Clowns in my Coffee, Clowns in my Coffee

I was awoken by stirring and voices all around me. My eyes opened and quickly shut again and I lay still, breathing rhythmically. Surrounding me, in various stages of morning readiness were three female clowns.

The previous evening came back to me in a slideshow: meeting Maggie and Liz at the airport, climbing into a white van with a man who had a sign bearing my name, and arriving at our hotel, La Casa Sol, in Quito, Ecuador about 30 minutes later.

At the hotel I finally met Dario, the cheerful Italian man I had been exchanging emails with leading up to the trip. Then I was ushered up an M.C Escher painting to my room. In the dim light from the hallway streaming into the pitch black quarters I barely made out the shapes of the roomates who greeted me before I crawled onto my single matttress and passed out.

Now, laying with my eyes squeezed shut against the light I tried to remember my comrades names. Nothing came to mind.Maybe one was named Kate? From their conversation I gathered they all knew one another already... and from their outfits I imagined they had professional clowning experience. The actual adventure of what we were here to do hit my stomach like a flock of angry butterflies carrying sledgehammers. I was in South America with a bunch of clowns and now I was one too.

After assembling my first clown complete with a purple wig to cover my purple hair, I walked downstairs to search for coffee. The kitchen area, like the rest of the hotel was painted in bright, traditional colors. But it was no match for the motley crew it barely contained.

Busting out of all its seams were clowns of all ages and speaking in a manner of all languages. Some of them eating, some of them painting their faces, some of them chatting excitedly to one another about their arrival. I spotted Dario, Maggie and Liz and sought them out, but soon was swept up, hugging and greeting everyone.

When Patch arrived no one changed what they were doing, but his presence was powerful. He is TALL, far taller than I expected him to be, and his energy took up any space that he wasn´t physically occupying, which wasn´t much. "Good morning!" he began bellowing at people, and the clowns nearest to him greeted him with familiar hugs and jokes.

When all the clowns were squeezed into the tiny kitchen, much to amusement of the hotel staff I imagined, Patch began to address us. I recorded this first clowning pep talk on my phone, but the stand out quotations were as follows:

"If you love people, you can´t fail."

"The reason we clown is because the clown can do what normal people can´t do. Don´t think about whether or not something is appropriate. Inappropriate is for normal."

"Clowning is just the trick to get you in the room of a sick person without them calling the nurse."

After our pep talk we were throw into the ring. Coffee cups were set down and we began a clown parade that would end at the nearby children´s hospital, Baca Ortiz. Our manager/wrangler, Pablo, led the way in plain clothes, and we were a sight to behold: a straggling trail of clowns following him down the street accompanied by an accordian and a whistle to keep the beat. He carried an umbrella and an iPhone. We carried bubbles and streamers.

I skipped and waved at everyone we passed. I held hands with my new strange friends and we mirrored one another´s goofy walking.

I was a clown! I was joy! I was happiness! I was light as a feather! And I was wholeheartedly thrilled at how terrifying it was.

"'Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation"

Finally sitting down to write down my opinions of In the Heights last week reminded me that I never wrote about my experiences with theater while I was in London.

When John and I arrived at Shakespeare's Globe I reverted to a fifteen year old English lit geek. I don't remember what John and I talked about in queue because I was memorizing the details of the lobby. I took dozens of photos which I deleted later because although each photo op seemed pressing in the heat of the moment, I really didn't need pictures of the door handles and floor of the (all modern) lobby.

We bought tickets to Henry IV Part One, and although I was disappointed that our plan to see Macbeth had been thwarted by box office sales I agreed with John when he said "you can't really beat seeing Henry the Fourth at the Globe Theater."

Obviously, it's not the original Globe Theater, which burnt down in 1613 and was rebuilt on the same site. The second theater was shut down in 1642 by Puritan rule. This replica is as authentic as possible,  built in 1997 (through the efforts of an American actor/director), a mere matter of meters away from the site of the first (and second) Globe Theaters. It was the first building allowed to have a thatched roof after the Great Fire  of London.

