Songs From Haiti

A quick piece of news: Hopital Sacre Coeur was featured on The Takeaway, because apparently producer Anna Sale was recently in Milot for eight days blogging about  the earthquake, the hospitals and its patients and what lies in store for the country in a series called Rehabilitation in Rural Haiti.

It's worth reading, especially the entry entitled Stumbling Through Creole and Hymns in the Earthquake Tent, because besides capturing life in Tent City perfectly, she also includes audio of one of the women who is currently a patient, singing a hymn.

It made me miss my guys in Tent 3 who sang every day.
I tried to embed the audio here and couldn't, so go check out the blog entry and listen to Marie Genese-Pompee sing.

 I think it will make your day better. It definitely helped mine.

Comedy Tracks

My brother is a Moose.

The clubhouse kind. Not the antler kind.

And for the first time since our living room smashing version of The Wizard of Oz in 1991 (you read that correctly), Brian and I have teamed up to entertain you.

Two Biddies Productions (Shannon Connolly and me, Misch Whitaker) is proud to be working with the Moose Lodge of Dedham to bring you Comedy Tracks: A night of stand up and improv. 

So come on down on April 3rd at 7pm to the Moose Lodge for the stand up stylings of Dana Jay Bein, Ken Breese, Christine Cuddy and the wacky improv of Two Biddies. Or just come for the deli meats. Whatever.

Tickets are $10 at the door and include light food and admission to the show.
Cash bar. Mooses. Comedy.
What more do you want?

Holy Week

I sometimes have a bad habit of creating narration in my head as I experience my day to day life, and at least for this week I'd like to try to be more present as I go about my day.

Two days ago Palm Sunday, marked the beginning of Holy Week. And so for the next few days, the time I usually spend packing my life into interesting anecdotes I'd like to dedicate to more thoughtful prayer and meditation.

Some if it I will do on my own, and some of it will be part of community, but in the end I want to come out on the other side of Holy Week feeling like I seriously observed it.

So updating is going to be short and sweet this week, and probably spotty at best.

I'll be back after Easter.

 In the meantime check out Stephen Hough's thoughtful post kicking off the Holy Week meditation: the three greatest fears.

Conversations with my Brother

Me: Hey, can you meet me tonight so I can pick up the charger and phone?
Brian: Nah, I can't. I'm getting my new tat.
Me: Oh, really? What's it of?
Brian: It's a picture of you and you're hugging Haiti.

(pause)

Me: Really?

Brian: No. Not at all.

Time Lapse

This is a really cool time lapse created by Richie Moriarty of Improv Asylum's Mainstage cast. 

It was shot over the course of four hours one night while we were performing at Boston's historical Old South Meeting House. You should also check out more of Richie's work.

Improv Asylum Time Lapse from Richie Moriarty on Vimeo.

Women In Comedy Festival Spot

Last night kicked off the Women in Comedy Festival at Improv Boston in Cambridge, MA.

Check out their website for a collection of really amazing performers (women and men) from both near and far.

Tonight I am psyched to be performing at WICF with Live Pod Shuffle, which is a group featuring alumni from Improv Asylum's Mainstage.* The set consists of scenes based on songs played by a live band which the audience helps to "shuffle."  We're sharing the 10pm "musical improv" slot with Trail Mix, the wonderful and melodic improv duo Rachel Rosenthal and Robert Woo of Improv Boston's Mainstage. 

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*... and me. Since I'm currently on the mainstage I'm technically a "pre-alumna."

Let's Dance for 100 Beds Tonight

Do you love 90's music? And dancing? And... beds?

Tonight at Middlesex in Central Square Cambridge, MA they'll be pumping up the 90's jams for a cause is not only worthwhile, but specific and measurable.

I found out about 100 Beds for Haiti through connections I made while working at Hospital Sacre Coeur in Milot.  Their goal is simple: to send 100 beds to HSC by June 2010, and guess what?
Thanks to great organizing, 100% of the money raised is earmarked for this specific cause.

