I went to the HC today for their Sunday service. The service was interesting- the messages are kept simple because even though it's translated into French or English, many of the patients don't understand either. Somebody was there to translate into Fon, but the patient languages are so diverse it would be near impossible to do them all at once. I find those kinds of services difficult because it's presenting important concepts without much historical or philosophical context, and those were critical for me when I became a Christian. I feel hypocritical expecting anyone to embrace Christianity without them. And of course, many of them don't.
A mama is raising her right hand and dancing beautifully to the African worship songs that draw us all in. Dressed in brightly colored African dress, she is inspiring to watch. She is balancing her baby, casted legs sticking out on either side, with her left hand- a baby that has voodoo beads around its neck and waist and telltale hashes on his cheeks. It's strange. I suppose it's not a whole lot different than people who are slaves to possessions and style. It's merely a statement of where their priorities are. I guess both are indications of what you choose to worship- materialism and voodoo in those cases. In the end, the important point is that it's not God.
But different people need different things on their walks, and far be it from me to presume to know what those things are. My job is to love them. Right now that means giving compassionate and competent medical care through Mercy Ships. If an opportunity for thoughtful and genuine dialog presents itself, so much the better. As for relationships outside of the hospital setting, I'll take it as it comes. This morning, it came in the form of Henriette and Julien blindsiding me for hugs, twirls, and learning how to play their games.
A mama is raising her right hand and dancing beautifully to the African worship songs that draw us all in. Dressed in brightly colored African dress, she is inspiring to watch. She is balancing her baby, casted legs sticking out on either side, with her left hand- a baby that has voodoo beads around its neck and waist and telltale hashes on his cheeks. It's strange. I suppose it's not a whole lot different than people who are slaves to possessions and style. It's merely a statement of where their priorities are. I guess both are indications of what you choose to worship- materialism and voodoo in those cases. In the end, the important point is that it's not God.
But different people need different things on their walks, and far be it from me to presume to know what those things are. My job is to love them. Right now that means giving compassionate and competent medical care through Mercy Ships. If an opportunity for thoughtful and genuine dialog presents itself, so much the better. As for relationships outside of the hospital setting, I'll take it as it comes. This morning, it came in the form of Henriette and Julien blindsiding me for hugs, twirls, and learning how to play their games.
It was my weekend to check the crash carts (checking defibrillators, accounting for code meds and supplies, etc), so I spent a few hours this afternoon in each ward. As I sat there on various stools and chairs going through the carts (universally they are large rolling tool chests), I observed several things. First of all, never in my life have I seen (and surely never will in American nursing) such a random assortment of medication. The vials and ampules and premade syringes are in several different languages and concentrations. The thought of drawing those up with the adrenaline that goes with a code is sobering. It struck me again how critical it is for people to be very purposeful and careful here- we don't have the "high dose heparin" stickers or color coded medications (ie: red print = dopamine, blue print = dobutamine) for that extra measure of safety. And it's more than just medication. We have ambu bags (for "bagging" patients), masks, oral/nasal/pharyngeal/endotracheal tubes in as many languages and sometimes measured in different ways. You need a 4.0 tube? That number varies depending on the country and system of measurements you're in. Good grief.
What I really enjoyed, though, was that as I was rummaging through all the drawers and laughing at the absurdity of what I saw, kids with all sorts of casts, splints, and tape jobs from their toes to their noses were jumping on the beds, shrieking with laughter, and assaulting anybody who walked by with kisses, hugs, and smiles. Balloons were everywhere and stickers covered everything. Supplies and charts were scattered and the wards were leaking a variety of partially clothed kids who would slip through as we passed in and out. Nurses tracked down their charges as the mamas and translators just laughed. See, there's little fear of kidnapping here. Unlike home where Code Pink (pediatric abduction) is a very real problem, it's very unlikely anyone will abduct these beautiful kids. For the first time the mamas and kids are in a place where they are free to be themselves and interact without fear of revulsion or fear. So when they wander off after balloons or new friends, the mamas continue laughing with each other because they know their babies will be taken care of and brought back. It was truly beautiful chaos. I had to just sit there closing my eyes for a moment or two to soak it all in.
In the end, I suppose what matters most is that we love them and help them heal. Sitting quietly in bed isn't the normal method of healing here. To see their little personalities unfold into that chaos is healing itself. So what if their gowns are tied incorrectly or they can't be bothered to pee in the toilet (the shower is a popular choice) correctly? We're picking and choosing battles I never even knew existed. So yeah, I'm excited to work the next few exhausting days.
There are some pictures I'd like to post here, but I don't have them yet. Stay tuned...
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