enjoy!

Update: Thank you all so much for the kind offers to send it out here! My mom read this update and already got the album on its way :) Soon (well, three weeks or so) I will be on deck eight, rocking out to the newest Paperboys music....

As long as I can remember, my family has walked. We go in the evenings- sometimes to talk, sometimes to take a breather, sometimes to observe, or sometimes on a snipe hunt.

One summer when we were living in our cabin up in Michigan, we would go for night walks along the road through the dimly lit woods. Everything feels different at night. I'm a bit of a 'fraidy cat, but it's not so scary when you're with your parents or big dog. One night we heard an owl swoop down through the trees after a mouse. We didn't see it, but you begin to understand the night noises the more you walk. Walking silently is an art I'm constantly working on.

"Heel to toe" my dad used to repeat. He said that's how the natives walked without making sounds. Part of me suspects this was just a way to get us to stop flat footing on the cement or rustling up twigs and leaves on the trails. I find walking on the balls of my feet or on the knife-edge to be quieter usually.

When walking in the winter, the snow is usually crunchy or squeaky. For the most part during the day, you wouldn't notice, but the random noises of living cease in the dark cold. If you listen carefully, you can hear the falling snow and creaking branches. Sometimes we walk to the end of our street in Indiana, just to where the power lines hum across the road. By then our feet have frozen, the cold seeping up through the souls of our boots, and our sniffles rudely break the silence.

Arizona nights found cockroaches scurrying across your path and mysteriously cool breezes catching you by surprise. Seattle nights found me at Gas Works where the night noises of the city were carried across Lake Union to the top of kite hill as I sat watching Gazza run around in the shadows below. Florida nights are begging to be appreciated, but so far they are hot, muggy, and tiring. I'm looking forward to cooler ones with Peleke this winter.

Why am I writing about this? Because it gives me something to muse about in the wee small hours of the morning when I can't sleep for the coughing and sweats but can't do much productive for the lack of sleep. It's vicious.

I've been able to stroll the dock a few times at night. We're caged in (literally) after our curfew for safety reasons, but there's a narrow stretch next to the ship where the yellow lights shine down on us and the Gurka security guard on night duty keeps an eye on us stepping over concrete blocks and weaving through dumpsters. The ship groans against the giant bumpers and strains against its ropes as the swells rock it back and forth. I'm reminded again of our little world aboard whose floors endlessly pitch and toss. The walk reminds me of a caged animal pacing, but it feels good to stretch my legs after being cooped up.

Tonight I wandered around the ship for a bit. It's not like walking outside of course, but it was nice to take in the sights at a slower pace. For example, did you know there's a little orange foam monkey stuck to the trolley for dirty plates and glasses? And it's never completely deserted anywhere on the ship. There are random people up for midnight snacks, night workers around for lunch, insomniacs, and folks calling other time zones. As Mercy Shippers know, there's always the guard at the gangplank and somebody at the front desk. Usually there's some quiet music floating up from behind the desk. Sometimes I realize I'm walking without noise and then consciously try to continue that way. But I'll rustle a paper or maybe give a soft cough (not that I have a choice at the moment) so as not to surprise other people.

As I sit here now in the dining area, the water and juice machines endlessly churn their contents and the coffee machines steadily drips hot water into a pan. The occasional night worker comes in to sheepishly raid the galley and sit quietly by one of the windows to observe the tankers congregated just outside the port, waiting for their turns to enter. The security patrol follows an invisible path around the tables on his circuit through the ship, a walkie talkie clipped to his pants.

I'd give almost anything to be in Idaho with Peleke and The Beast, just setting off on a walk through a dark forest that will allow us silent passage... but for now, things being as they are, I'll settle for a cup of steaming tea, quiet music, and thoughts of things to come.

Random question of the night

Why do dogs squeak when they yawn? What exactly is causing that sound? I haven't been able to replicate it myself (and yes, I've tried).

Which dwarf am I?

The back pain has been reduced to some aching after working eight hours- something I wasn't expecting and a pleasant surprise.

Now I'm sweating one minute and freezing the next. I'm exhausted. My throat hurts to cough and swallow but the coughs keep coming anyway. I'm frustrated. I'm crabby. I'm upset. I'm discouraged.

I realize we live in one giant petri dish, what with new staff flying in from around the world every day, not to mention the patients. I realize lack of sleep and regular exercise and diet play an important role. I even realize the role of stress and self-pity.