These beds will improve patient care now, but will also allow the hospital, which not only services the earthquake victims, but also serves as a health care center for a larger, local community to develop long term plans for sustainability.

So come on out tonight at 9pm and meet me at Middlesex at 315 Mass Ave in Cambridge, MA.
It's a $5 donation at the door, we'll rock out to some Spice Girls and Michael Jackson, and before you know it we'll have made it possible for this amazing hospital to be even more amazing.

I'm not convinced yet. Why beds?
Before the earthquake HSC was just a 73 bed hospital, but in a matter of days it expanded to welcome more than 400 patients. There were at least 175 mattresses that I know of donated by a cruise ship, and probably more than that from near and far as well, but many of the patients we cared for rested day and night on bare cots.

While I was in Milot the hospital was home to about 273 patients; as of March 17th they have discharged some more to Port Au Prince, but the hospital plans to continue offering services to a newly expanded population.

It would be great to start expanding the number of beds to match the number of patients. Having proper beds improves patient outcome by limiting post op discomfort which in turn aids in speeding physical therapy tolerance. PT promotes rehabilitation (obviously) but also prevents complications such as pneumonia and DVTs. Plus.. I didn't assemble a sample group or crunch the numbers myself, but from sheer observation in the tents I can tell you that decubitis ulcers (bed sores) seem to form quicker in patients who are cot-ridden as opposed to bed - ridden.

Imagine surviving an earthquake, a painful and debilitating crush injury to your leg and an amputation  in a very limited surgical environment only to die while in recovery from a preventable condition like a DVT or an infected bed sore?

Adding more beds to Hopital Sacre Coeur serves a short term and a long term purpose. It  improves the outcome of patients who are currently being treated and it also offers sustainability for the hospital's future. Part of CRUDEM's mission is continuing to stabilize HSC so that even when the foreign volunteers begin to dwindle, local staff can continue to offer exceptional care to their patients. Adding 100 more beds allows HSC to plan for the long term development of their recovery center.

Check out the facebook event for YoYoYo 90's Jam: Heal the World Edition, and  invite your friends. Then grab a slap bracelet, a mood ring and a five dollar bill and meet me at 9pm. Simple.

i'm so glad that trouble don't last always

"There's a gospel choir from BC downstairs," I told the patient as I thumbed his dilaudid into a paper cup.

"You mean BU," he said, "Think about it. Gospel from Boston College?"

"Why not?" I asked, puzzled. He took the pills and swallowed them with a grimace.

"Catholic music isn't that happy," he pointed out. "I'd know - I'm Catholic."

I grinned as I headed downstairs, remembering how my mother would often roll her eyes and ask me why the adolescent choir at St. T's never sang anything she could clap her hands to.

Down in the Atrium a modest crowd had gathered to hear the (BU) Choir sing. Another RN waved me over to where she was standing, "They just did that James Taylor song I love."

The choir launched into a spirited number with the rhythmic hook "I love you more than I did the day before." I was suddenly reminded of a day I had spent not too long ago also listening to a gospel choir - a day I never wrote down, so I made a mental note to store as many details as I could when I got home.

We were in the tent. By 'we' I mean myself, the other RN, the two interpreters, the 36 patients, and 20+ family members I had grown accustomed to sharing space with. The air was buzzing, not just with talking but with the noise of music being played over amplifiers.

"You coming with me," said one of the patients I was closest to - a 21 year old with post quake bilateral above the knee amputations*, a wicked grin and a penchant for wheelies.

"Where?" I asked.

"To the program!" he answered and flashed that smile I had begun to count on to punctuate everything he said.

I declined, and away he rolled, all style and flair. I moved on the task of finding a thermometer.

"Hey, come on," said my translator noticing that I was standing still, "you have time and we'll go."

He took me by the arm and we exited the back of the tent. We walked along the barbed wire fence strewn with laundry, passing small children who stopped to openly stare at the blanc  as we went by.