Original thatched roof or not,  to watch Shakespeare performed by some of the world's best known classical actors in a space that aims to duplicate the experiences had by Shakespeare's first audiences, is a treat.  We took our place in the Yard with the other groundlings, and I took approximately a gazillion more photos of the intricate interior of the theater as we awaited the start of the show.

My hand touching the stage. I'm in heaven.

The show opened with a flourish of dance and music. All the instruments were period, and played by actors. Mummers with grotesque and exaggerated costume pieces staged a comedic street performance on a platform smack dab in the midst of the groundlings. After a bit of bawdy banter they were interrupted by the entrance of  King Henry, sir Walter Blunt and the rest of the King's court who then proceeded to take the stage and dive into the plot.

All the characters were strong. Hotspur (Sam Crane)  and his unintentionally comical bursts of temper.  Prince Hal (Jamie Parker) with his boyish grin, and torn loyalties to street life and prince-dom.  King Henry (Oliver Cotton) with his loving but firm reproach of his son's behavior. In fact, the highly complicated relationship Cotton and Parker created between this famous father and a son very nearly brought me to tears several times. Still one man managed to steal my heart the show.

Every critic has said it in one way or another, but in the event that you're not keeping up on reviews of shows in London right now I'll say it too: Roger Allam was born to play Falstaff. He's exactly what you want in a Falstaff: a booming voice, impossibly expressive face, and dead on sense of timing. Allam's Falstaff doesn't shy away from the parts of his character that are disgusting (binge eating, drinking to excess, lying and thievery to name a few), and still comes off as the lovable, mischievous man we all would gladly share a bar counter with. If only for the stories we could tell later.

The show ends after the Battle of Shrewsbury with all out reveling and a full cast song and dance number, the nature of which made me feel as though I were actually peeking into a tavern window in the 1400s and not standing on concrete in an open air theater with hundreds of strangers.

I would absolutely love to see Part Two. Anyone want to fly to London for a matinée?

London: people * places * [things]

...specifically, things you can't  or don't get back home, because that's part of the fun of traveling, right?

As I sit here, to my left is an empty gold wrapper. That wrapper belonged to nothing else but a Cadbury Crunchie bar.

My love affair with Crunchies began when I was in grade school, performing at Irish Step Dancing competitions around Massachusetts. One thing that every feis had in common was a smattering of items for sale, from ghillies to tara brooches, from custom made dresses to fancy bags to carry them in. And then there was UK candy.

Naturally when I was reunited with Crunchies in London last week I was delighted. 

"Of course," John said when I asked if I could stop at one of the tiny shops at Heathrow to stock up on my way home.

I grinned. 

Tonight, sitting in my small, hot Cambridge apartment letting the chocolate melt off the honeycomb in my mouth before I chomp into the bar it's like I'm ten years old again. I'm sitting on a folding metal chair in the back room of an east coast town hall, the smell of Aquanet mingling with the fresh leather smell of my ghillies, waiting for my mother to take the curlers out of my hair so I can pin my number card to the front of my dress and dance.

Thank you, London, for that. 

Another fun example (one of many)?

At a bar/club called Barrio Central in SoHo, John drank a beer from Cuba. 

That's certainly not happening over here any time soon. Silly me, I stuck to rum and cokes.

London: people * [places] * things

So many of the places I visited in London deserve their own entry, and will most likely get them.
Some deserve their own entry and won't get one and I can only hope my memory of them lives on anyway.
Places are never just places though are they? They're really just about people and things only you add in smells and sounds and room tone.