But right now it sure feels like if it's not one thing it's another.

Sorting through a mind that is out of sorts

You've probably read all over the Mercy Ships blogosphere by now that we withdrew life support on Hubert Monday morning. The outcome was inevitable, and sometimes it's nice to humbly acknowledge that and be thankful for the small blessing of being able to arrange things in time for a peaceful passing. He died quickly and it was a beautiful transition in the arms of his father. That's actually a big statement- in the arms of his father. See, his parents had not officially "claimed" him, as evidenced by his smooth cheeks. His sweet sister has the telltale three vertical scars on each cheek from some Voodoo rite of passage into the family.

Not only did Hubert's father hold him as he went, but mama was grieving appropriately. I've made mention of that fact only a handful of times in my nursing career. Usually it's because there's cause for concern over the bonding- be it due to abuse, neglect, or whatever. In Hubert's case, it's important to note because it was there. Mama's genuine grief indicates that we were able to facilitate at least some bonding- that alone is a victory. Not only that, but she spent the days leading up to his death praying and singing over his failing body. Mama cried and wept for a child she had previously not bestowed the acknowledgment of true life upon.

What did we accomplish? I'm not entirely sure, and I'll never know completely. I wasn't one of the nurses closest to his care, but even I can see that our validation of his life and importance was shown through our medical care and constant fawning over him. When your baby has been branded as demon-possessed, I have to imagine seeing a community not just tolerate but love him has some sort of impact. Not being a mother myself, I have to imagine that regardless of culture, you feel the sacred connection to the being you gave birth to.

She went against her culture's teachings and brought Hubert to Mercy Ships after all.

Now comes the broader part of the process that is twofold, the "debrief." What did we learn- about the person, the family, the community, the care? Those are always important for validation, education, and future care. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, what have we learned about the character of God?

Why would I expect God to swoop in and save the day any more often here on the Africa Mercy than any hospital? Sure, I'm in a community where we can openly pray, petition, and praise him, but why would I expect that to change the nature of His interactions in the world? Maybe because we feel closer we somehow conclude he'll become more visible in the way we presume he should be- miraculous healings and such. Which of course is wrong because he's already here. I'm the one who moved in the first place and am simply coming back. Instead, maybe healthcare here just draws us closer into community. We find ourselves in the ever-present power struggle found in healthcare, only this time we're actively searching for God in the process- together.

I'm learning the importance of not just community, but Christian community. Something about living, fellowshipping, and playing with a multinational crew on a ship in Africa alone is reason enough to learn about community. Add in the part of working with patients that deeply grab and sometimes break your heart... well, it's just that much more intense. More attitudes and presumptions and judgements to be dealt with. The Christian community isn't as homogeneous as some people might think. The difference is that we are urged to live accountable for our thoughts and actions and to encourage others as well for the love of God. For For his glory. It's difficult and requires grace from everyone. The fallout from Hubert's situation finds us all dealing with it individually and as a group. This lifestyle is leading us to lean on and draw from God in new ways.

I'm reminded (again) that in the end, maybe it's not the simple outcomes of life and death that matter but the quality of both that matter. And I'm learning that it's not only just ok, but we're encouraged to "storm the gates of heaven" until the very end for something miraculous. After all, we did get several miracles and the gift of life... just not the life we so selfishly wanted.

A primer

Because apparently it's needed.

Meh: exclamation for when the situation is frustrating and you are dismissing it.

Bah: exclamation for when the situation is crummy and you can't quite get it out of your head.

Blorf: exclamation for when you're detached and saying, "Well, there it is. This sucks."

Can you see the smoke coming out of my ears yet?

Death is a part of life, so in that sense I guess it's natural. But as with most things since the fall, it's not quite the way perhaps it was originally made to be. When it comes down to it, sin is rooted in doubt- doubt that we are getting the best, that God is "holding out" on us. Doubt that He know what's best for us. I find myself at yet another time of spiritual anguish, the death of Hubert seeming imminent, acutely feeling the separation from Him. If I knew he was with us always, with Hubert, would this be so hard? If I didn't doubt for one second that God's plan is far more encompassing and loving than mine, would I struggle this much? I suspect I wouldn't. I suspect it's my doubt that causes the separation, not God himself.