We passed the row of tents and our feet beat on the rocks as the music got louder and louder and I began to make out voices. Up past the small building for less acute Tent City patients  and around a corner there was a small yard. A stage had been set up, and on stage were the same men in suits who had come into my tent to sing that morning. Off to the side there were several other groups of well dressed men warming up.
 It was a Gospel Festival.

Their audience sat in old fashioned wooden desks, the kind with the chair and the wrap-around arm. They had been taken out of the school rooms and set up here. The yard was stubbed with short fat grass, but was mostly rocks and dirt. Friends assisted their wounded loved ones to navigate crutches and wheelchairs over the ground to find preferable vantage points. I spotted Mr. Smiley and his sister, but they didn't notice me.
Like everyone else they were completely wrapped up in praising and singing.

"This is the Gospel Program," the interpreter said next to my ear. I moved out of the way as two men entered the yard flanking a woman with one leg using crutches. They guarded her as she found a place to stand in the shade. A cool breeze blew on our backs, and rustled the green leaves against the sky. The men sang of everlasting love into their microphones. Men and women clapped their hands or nodded along as children played tag, shrieking happily like children do when they are outside and no one is telling them to be quiet.

Not for the first or last time that week, I was amazed at how much joy a community can contain after enduring so much grief.

Back at work watching my patients dance in their seats, I thought it again.

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* "Look!" he exclaimed when we met, "we're the same height!"

Improv Asylum Auditions

I loved my time on the NXT cast at Improv Asylum and would be pleased as punch to sit and talk with anyone who is on the fence about auditioning.

Taken from the Improv Asylum Website:

Improv Asylum is holding general auditions for men and women on Monday, March 29 from 4-7pm in Boston, MA. Looking for men and women with strong improvisational background and/or professional theatrical experience. Auditioners will be considered for Improv Asylum’s residential NXT cast who will perform on Sunday and Wednesday nights through the end of the summer. To be considered, please email your headshot and resume to stacey@improvasylum.com. Please indicate “Boston auditions” in the subject line. You will be contacted for an audition slot.

Call-backs will be Tuesday, March 30th from 5:30-7pm.

Why audition for Improv Asylum?

1. All main stage shows are paid. Main stage shows are Thursday-Saturday nights, 52 weeks a year.
2. Opportunity to work corporate and college shows.
3. Master classes and professional development for actors on a quarterly basis.
4. Tuition matching of up to $250 for professional development.
5. 401k plan.
6. Opportunities to teach.
7. Opportunities to instruct corporate training.
8. Be plugged in to the Boston as well as national network of casting agencies and production companies who frequently work with Improv Asylum.
9. Opportunities to produce your own individual projects at Improv Asylum.
10. Be a part of a professional company that has been featured on HBO and NESN and continues to expand what improvisation and sketch comedy can be, both locally and nationally.

the right to make things up to make people laugh

 So as I mentioned before, Improv Asylum Mainstage has a short run of shows at the Old South Meetinghouse in Boston.

It may be dorky of me to say so, but I think it's really cool to be doing a comedy show in the same room where the Boston Tea Party was planned in 1773. Growing up in Boston I was constantly exposed to its historical treasures. By the time I was nine years old I had memorized Oliver Wendell Holme's historic poem "Old Ironsides."  Voluntarily. Because I liked the boat. The high school I attended is even historical, the oldest public school in the country, alma mater to Ben Franklin, Sam Adams and John Hancock.  Because of all that, I'm no stranger to treating historical sites with familiarity and even (inevitably) indifference at times.

But the significance of the Old South Meetinghouse in particular is what I love the most about this run of shows.

See, in the 1920s the Old South Meetinghouse became a hot spot specifically for debates regarding free speech rights, an issue that was dividing people all over the country.
The Meetinghouse had, since its inception, been a place for public discussions including a program series called the Old South Forum. But as mayors in Boston (James Curley and Malcolm Nichols) banned books and plays to keep up with the rest of the nation, people began debating whether there should be limits on what kind of discussions were allowed at the Meetinghouse.