On our first day in London we hopped on and off the Big Bus Tour, so we had eyeballed most of the prominent sights in the city by 6pm. We had photographed Big Ben, gawked at Westminster Abbey, meandered around Picadilly Circus, stood on London Bridge, and wondered at the lions in Trafalgar Square.*  It had been a while since we ate at Costa that morning, we tried to find a decent pub. The World Cup was on and we were near London Bridge. The odds were against us, but we prevailed.
We settled on dinner at a pub called Mudlark.  It was situated just far enough from the London Dungeon that we couldn't hear any touristy screams, but near enough that on our way there I got my photo taken with two blood-stained actors wandering the streets. (Score!)

At the pub John tried the fish and chips, and I ate delicious steamed veggies with my fingers while I drank a Fosters.**  I took a photo at the table because I couldn't get over how casually we were drinking in the shadow of a medieval church.
As we were leaving, a football game was picking up between some of the young men drinking their beers on the street outside the pub. Two men rode by on bicycles. Big Ben chimed.

Oh, London.

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* Later we would return there and witness a celebration that broke out when England beat Slovenia.
  This involved shirtless men standing in the middle of the fountain in Trafalgar Square waving flags and screaming while people danced and screamed at the base of the fountain and tourists like us circled the scene wondering why soccer is so popular everywhere else in the world.
** Which meant I was hungry again about an hour later. Brilliant.

London: [people] * places * things

One of the best parts of traveling is the meeting of new people.

Here are just three examples from this trip to London:

When I asked Sam if I was in the right place he put his arms on my shoulders and called me "love," which confirmed my suspicion that all British people speak like my friend Sally Hull. 

Sam, of course, was the gregarious guide of the walking tour we took on Wednesday night. 

The event was touted as a ghost tour, and was free with our Big Bus tickets.*  The tour actually had very little to do with ghosts and a lot more to do with drinking and shmoozing at the Sherlocke Holmes Pub. After we pounded our ales, Sam led us about casually "I hate big groups of people," he said with a straight face, "so try not to stand like we're a big group of people." At every monument or "haunted" establishment that we hit Sam demonstrated his ability to tie sex into almost anything. He was hilarious and high energy, often having to pause and draw a deep breath after spouting off paragraphs of information. His guidance was spiked equally with jokes at the expense of British history and fond memories of his own grandmother. I was sad to leave him.

Alison Wilkie is a ferociously hip screenwriter who I met in the staff room at St. Mungos. When she isn't writing  scripts she is running a  creative writing group for homeless people. She is also both an actress and an established stand up comedian. When she found out that I also split my time between comedy and working for the homeless, she put her arms around me and we both laughed like children. 

Alison's story is crazy, she's done everything from working as a chicken keeper in Bethlehem to performing as a dancing girl in Milan.  She has also been street-homeless in London. Now she uses both her understanding of homeless life and her artistic talents to help others unlock their own experiences. 

The 62 year old man from forty minutes outside of London who was my seat mate on the plane ride home is named John. He has a sister who lives in Massachusetts, and he has only recently begun flying internationally to see her. He's been all over New England. "Naught teew diffehrent, then." His accent was so foreign to me that sometimes I had to ask him to repeat things, and sometimes I just nodded and smiled and he would laugh, knowing I hadn't understood him through his countryside dialect.

He was wearing bright socks  that didn't match his shirt or shorts, the way my grandpa Ben does. 

His were lime green and lemon.

 "I have 20 more pairs in my suitcase," he explained. "People say I'm too old and I think, 'too old for what? For fun?'" 

 He'd been trying to find a pair of American flag socks, but couldn't.

 "I wanted to wear one American and one British one for the fourth of July!" he smiled. "One year we went out, and we were in Maine and I put up the American flag on one side and the British flag on the other. People looked, but they know it's a laugh. It's all just a laugh."

Then we traded trivia about wars. You know, like people do.

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*The only reason, I believe, John agreed to accompany me on something called "Ghosts By Gaslight"**
**Despite the distinct lack of ghosts there WAS a gaslight on this tour.

how to get to London

As the plane touched down on one of Heathrow's runways I was fairly vibrating with anticipation.  John, my friend and traveling companion, grabbed our luggage from the overhead compartment. Minutes later I stepped foot, for the very first time,  in the airport featured so prominently as a place of true joy and happy reunion in that classic Everyman movie, Love Actually.