I wandered into the dinning room a little lost at about two this morning. I'm sure it was no coincidence that some close friends happened to be finishing tea at that strange hour. Sitting down, I tried to relate how great it was to talk with Peleke on the phone tonight- how we both laughed and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Instead, tears for Hubert started leaking out. Grief is funny that way. I think sometimes as nurses we "prophylactically grieve" so as to be ready to help the families start their own process. It's simply the acknowledgement of loss of something or somebody important. And each time a patient dies, you have to decide what exactly that loss is to you- maybe not much or maybe a lot. I didn't expect Hannah's response to the situation: "sin makes me angry and sad." And that's just it, isn't it? The death of a child is just one more difficulty of life, one we have the peculiar honor to experience, compounded by our own doubts and fears of who God really is. It's not meant to be this way- but that's on us.

No, Hubert hasn't died that I know of. Both from what I've seen of him and in practice, I strongly suspect he will though. If he does survive, it will be only by the grace of God. And if he doesn't? Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

T.I.A.

Setting: The end of our dock, admiring the gorgeous sunset behind the industrial scene of tankers topped with cargo containers six deep. Dark storm clouds are scuttling across the sky, over the gloomy grey of the endless ocean to the south. A small break in clouds directly above us reveals a topaz blue sky. The swells are bigger than usual, spraying us periodically as the tide rises against the dock.

Abi

Hi Tim and Hannah! Hannah, how are you feeling today?

Hannah [rubbing thighs and lower back]

Good thanks! A little sore...

Me

Water aerobics?

Abi

Not exactly...

Hannah

I did CPR on that guy that died [drowned] yesterday. It was on the tanker ship next door, so we were kneeling on the deck for half an hour.

*collective pause then ensuing totally African explanation of the situation*

Right, then.

Housekeeping, of sorts

In true nerd form (bulletpointed) here we go:

• I'm having trouble with Picasa, the program I use to upload pictures for the blog. Until I get it figured out (and help is solicited here), there won't be any pictures posted.

• My back is remarkably better. I'm sure it will flare up with decreasing frequency in the coming weeks or months, but for now it feels so much better. I think it would be prudent to work nights for a few weeks since it's somewhat less physical work (bending, lifting, etc), though I'm not wild about that prospect either. The crew doctor and I agree, however- I'm here to work, not be a tourist. So working takes precedence over spending my days off visiting the sights, swimming at the nearby pool, and playing ultimate frisbee.

• Hubert is not well. His disease process is progressing classically and not for the better. We are giving a twenty-four hour wait period before we give a good hard reassessment of the situation. The questions are important but tough. For example, if by the grace of God he does survive, his little body- his lungs, his liver, his kidneys- will be unable to withstand surgery. A cleft palate repair is highly unlikely... which leaves us back at square one- a severely malnourished baby unable to eat who is demon possessed in the eyes of his village. The ship leaves in December. What is a realistic expectation here?

Settling

Sometimes I catch myself beginning to really settle in here. I realize I'm the only American in a conversation. I realize every person in a conversation is speaking with a different accent. I realize that we are not, in fact, swaying to the rhythm of the song- we are swaying with the rhythm of the ship. I don't find it strange at all that we have a curfew or have to swipe in and out as we leave our home. I find myself absentmindedly maneuvering the obstacle course of the dock- the cement slabs, random debris, broken pipelines, piles of random concrete, bags of rice piled six feet high, and not to mention the kamikaze scooters and trucks. I realize you may walk out of your room alone, but you are guaranteed to quickly find somebody to walk, eat, or sit with- no planning needed.

I wonder if anybody ever adjusts completely, though. The Africa Mercy is a microcosm, but it's not self-sustaining. We're supported worldwide by friends, families, churches, and other benefactors. I don't think it would continue without vital lines to the rest of the world; those vital lines simply must be us, the crew itself. We send letters, emails, and blogs to draw people into our experiences, an attempt to make them relatable. I imagine in our quieter moments, we all reflect in some way on the greater purpose of being here. How we relate to the rest of the world. We've all come from those places, and, I suppose, we all have to go back. Whether it's in ten years, ten months, ten weeks, or ten days. We're here and we all go back.

Maybe eventually the putrid smell of the water and humidity of the air won't hit me quite so forcefully when I walk onto the gangplank. Maybe I'll stop tripping over the interior thresholds. But I hope my eyes stay wide open.