In 1929 the Old South's board put an end to the debates about free speech by declaring that anyone was welcome to speak in the meetinghouse "without regard to the unpopularity of any cause."

Which... explains how eighty years later I'm free to get up on stage and sing about how much I love to eat hamburgers. Or whatever else the audience wants me to sing about.

In the back of the meetinghouse there are some educational exhibits set up. Across from the life sized statue of Margaret Sanger* , a sign asks visitors if there is anyone they feel should be banned from speaking in public forums. The answers can be written on yellow slips of paper which are then entered into a plastic binder as part of an "ongoing dialogue about freedom of speech and dissent."

Most of the entries in the binder are from school children on class trips. In pencil most have answered along the lines of, "no, everyone should get the right to talk." Some made a caveat such as, "Everyone can talk if they agree to be respectful of other ideas as well." A few that made specific exceptions such as, "I would not let the KKK or nazis talk because their ideas are harmful to others."

But two entries made me giggle out loud.
The first, in a child's heavy handed pencil scrawl said "I would ban amateur comedians from telling jokes."
The second, also a child, but one who gripped the pencil less tightly said, "Only comedians should talk."

It's like they knew.

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* I do not know if it is actually life sized.

Improv Asylum Update

Improv Asylum's renovations are almost complete, and our run of shows at the Hard Rock Cafe has passed.
 In the meantime, we'll be continuing our shows at the Old South Meetinghouse in Boston.
Check out www.improvasylum.com for the most up to date details on show times and locations.

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Meanwhile... you may remember that I mentioned an exciting collaboration with a certain legendary production company a few months back. Second City is finally here and plans for Improv Asylum presents Second City are in full swing. IA Mainstage's own Kiley Fitzgerald will be joining the Second City Boston cast for their run April 20 - May 9th. Click on the link above for details about tickets and special Second City related events.

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Improv Asylum is also proud to announce the premiere of "You're a Good Man, Scott Brown",  an original musical written by Jeremy Brothers (book and lyrics) and Jim Zaroulis (music).
Come check it out on opening night March 21st at 7pm, or on Sundays and Wednesdays thereafter.
Tickets can be found on our website, or by following the link above.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

If you are in the Boston area tonight and trying to decide which bar to cram yourself into look no further.
Tonight from 6pm to 8pm at GOODBAR the one and only Conor Shanahan will be playing  traditional Irish drinking and dancing songs for your drinking and dancing pleasure.
Check out the facebook event page for directions and even some sample videos of Conor strumming and singing to fan the flames of your Irish music passion.*

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And now... a video of my dear friend Pim (Cage Pearson) playing one of my favorite songs:



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* Yeah, I re- read that sentence and decided to stick with it.

Photos of Haiti

My photos from the trip to Haiti are up with captions here.  But I thought I'd share my favorite now...

Haiti is a paradox. She's a beautiful paradise of mountain tops and majesty, birthing streams running with undrinkable water. Her people are physically worn, but they are spiritually vibrant. 

Even at the constant mercy of a greedy government, neighbors gladly share everything they have with one another. Strangers adopt one another out of the streets into their humble homes. Then again, the same streets can be scattered with criminals who will gladly take what they aren't sure they'd receive otherwise. 

The buildings are crumbling. The people are singing. Love thrives in Haiti.

 Haiti greets you with open arms and a big heart, and when you see her tears you are moved beyond words, and when she sleeps at night you are relieved that she is dreaming. 

Stories About My Dad: that daring young man on the flying Trapeze.

Although I think about him year round, today is the day I tend to reflect even more on my Dad.
Mom and I will hang out today, and I'll call my brother. And we won't talk about it, but we'll all feel connected.

Last year on this date I posted an entry called Stories About My Dad.