It was everything I wanted it to be. Although no one was there to great us personally, I felt as though England and I would become quite good friends. Thus, we began the second leg of our journey - waiting in queue for approximately a kabillion hours in customs.*

By the time we arrived at Victoria Station  (rail to Paddington, one wrong train, and then the Circle Line to Victoria) we were both exhausted. My inner excitement hadn't waned, but I needed a caffeine fix to make up for the sleep stolen by the Time Zone Bandit.  John doesn't drink coffee, but the traveling had zapped his energy as well. So we checked into the hotel, located an appropriate nourishment vendor, in this case a Costa, and noshed. Coffee for me, tea for John and we were on our way.

Before we bought tickets for a Big Bus,*  and sunscreen (so responsible!) we decided to arm ourselves with Underground Passes for the week.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions, then?" the man behind the counter asked.
 I had asked his advice: Oyster Card for the week? Or daily passes?

"Where do you think you'll be visiting the most of?" he smiled. His English accent was so thick I could have hidden four of Fagen's boys inside.***  I rattled off a list of places, including my intention to visit St. Mungo's.
I told him, "I'm a nurse."

"A nurse!" he exclaimed. Then he lowered his voice conspiratorially.
 "I have kidney stones," he said. "I mean, I'm passing one right now.. hopefully today. But you probably don't want to hear all that."

"I've heard worse," I laughed, "go on."
So he did.

Overhearing this conversation, John approached the counter. The man initially mistook him for a doctor,  ("you medical folk will have a splendid time!" ) but was just as pleased to find out John is a writer.

Not in the country even four hours and we made a friend. Not too shabby, London.
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* Ah, the romance of the road!
** More on that later...
*** Oliver! jokes!

London, so far

First off, I emailed my Mom to tell her I got here alright and she never wrote back. So I wrote to my brother, who seems to be updating his status without trouble, but has also not gotten back to me.
 I know they're alright (thanks Facebook), but will someone nudge them into letting me know they've gotten my messages?

Fantastic.

 I thought I'd get in a quick note or two about the trip so far before I set out on today's adventures.

The window of our hotel room overlooks chimneys and rooftops, and off in the distance we have a great view of Big Ben framed by the London Eye.

As I write it is 10am here, and below me the city is well into her day, double decker buses cruising here and there, and the funny little taxis darting around like bugs. The bell tower is striking, and it reminds me of  the Mary Martin version of  Peter Pan which I watched about once a week as a child. Seriously.

After two days of exploring the city together (and a night of crazy fun dancing)*, John and I decided to take this day apart.

I have a list of things to do, so I'll be heading out soon. After a day of wandering around one of the Royal Parks I plan to meet up with a staff member at Florence Nightingale House, which is something like our Barbara McInnis House. There I will tour the facilities, and hopefully sit in on The Great Escape, which is one of their most well known homeless rehabilitation programs. I'm hoping to learn a thing or two.

My day after that involves a lot of meandering near the Thames, perhaps revisiting Tate Modern (since I only saw part of it yesterday) grabbing a Crabbies in a local pub (my new favorite drink) and then meeting John at 6pm to go see The Lion King.

I am feeling very, very blessed.

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* More about all that, later on when I'm feeling more narrative.

Dreams of Haiti

I bade a friend goodbye this morning before she boarded a plane to Turks & Caicos. 
She is flying from there to Milot, Haiti.


I am proud.  I am envious. 

thank you Mr. Stranger

Relatively speaking, I only recently became an air traveler. I mean, Japan was my first time on an airplane in about ten years. But since Japan, I am pleased to say I've been flying a lot. Pleased because I really enjoy flying.

I love airplane bathrooms, and airplane seats. I even love airports. 