Little Hubert is sicker. To be honest, that's all I know since I haven't been working with him the past 24 hours, but we all know it. A cloud of uncertainty has settled on the ship, raining all of the complex emotions, thoughts, and realizations surrounding it. We're wading through messy internal puddles.

Some people say we're not sure if there's a light at the end of his tunnel. That's in regards to Hubert's time here on earth, of course, but the light of earth is all we know. Sure we get glimpses of heaven, but at least for me, it's never enough to feel ok with sending a child there. There is always a small part of me when a child dies that feels the wrongness and raw grief of it, regardless of how they may be tortured here on earth.

I've become familiar with death and grief. Like most Americans, my daily life is sheltered from death. Dying is something that happens in hospitals and nursing homes. But I do see it at work and have had to grapple with it there constantly. During one particularly tough time for me in the PICU, my mom said to me that sometimes our job isn't to fix but instead to bear witness to a life. Let's be honest, though- we'd rather cry tears of joy (inwardly or outwardly) and watch a patient walk out completely healed... not sympathize and usher a family through that door and send them on their journey of grief.

Many of us come here expecting to be God's hands of healing. In light of all of our successes and celebrations, we forget we're here for hope and healing. And sometimes hope is the most sincere thing we can give. Hope for peace. Hope for love. Hope for true healing.

Halfway through our Saturday night Scrubs marathon, a handful of us walked quietly down the hall past the ICU where little Hubert is now on the ventilator. It seemed natural, given how heavily his plight is weighing on all of us. We sat on a few beds of C ward. The "Joy ward." The "VVF palace." It's a ward I hear lives up to its name- joyful. And so it felt odd to be there with some friends gathered to pray for the little boy who has touched us so deeply, to plead for his life.

It was beautiful. Five nurses and my roommate prayed for half an hour. We sat there in the dimly lit ward, pouring out our hearts before each other and God. We did the difficult dance of pleading for what we selfishly want while acknowledging the ultimate importance of what will further His kingdom. We know the medical-ese. We overwhelmingly know the pain of watching a child fight an uncertain battle. I couldn't get enough of it. I wanted to pour that vibrant and abundant life into Hubert's broken little body next door. When my roommate started praying in German- English as a second language is even more inadequate for such a deep struggle- we were all reminded that God is more than we imagine him to be in our jobs back home as we silently throw up prayers for our sick patients.

The power and importance of prayer is a recurring theme for me here. I've always felt that throwing up a few words to The Man is inferior to actually doing something. I realize that's offensive, and I realize it's a shortcoming of mine. But I'm truly honest with myself, I don't believe in the power of prayer, not in my core of my being. I want to, but I don't. If I did, I would ask God boldly for what I want- for the deeply personal and important things in my life. Wouldn't you? This is why I pray for God to be glorified however Hubert's life plays out when what I really want is for him to grow up to proclaim it himself.

A new friend who actually isn't here on the ship but serving in an equally important mission has been a wonderful email friend lately. She shared her challenge given in James 1:5-9. I find myself agreeing with her, mutually struggling with double-mindedness and doubt. She said, "for some stupid reason, I've spent much of my life thinking my doubting God giving me wisdom was, well, humble.... It's straight up wrong. I'm replacing it with the firm belief that Yahweh hears and is pleased with my prayer for wisdom." When she talked about how David trusted completely and off-handedly mentioned that he didn't do some voodoo dance before cracking Goliath's skull open, I was reminded me of the importance of this lesson now. Voodoo. It's something we're struggling with daily... and especially with little Hubert.

Is it wise to pray for little Hubert to win the fight for his life? Or is it wise to be more noncommittal, hiding behind the easy answer of settling for what will ultimately glorify God?

Admitting our dreams- noble, good, and faithful dreams- doesn't stop them from being shattered, does it?

Hold that thought

There's so much to think about for when I get home. A life full of choices and joy. The very fact that I have so many decisions is a lot to take in- soaps, clothes, and of course food. And jobs. And whether the dog should stay on Prozac.* A new home. A husband. A drastically changed life. It's all good- I've been amazingly blessed- but it's a lot to think about. It often threatens to overwhelm me.

In many ways, being here on the Africa Mercy has been less stressful than the past six months! My daily life is pretty regimented, allowing the free time to be devoted to taking care of myself by way of exploring my current African home, working on close friendships, and soaking in the community. It's like a distilled life. I'm learning how to set aside, truly distance myself from things that shouldn't be dealt with just yet. It may sound like a simpleton thing to say, but it's something I've always struggled with.