This year I thought of writing something new, but it struck me that I think I got it right the first time.
I hope you'll go back to that entry and read it, whether you knew him or not; I think it's the best description I can offer to you.

Meanwhile, while planning for the trip to Haiti instead of buying a brand new fanny pack at EMS, one with a cell phone pocket and water bottle holster - I dug into one of the bins in my closet. One of the weirdest things I saved from my father was his leather belt pack. I have no idea why, and I never used it until now. But every morning before I went to the tents, I clipped it on. And knew that he was proud of me.

Unpacking Haiti, One Week Later

For the first week back, things were weird. And I wrote this and never published it. And now I'm feeling a bit more settled into my normal life, so I thought I'd share.

The shock I've been experiencing isn't traumatic, or upsetting. It doesn't make me freeze up, or have flashbacks or anything like that. I'm eating well and sleeping well, and I'm feeling really great.

In fact, a few coworkers who have not gone to Haiti said "you all come back with the same glow about you."

And we definitely do. I am nothing but happy that I went to Milot and met the people I met and did the work I did.

The shock part is subtle and cultural and environmental. I want to stress how it's not difficult to deal with, only that it's part of me now that layers a new dimension onto otherwise normal situations.

I was only gone for one week. And here only one week really passed. But for me, time in Haiti was all relative. An hour could feel like a day, or an afternoon like ten minutes. I felt like I was in Haiti for much longer than I was because so many things happened in such a short time frame. I went through so many emotions and discoveries in one week that it can't have possibly only been seven days.

Now I find myself thrown back into schedules of rehearsals and dates and plans, and people are referencing things we did together only two weeks ago, and I can't believe when I'm caught up in it all, that only last week all the details of my reality were vastly different.

I was not there long enough to forget how to drive a car, or what pizza tasted like. But I also wasn't there long enough to process all the things I saw and did and felt. So coming back is a strange mix of feeling sometimes like I will never be the same, and then thinking maybe nothing's changed after all. I feel like I was plopped in and out of an alternate reality. Since nothing here is different, it's hard to imagine that I went at all sometimes. And the lines are blurred even more when I'm sleeping.

Every night since returning (and even when I nap)  I dream that when I wake up I will put on my scrubs and spray DEET on my neck and fill my water bottle from the filter and walk to the hospital. Without fail, in my dreams I am writing out to do lists, and I remember which ones need a new IV line today, and which ones have a wound dressing due. In my dreams I am eating a grapefruit with Colleen W. and we are talking about the orphans.

Then I wake up and I'm in my cozy room under my white and purple quilt, and the contrast is startling. But even more startling is the realization that although the dream wasn't real the people and places in the dream are very real. As I sing at karaoke night or read the news on my itouch on the bus they are out there somewhere else in a land of palm trees and poverty. But "somewhere else," might as well be a dreamland because even if I do get to go back to Haiti, most of those particular  people will have moved on by then. I may never see them again anyway.

Leaving Haiti

I titled this entry "Leaving Haiti," to offer parallels to Leaving Costa Rica and Leaving Japan, but I don't know yet if it's the same at all.

Before I even got to Haiti a coworker advised me, "as soon as you get there remember you'll be leaving. Otherwise it just becomes impossible to walk away at the end." She pointed out, "just like you leave your shift at the end of the day to another nurse, I had to remember to trust the next ones coming after me."

She was right, but no matter how I thought about it I couldn't wrap my mind around it. To knowingly walk away from such suffering is already very difficult, and it only became more difficult as I got to know the patients personally.

Starting on Monday I attended a brief Eucharist service every morning in the chapel. It was my way of starting the day with a clear head, a fresh perspective and a connection to God. I've never done to a daily service before in my life, not even when I was living with the Sisters of the Good Shepherd in New Jersey. To be honest, I don't always even say a formal prayer in the morning. But I figured I needed all the help I could get.