And before anyone asks, I don't know how much of loving airports is organic and how much of it stems from watching Love Actually so many times, but I don't care. All the people, coming together. I like it. I read Up in the Air this past year and found myself wishing I had a job that required that much traveling.

And I realize if I did have such a job I probably wouldn't like it very much. And yes, I do get grumpy during long layovers.  I get frustrated that my plane is delayed.  I get mad when I can't find a decent cup of coffee. I wish the Wi Fi were free.

But, listen: for me, all that frustration melts away during the take off. 

I used to think it was obvious that everyone likes the take off. The way everyone loves sleep. Or breathing. But I guess it's not true, because I have now been on several flights where my seat mate goes to sleep before the plane even takes off. There he is, sitting next to this window, with his earbuds in, and his eyes shut. And me, trying to crane my neck around to see any bit of the landscape between the wing tip and his forehead and nose.

It drives me crazy. 

And I know, logically that these are nice people who did not intentionally and maniacally chose the window seat in order to waste the view. I also know that people aren't going to switch out of the window seat before a flight just in case another passenger loves looking out the window more than they do. 

But I've been flying for three years now and have still not gotten tired of watching the ground get further and further away. I will gladly give up a window seat for a friend who is also excited about the window seat, or a stranger who has never had a window seat (especially a child). But to sit sidekick to someone who doesn't so much as glance at the world outside the window is agonizing.

On a flight this past week from Chicago to New York I was in the middle seat. The man in the window seat shut the window shade and settled in to read a magazine. Defeated, I took out a book and tried to read.

As the plane began to roll I kept my eyes politely downward, but when we hit the runway and picked up speed I reflexively stared out the nearest window, trying to see something - anything, from my odd angle. 

The man noticed me looking and then he looked too, straining with the effort. Then, as if it just dawned on him, he opened our window shade. It was just in time for us both to watch as the ground became a blur and then a patchwork quilt. 

I smiled but he didn't look at me. He was looking out the window. 

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. 

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. 

Day One. A new world holds me to a promise, standing by, standing by...

Day One.
This morning I am flying solo to Ft. Lauderdale. About an hour after I arrive the rest of the team will get there.
We have a hotel room booked for the night, and during the day we plan to hydrate, rest and bond. (I also plan to get some Vitamin D!) Also, yesterday I caved and bought an ipod touch, so I will also be practicing my Creole using this Byki App all day.

Tomorrow we board the cargo plane to Haiti. When we arrive we'll be given our assignments.
I have no idea what to expect.
Sinead worked in the ER. Rachel worked in the pysch unit (she speaks fluent Creole so that makes sense). Barry, our director of nursing, worked as their director of nursing while he was there. Not knowing the language, most of his staff, or the protocols, he jumped in and helped keep the place running for his seven days.  This week our co worker, Amy M. has a facebook status that says she is working night shifts... in the ICU.

There is so much that I know ("bring flip flops for when you get to shower," "use DEET it's the only thing that works..") but the unknowns of where I'll be working and how it will be set up, and what kind of skills I'll be calling on (and learning!) are just  huge right now.

The Things I'm Carrying

I am leaving Friday morning for my trip and I find myself in full speed ahead mode, which explains the lack of sitting still and blogging, I hope. Almost everything is done, leaving me with some time in the next few days to relax, dine with family and friends, and second guess everything I put in my duffel bag.

I have been busy tying up loose ends (paying bills that will be due while I'm gone, finishing the script proposal I was working on all month, etc), so that I have nothing to worry about once I'm on my way.*

I've also been involved in more direct preparations like buying supplies, and transferring money to a Caribbean plane company since they don't take credit cards.

Since BHCHP first started sending people over to help staff at Hospital Sacre Coeur enough time has passed that nurses have now returned. They pass on stories that are emotional, unbelievable, inspiring, and energizing. 

They've also been passing on really useful advice about things we'll need, and things to expect.

Packing has been a big deal. I like to travel lightly, plus one leg of the trip is in a cargo plane where weight counts! Still, I don't want to find myself unprepared for working the 16-20 hour shifts every day while staying healthy.