Cross that bridge when you come to it.

You're putting the cart before the horse.

Worrying won't accomplish anything.

It's too much here. I don't have the emotional reserve to keep a foot in both worlds. If I think about home too much, it's too easy to focus on what we can't do here in our floating hospital. And for personal reasons, I can't imagine going back to American nursing after this. And I really can't bear to think about long, luxurious showers.

So in a rare instance, I whole-heartedly believe I'm doing the right thing by setting those things aside. Aside from the obvious fact that a central part of me is far away, my life is here. Of course, the true measure of a lesson learned is how it is applied in the future...

*admittedly not a decision made by many people, but not one to be made lightly either!

Hubert

At first they’re just stories. To be sure, they are deeply human and touching. Cute babies and joyful recoveries. And then you spend hours with them as the nurse. You begin to be an active part of the clinical team. You think about the unique complexities in quieter moments. You struggle to make sense of not only the pathophysiology but also of the profound cultural influences. Voodoo. Community. Nutrition. Communication. Friends add their clinical observations and thoughts, and updates become a collective affair at any time and any place. They’re not just stories anymore. It’s my story now too, and it’s more vivid than words, pictures, or videos could ever portray.

It's no secret that there’s a particularly sick baby down in the ICU right now, and the ship is urged to keep the fighting little boy in its prayers.

Wedding '09 - the ceremony

My brother escorting my mom down the aisle

Peleke escorting his mom down the aisle (with his dad in tow)



My dad walking me down the aisle



My dad ditching me at the altar* with Peleke



The vows



The ring



The kiss



The prayer



The pronunciation and recession



The wedding party recession



Again



It was that quick! Then after greeting our friends and family as "the new couple," we all headed in for the reception.... stay tuned for the installment of wedding '09**!

* a story... for another time

** another story... for another time

Wedding '09 - the obligatory who's who

The bridesmaids, the groomsmen, the families, and off course the bride and groom... in every possible combination.

Peleke's parents



Peleke and sibs



Wenikio's parents



Wenikio and sibs



Me and Mom



The wedding party





The new Peleke clan



The new Wenikio clan



The happy couple



Flower bouquet

Thoughts

I'm feeling a bit melancholy today. Not really sad, but I guess a bit wistful. To state the obvious, I miss Peleke. And I miss Gazza with her beard and mohawk. But today I find myself missing Seattle quite a bit too. This is the most exciting time of year there, and I miss the city, the friends, and... the Paperboys playing at the Tractor Tavern. It's the little things I guess. I'll refrain from waxing poetic about it all, but I've been missing it more than usual. Each city I've been in has gotten under my skin in a different way. Certain times of year, celebrations, and things remind me of a particular place... and how nomadic I am.

Another round of crew left this evening. I haven't yet had to say goodbye to anybody I've gotten too close with yet, but I know the day is coming. Seeing the tears of parting friends as the jeeps depart to the airport every few days is a constant reminder of the fleeting time we have here. We come from all over the world; realistically we won't be seeing most of these people ever again. Long term crew here is noted for being a little distanced from short term. It's not a hard and fast rule and certainly isn't an insurmountable barrier, but I do sense it sometimes too. I can understand why.

At the same time, some of my friends are having birthdays this week. The celebrations are usually in the form of cakes made in the crew galley, dinners out, and movie marathons. I don't suppose it's all that different from home. One of the girls is getting a massage and pedicure. In West Africa. It's well deserved to be sure, just a funny juxtaposition. There is no lack of reasons to celebrate here. In the end, we're here. We raised the funds, got the time off, have the support of family and friends, and then took the leap of faith. We're living on a floating hospital off the coast of West Africa bringing hope and healing in the name of God. There are always new and fun experiences to jump into. It's easy to fall into conversations that last for hours and cover more meaningful topics than you would normally broach in a year.

In this pressure cooker of a ship, the highs and lows just seem a little more poignant.

Wedding '09 - the morning of

The girls went to go get pretty

Meanwhile, the guys spent the hours before the wedding eating and flying out at the hangar

Getting dressed with the girls. Mom successfully got the veil secured and flowers planted firmly in the tight mess of bobby pins that were keeping my hair in place







The daughters of the Peleke clan



Moms, daughters, and sisters



Random shots

The new "normal"

Life aboard the Africa Mercy is different. Some of these concepts have been lifted from friends' comments, but all of them I find personally worth mentioning...