On March 4th the Gospel reading was the story of the rich man and Lazarus from Luke 16. I felt terrible as Sister Ann read it out loud. It seemed as though the message couldn't be more clear. I am the rich man, and these people are Lazarus. How could I return home now that I've seen this level of poverty with my own eyes?

I began to pray and slowly my despair turned into gratitude. 

I realized how easily I could be living some other life. But every single event in my life fell into place to lead me to this moment, there in a chapel in Milot, Haiti. It wasn't my fault or my doing that I was born in the United States. But that was the beginning of my story. And then every next step led little by little to what I would become and where I would go.  It was mind blowing. With any slight alteration of course, I wouldn't have been sitting there surrounded by surgeons and nurses at seven in the morning. With a start, I realized that was true of every single person I met on the trip. God built our lives, and He has a plan. 

My behavior doesn't always demonstrate faith in a higher plan. In fact, most of the time I act like I don't believe in a "Plan," at all.  I like to be in control of my own life and of my environment. I like to take credit for the things I do. I like to plan the future.  And it's easy to grab onto my life tightly and try to steer it the way I want. And for the most part, it's probably not too harmful. It certainly keeps me moving.  But ultimately, I have to submit to the idea that I am not in control simply because that's what faith is. I need to let go, because letting go is believing. It's a trust fall with God.

My brain argues with me every time I try to relax and trust God. "Stop it!" it yells, "the path of least resistance is not for people of your educational background and social grooming!" But trusting God isn't the same as giving up, or taking the path of least resistance. In fact, some times what you find is the hardest path. But it's a path you'll never find unless you shut down all the things you think you want and listen to what you're meant to have. 

From my journal on March 4th: 

... so I am going to trust the plan. The plan is for me to be here this week. The plan is for me to leave on Saturday. To see my Mom, and my brother. To pay my bills. To fill the shifts at work that are mine to fill. And if the plan is for me to return here again - God will surely let me know. I will continue to pray for Him to tell me. I will pray for ears to hear it. 

And that's how I was able to leave. 

The day I left we all had to work a morning shift. I pushed my goodbyes off as long as possible. I built a wall of protection around myself by passing out medications, hanging IV fluids, and cleaning external fixators. When I started contemplating alphabetizing the med desk I knew I couldn't put it off any longer.

I started at the back of the tent and worked my way to the front, but word traveled fast that I was saying my final goodbyes and soon I had a small procession of family members and patients who could walk following me from bed to bed. Eyes were wiped, blessings were said and I told each person to be strong and to get well. Then the interpreter yelled that I was going to miss my ride.

"Ok," his voice boomed out, as he gently pushed his way to the center of the small crowd, "she is really going now!"   I ran out of the tent to a chorus of blessings and goodbyes and demands for promises of a return trip. 

Back at the compound my friends, old and new were packing up. I grabbed my belongings from inside and then joined everyone on the porch. Some of our coworkers from BHCHP had just arrived from the airport, ready to start their orientation.

 "Any words of wisdom?" they asked us. We told them everything we knew. 
Then, just like leaving work after an eight hour shift, we were done.  We might have another shift in the future, but for now the plan led home. And as we piled into the truck for the bumpy ride to Cap Haitian I felt alright. 

World Religions 101

It was night time and the air in the tent had cooled off considerably. Everyone had quieted down and were talking softly among themselves, reading Bibles, or sleeping. One man in the corner was singing a hymn very quietly that had gone on for quite some time.

"Michelle," my patient called out, "can you help me please?"

I stopped what I was doing and approached his bed, thinking he needed his pain medication.

"Please, can you help me understand this?" He was speaking in English and pointing to a passage in a Bible that was also in English. This particular young man had been enrolled in school for many years and proudly spoke both "higher" and "lower" English fairly well. I know this because he once explained to me that "maybe" was lower English but "perhaps," was higher. I was impressed.

"I am reading this and I need to understand," he said. "Ok, shoot," I responded.