Here's a breakdown of what I'm bringing:

-Clothes. The hospital, like many hospitals here, supplies scrubs and there are staff who do laundry for everyone. So most people going down to this particular hospital have to only bring pajamas, underwear and socks. However, because I am so small I'm concerned that they won't have scrubs to fit me. Half the nurses I asked said "it won't be a problem," and half said "you should bring your own scrubs." So to avoid any form of work-disruptive uniform failure, I unfortunately have had to take up some valuable bag space with scrub pants and tee shirts.

- Medical Equipment. I'm bringing my own scissors, tape, and stethoscope and a fanny pack for carrying patient meds in the tents, as recommended. Each team member is also helping to bring donated supplies from BHCHP** such as gauze, sanitizer, bandages and gloves by taking as much as I can fit in our checked luggage. 

- Nourishment. The food situation is apparently good. Staff gets three meals a day, but although the food was raved about by the nurses, they also said it wasn't enough (quantity wise) to sustain them for those long shifts. My eating habits are defined by "grazing," and  I'm a person who becomes disoriented, cranky and labile when I don't get to munch. So into the bag went a ton of energy bars from my local Eastern Mountain Sports.

 In the same theme, there is apparently plenty of good, clean, bottled water where I am heading. However, it's easy in temperatures that are consistently over 100 F, to overdo it on "free" water. One of the MDs there a few weeks ago actually became severely hyponatremic ( his Na+ was 113!). He had a seizure and experienced some rhabdomyolysis to boot. To prevent this, I invested in some nuun tablets.

- Physical Needs. Normal toiletries plus a super absorbent towel, a personal first aid kit, all the medications listed in my Travel Clinic post, SPF 40 sunblock, and DEET. 

-Emotional Needs. My prayer book. My journal. My ipod. And, of course, my awesome team.

On the subject of "my awesome team,"  I am so excited about the people I am traveling with. To be fair, I thought about it and realized there is no one from work who I would not be excited to go with. Still, Colleen W. is in my group and she and I are close friends besides being good at working together. 

This past week, at an old friend's birthday party I got to talk briefly with an acquaintance who spends a majority of his time in Haiti. In fact, he was already there serving as a member of the medical community with Partners In Health when the earthquake hit. I told him that I felt like what I'm doing is small beans in comparison. 

But his response was reassuring, as he reminded me that they need nurses, and that's why we're going.

Our work is only a small part of a much larger picture. But I am grateful for a chance to work on something so big. 

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* Go ahead, you can say it. I'm the model of functionality. I know. 

** The fact that a non profit is donating medical supplies to this cause takes my breath away

Preparing for Haiti: Travel Clinic

I've been waiting a couple of days to post anything about Haiti, because I wanted to tell my mother in person. A blog entry is no way to find out your daughter is going to spend a week in Haiti.  Mom knows now, so now I can write about it to my heart's content.


As you may have read in yesterday's entry I am going (in part) through work. This is great news because I know most of the people I am traveling with, and one of the nurses going is a close friend of mine.

Yesterday I went to the Boston Medical Center Travel Clinic to start my medical preparations for the trip.

I can not recommend this place enough if you are planning a trip to a country with any health warnings. The Travel Clinic was clean and pleasant. The waiting room was very spacious. And every single person I interacted with from the moment I stepped through the door was friendly and helpful.

The nurse who took my vital signs was actually from Haiti. She asked where I was traveling and she thanked me, shyly, for going. I didn't know quite how to respond to that. I (shyly) told her I was scared but looking forward to being there. Which is the truth. 

Then I met Dr. Thea. He greeted me with a smile, asked where I was going and then asked some other questions about my life. He then asked if I wanted to ask questions first, or hear his "spiel." I opted for the spiel. He was well prepared with a small lecture on the diseases to watch out for in Haiti, including symptoms, pathology and treatments. 