When you walk into any toilet stall to find its contents unflushed, you take it in stride because, hey, the Evac system is quirky like that and you can't always come back in an hour to see if it's working yet. Also toilet related, the fleeting but altogether serious thought that the toilet might, in fact, suck you down from across the room invariably happens. People, the toilet flushing causes air currents in the bathroom. I kid you not.

You eat at set times. Every day. And if you skip breakfast on the weekends, you also skip lunch because you weren't there to pack a sandwich (unless you have a fantastic roommate like mine who kindly does it while you are sawing logs).

Privacy is very different. Curtains may separate you and your bunkmate from your other four to eight roommates, but you all share the same bathroom, phone, and internet jack.

On a related note, sound travels only slightly faster than word of mouth. Flushes, phone conversations, movies, and private conversations are mostly audible. And in such close quarters for eating, sleeping, working, and playing, not much is private.

You don't find it at all odd that your supervisor, surgeon, fellow nurse, ship engineer, or roommate is making and serving your coffee to you in the only Starbucks for thousands of miles.

Showers are only a necessity now and certainly not luxurious. They don't always drain fast enough and you'll flood it if you keep the water running while you're sudsing up. But you shouldn't be doing that anyway because, really, that's wasting water.

Commuting is a foreign concept here. For me, a short walk down the hall places me at work. For others, it's only a few decks away at the most. Leaving for work literally two minutes before shift is giving yourself plenty of time for "traffic."

As small as your room is, the communal areas are an extension of your living space only in so far as you're welcome there anytime. No lounging in pajamas. No movies over PG-13 in the public areas.

While mid-thigh length and longer is acceptable for shorts and skirts, the reality is that very few people do it (with only marginally more excepting for workouts). Off ship, it's scandalous to show your knees, so it's easier to just dress that way both on and off. When I wore my soccer shorts to ultimate frisbee, I felt nearly naked- a distinctly odd feeling given the reality that I know I'm not being anywhere near immodest back home.

Medical and dental care to crew is included in crew fees. Two dollar prescriptions and the dentist or doctor is a few yards down the hall. The entire staff is made of people you eat, work, and play with. Especially in my case last week, you really couldn't ask for better care.

Wireless internet in common areas and access via hookup in the rooms. Nothing fast and no video streaming, downloads, or gaming allowed (takes up too much bandwidth), but you can upload photos and again, it's included in crew fees. Making and receiving calls is as if you're calling to Florida. A simple phone card and you're set without breaking the bank.

Two loads of laundry permitted a week (though it's based on the honor system, like much of life around here. I'll admit I'm pleasantly surprised at the success of it all.). There are times blocked out for ship laundry, and you need to sign up for times with the various machines, but no quarters required. Get your stuff out on time, though. If you leave it in too long, you'll likely find it in the ship boutique- a sort of give some/take some shop for odds and ends and clothes that get recycled as people come and go off the ship. Quite a helpful place really... but probably not where you want your favorite shirt to end up.

"Alone time" is also a different concept. While nobody may be in sight, give it a few minutes. Putting earbuds in is an acceptable way to indicate you don't want to interact but don't want to be in your room either. Gazing out the window or staring into space isn't necessarily a deterrent (and that's usually a good thing)- welcome to the hot-climate culture.

It's not unusual for alarms in the bowels of the ship to go off at all hours of the night and day. In fact, it's unusual to go for a sleep without hearing those freaky two-tone alarms that sound like something out of a horror movie at least once.

More to come I'm sure, but there you go for the moment!

Wedding '09 - the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner

Waiting for everyone to arrive





Getting told off by the woman in charge after everybody kept chatting away (including Peleke on the phone). Finally she exclaimed, "does your family never talk??" After a stunned silence, we all replied, "well, no, not really. We don't exactly live nearby!"



Finally finished. Let's go eat!

A few hours later, with whomever could make it, we met at a local tavern for the rehearsal dinner. Peleke's family planned it all, and it was so fun! Welcoming everybody to dinner.



Introducing the wedding guest book for signing- a Calvin & Hobbes comic book!



We divided everybody into four big tables, each labeled after Calvin's alter egos: Spaceman Spiff, Tracer Bullet, Stupendous Man, and Calvin himself.







My two favorite men in the world.



My sister in law. People think we look related.



Fun times had by all :)