“Speak to the people of Israel, saying, ‘If a woman conceives and bears a male child, then she shall be unclean seven days. As at the time of her menstruation, she shall be unclean," he read.

Oh boy I thought.

"What is conceives?" he asked, "does it mean have a baby?"

"Yes, it means have a baby."

"And... menstruation? How is that?"

Words failed me. "It means..." I stalled for a minute, "well it means..."

"Is it like when a lady has her bleeding?"

"Yes. Exactly." I began to get suspicious of his need for my tutorial, but his question wasn't about feminine body functions.

"Ok... then it says a woman will be unclean for seven days if she has a baby and it is a boy. And she is unclean for seven days if she has her bleeding."

"Mmmhmmm."

"Ok. 'If she bears a female child she shall be be unclean for two weeks.'"  He looked at me. This isn't my favorite part of Leviticus* so I just nodded, waiting.

"If a lady has her bleeding or a boy baby she is unclean for one week and a girl baby she is unclean for two weeks, so what is unclean?"

"Oh wow. Ok... well the Jewish people had a lot of rules for things," I stopped, wondering how far in over my head I was about to get. "And there were rules about when you could and couldn't enter a temple. Having a baby is one, touching a dead body is another."

He stared at me, not blankly, but waiting for more explanation.

Guessing his question I said, "Temple for the Jewish people is like going to church for Christians."

"So if a lady has a baby she can't go to church? If she is unmarried?"

I had no idea where the last part came from. "No, I said, "whether or not she is married. She has to stay away for a certain amount of time. Then there are things you have to do to get clean again. Rituals."

"But we don't do that here," he said, his brow furrowing. "We don't say that."

Realizing I was about to deliver the most diverse theology lesson he may have ever heard, I tried to chose my words sensitively, "It's a different religion.  Jesus was Jewish. When Jesus came, some people started a new religion. That's where Christians came from. They don't follow all the same rules of the Jewish people."

 For good measure I added,"We have the New Testament."

He looked relieved. "Ok. Because I was surprised to read that. We don't do that here."

He was just worried that they weren't following the Bible as closely as they could be. I shook my head in wonderment. Across the tent, the hymn continued.

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* I do not have a favorite part of Leviticus.

Lost In translation

On Wednesday we had to tell him that he couldn't keep his leg.

He's been through a lot. But the injury was too great, the infection is too strong. His leg will take him if we don't take his leg. The doctor wiped his own eyes as he explained it to the man.

The interpreter stood at the bedside and relayed everything.

The man looked at the doctor and nodded. Then he smiled. 

The other RN started to tear up. "God bless his heart,"she said. "He's so brave."

The next morning the man came back, with two legs, from the OR sobbing.

He said he had no idea he was going to lose his leg. And he said the doctor had betrayed him. He doesn't trust us anymore.

Did the interpreter tell him what the doctor said and he just misunderstood? I really doubt it.

I have a feeling the interpreter himself didn't understand. Or else was just uncomfortable bearing the news. 

I have never felt the way I did yesterday. I don't know if I've ever been so angry.

Finally the doctor calmed the man down and convinced him to go through with the procedure. 

Did you all know there is a rumor in Haiti that there wasn't an earthquake at all but that America bombed the country and is now trying to kill everyone with amputations? 

The man came back from surgery late last night, at the end of my shift, heavily sedated. He smiled at me weakly as I changed out his IV bag. He trusts me still. 

Just keep the chickens outside the tent

 This will post tomorrow since I won't get the internet.


The other day there was a snake behind my tent. It was curling itself through the barbed wire fence, which is covered on top by laundry the family members have laid out to dry in the unforgiving sunlight. Some of the local boys started poking me as I left my tent and tried to walk along the small path to the pharmacy/ER tent. "Look! Look! Snake!" I looked and smiled. "Nice!"

They laughed, thinking I didn't understand them or else I would have jumped. "No! SNAKE!"