Basically he reassured me that there is almost nothing medically that can go wrong on my trip.*

Meeting with Dr. Thea was great. He took a lot time to explain all his recommendations to me, and let me ask as many questions as I wanted. 

Next I headed to the lab, where I met a student doing a research project, a phlebotomist, and the nurse who gave me my vaccinations. We all chatted about our connections, strangely enough to BHCHP. 

For those of you who are curious, I'm going to write a bit about the precautions I've taken, and by proxy some of the dangers. So Mom... consider this one fair warning!

Here is what the Travel Clinic helped me with:

-  Hepatitis A vaccine. 

   Got this one yesterday. Pretty sure I already got this, in order to go to nursing school. It's 90% effective with the

   first dose.  So I'm considering this one a booster.

- Typhoid Vaccine

   Started this one yesterday. It's actually a series of four pills. The capsules contain live attenuated bacteria, so I

   have to keep them in the refrigerator. I am fascinated by the little pills and the orange brochure with a smiling capsule on the front which explains how to administer the doses effectively.

- Anti Malaria Pills

 I am taking a four week course of chloroquine. I feel confident in this choice of antimalarial agent because according to my own research into the subject this is the best tested and safest of them all. And the least expensive!

- Antibiotics

  I got a prescription filled today for some antibiotics to take with me in the event of traveler's diarrhea. Dr. Thea   explained the different types of diarrhea and what I can expect to do if it's not a bacterial case.

Additionally, I have already completed not one but two Hep B vaccination series in my lifetime and all my routine vaccinations are up to date, including tetanus.  The only other recommendation Dr. Thea had was to purchase an insecticide treated mosquito net for my sleeping quarters. I'm agreeable to the idea, but for now  I'm waiting to hear back from the first group about where they're sleeping before I decide on which net to order online.

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* This sentence has been censored and edited to protect my mother from going crazy when she reads this entry.

sopa de mondongo

"We got too much food," Mike explained, "come have some."
We order food in often at work, especially on the weekends. I entered the break room to find a few nurses, respite aides and housekeepers sharing a small feast of latin american origins.

"It smells delicious," I looked around the table for a familiar dish.
"Eat, eat," R., one of the respite aides implored. "Here, try this."
She lifted some broth to my mouth. It was superb. A tomato base, some spices I couldn't identify and some meat.
She ladled a bunch of the stew into a cup. I saw that it was full of white meat. Tomato and chicken soup, what a perfect boost for the middle of the day.

We chatted gamely for a while, mostly about food. As I slowed my eating down, I began to notice the texture of the chicken was smoother than normal.
"R., is this chicken? Or is it fish?"
"It's pork," answered one of the other nurses.
"No, no," a housekeeper spoke up , "beef."
"Beef? It can't be beef," I said, "it's white."
Everyone in the room began to laugh.

I consider myself a risk taker when it comes to cuisine. I am not sure when it happened. Long before my dumpster diving days in college, obviously. But when I was really young I used to require a separate dish for my salad and my pasta, and a separate fork as well. My parents used to have to beg me to try new things. "All I ask," my Dad would say, "is that you have one bite."

"Yes, Mama," said R., "it's white because it's the stomach, it's cow stomach."

Everyone waited.

"Oh yeah? Wow." I finished the cup off with a flourish.

A quick search on Google after lunch revealed several hits for Sopa de Mondongo, which has its place in several different cultures. In Nicaragua the soup apparently has "healing powers." It is apparently not the same thing as, but is similar to the Mexican dish, menudo.
R. , who is Dominican, laughed when I showed her the web sites, some of which hailed the dish for its ability to perk a person up after a night of partying. "Oh yeah, it cures hangovers," she agreed, "it really, really does."

I tried to imagine starting off my morning with a big bowl of the savory, greasy soup.
One of the other nurses groaned, " I can't believe you ate that."

I thought about the stomach inside my stomach. " I can," I said, "it was delicious."
And it was. It was even better than whale. And less endangered to boot.