I stopped and smiled again. "I know," I told them in Creole, "it's ok. I like it."

"You LIKE snake?" This stopped them.

In broken Creole I tried to explain that when I was a teacher we had a pet snake in the classroom. 

They were astonished.

A few minutes later, I had returned to my tent with the supplies I had needed and was organizing my tiny nursing station. The tent was loud, but all the patients were stable. I had time to regroup. Then a group of young people approached me with a translator. They wanted to know more about the snake. 

Except they didn't know the word "snake." They tried to ask about "serpants," but kept saying "supper," prompting me to mime eating which made them crazy. "In America you eat supper?" I kept hearing them ask and I kept saying saying "yes, yes!" They were howling and clutching their stomachs. 

 Finally one drew me a picture. 

"Oh! A snake!" I said, and did my best snake impression. 

Forget it. After that I couldn't talk to them for two seconds without them asking me for another snake impression. We spent the rest of the afternoon dancing and doing snake impressions.

The boy from outside had said  to me, "All Haitians are afraid of snakes. Why aren't you?"

I answered that little snakes are fine but I am worried by big snakes.

"Like anacondas?" 

"Yeah. Anacondas." 

And I couldn't find the words in french or creole to explain that for an anaconda I'd be a great appetizer. I should work on that before I leave.

a thousand words couldn't describe it

Ah! The internet is working. The past two days I've been composing hundreds of blog entries in my head and came back to the compound each night to no service. Now, my head is empty. I can barely think. Today was a wonderful day and I am WIRED.

Last night I began to feel very immersed here. On the one hand, it's a good thing. But on the other, it makes it hard to come home. I feel like I need to keep in touch with my real home to ease the transition. It's going to be hard to leave. I already know it. I already dread it. That's why I signed in tonight. To remind myself of life beyond these mountains. Because, I know for you all it probably hasn't seemed like a lot of time has passed. But here I've found a rhythm. I don't even set an alarm clock. I've moved in.

What to tell you?  What to write? About the patients more, and how amazing they are? How I can't believe how cheerful they stay? Or about how fantastic the medical team is that I find myself with? Or do I talk about how cool it is to be at a sleep away camp for medical personnel every night? (To my left a group of surgeons from Germany and France are smoking cigarettes and trading stories about how to drive a helicopter- WHAT?).  I want to tell you how scared I am for the future of my patients. I want to vent how frustrated I am with "the system." I want to gossip about the tension between Haitian and American staff, and how, in my tent at least, we seem to have overcome all the nurse vs. nurse obstacles that may have put patient care in jeoprpdy  for the week. (Thank goodness).

 I want to tell you specifically how my tent is. Just my tent. How Oklahoma, RN and I have set it all up. (How I really think God was looking out for each of us when he brought us together to this tent since she has tons of IV experience and I have tons of wound care experience). Or about how awesome Dr. Glasses was, and how I was worried when he left today but how my new doctor  and the intern are fantastic.

I'm going to want to talk about all of it. But I don't know if I'll ever know where to start.

I said today was wonderful, and I was telling the truth. But in a way, there are no good days or bad days here. It's very moment to moment. Some moments are so overwhelming. Like when I''m the only nurse (or medical person) in a tent with 36 patients and it's 110 degrees and they are saying they are in pain and we are out of morphine and a family member points out that someone's IV has run dry, and a dressing in the back of the tent has begun to leak. Some moments are so hard like when I'm walking down the back row, behind the tents and a little girl approaches me and says she is hungry. And she pulls my hand and makes me touch her stomach. And I have no idea who she belongs to. And I not only have no money, I also have no food to give her.
And some moments are so, so triumphant. Like watching one of my bed ridden patients today get up. And (with help) take a couple of steps. His first steps in weeks.

And all of those kinds of things happen within 10 minutes sometimes. It gives you emotional whiplash.





How am I going to walk away from this?
I should go. It's cookie party time in the "dorm," and Sam wants to use the computer.