Tonight, we ate an all-American meal of pork chops, beans and fries tonight outside on the dock and celebrated our one year anniversary of operating the Africa Mercy. Though it rained during the afternoon, the clouds pulled back and a lovely sunset appeared.



A year ago, there was a torch-passing ceremony that signified the end of an era for the former ship, the Anastasis. While docked on the opposite side, all the crew members formed a line and passed a lit torch to the Africa Mercy. The torch is made out of wood from the Caribbean Mercy and parts from the Anastasis, two ships from our fleet of yesteryear.

The Anastasis was retired last year after having served for three decades. Former crew members will fondly recall times when the screws were literally coming out of the walls, when cockroaches were abundant and when bonding time came over a bucket chain lined up down the corridors as water leaked in. If this sounds cozy, the lack of air conditioning while sailing around Africa made it nice and toasty.

Since 1978, the Anastasis performed more than 1,000,000 services, at a total value today of some $330 million with an estimated 1.5 million people as direct beneficiaries. She’s now in a bunch of different places and pieces, perhaps scheduled to appear in a stainless steel saucepan near you.

To the left, the Ana, and to the right, her successor the Africa Mercy.



Festivities tonight included the aforementioned dinner and then some random hi jinks involving potato sacks, goggles, and bread slices on spatulas to be relayed back and forth as a race. Over time, I’m finding that we get more and more creative with whatever little and much we have on the ship. This provides for endless hours of entertainment a person may never have if they had everything at their disposal. For example, I found that the children’s tricycles give me a good work out especially with a good friend in tow. (The knees are showing. Scandalous, I know.)



'Making do with what we have' also means you end up sharing clothing, like we did a few nights ago when invited to the home of Leena’s Indian friend, hence the Indian blouses.



They own a stationery store and live right above it. They are definitely wealthy compared to the other locals nearby. Satellite TV offers them not one, but three stations of Bollywood programs. Much singing, leaping through fields and deep gazing into star crossed lover’s eyes abounded during these movies which we watched in the background.

This family has a four year old son, Shivvy, who was nominated ‘most affectionate’ in his preschool. His father proudly showed us the certificate. Since I met him a few days ago, I think I’ve marveled to at least ten people how tall he is! Check out this irresistible face and note also his height compared to the door handle. Tall, right?





A lovely family indeed, and probably the first time I’ve ever visited someone’s home for the first time and then left with a wristwatch!

Are you hot or cold climate?

‘I wish there was some more coffee cake left,’ Jessica, a crew member, mused, looking around.

Ester handed Jessica her plate. ‘Take some of mine!’

‘Oh no, thank you,’ Jessica responded.

‘Oh, there’s the pan right there,’ I observed. ‘I think there’s a few more pieces left!’

‘Nice!’ Jessica headed towards the cake and grabbed a piece for herself.

Ester chuckled under her breath. ‘She’s so hot climate!’

So, are you hot or cold climate?

On board, we have about 30 different countries represented. You can imagine how one thing said or done can be interpreted in many different ways.

During staff training, we had a presentation on the popular cultural handbook Foreign to Familiar by Sarah A. Lanier. She’s been a speaker on cultural exchanges who has lived in several places, and is conversant in five different languages. Now and then, you’ll hear a Mercy Shipper saying that someone is ‘hot climate’ or ‘cold climate’ and my favorite, ‘warm climate’, which, I guess, is somewhere in the middle.

The word ‘climate’ is literal and refers to the temperature of certain countries. For example, people from England would be cold climate. A friend from Brasil would be hot climate. The Brazilian might invite the English friend for a meal at 6 pm. The English friend may arrive right at 6 pm, perhaps earlier. At this point, the Brazilian is still cutting up vegetables, the children are unfed, and the host may not even be present. When the meal starts, it is 7:30 pm or even 8 pm. A bit frustrating, might you say, for the English person? Yet, these are simply the cultural differences of cold and hot climate cultures. Similarly frustrating would it be for the Brazilian to arrive to the English person’s house for dinner at 6 pm. The Brazilian gets there at 6.30 pm to find that the meal has already progressed. How frustrating it would be to see that dinner has already started! These are vast generations that Lanier makes and there are always exceptions. However, I have found it well observed, true to most cases and helpful especially in the African hot climate culture.

I will not go into the entire book, but the times I’ve seen hot /cold climate discrepancies best reflected in the following areas:

Relationship Versus Task Oriented
Direct Verus Indirect Communication
Individualism Versus Group Identity
Inclusion Versus Privacy
Different Concepts of Hospitality
Different Concepts of Time and Planning

During my shift last week, I watched Fritz (Swiss) pacing back and forth around my desk in the reception area. It was 6 pm. He turned to me and said, ‘Have you seen the tailor? I was to meet him here at 6!’ I looked at the clock. It was 6.05 pm.

‘Is this the African tailor you’re looking for?’ I asked. Yes, he asid. I smile and responded, ‘He’ll be here at 6.30 pm.’ At 6.45 pm, Musa, the tailor, arrived. No apologies, no after thought about his timing. In his mind, 6 is six-ish, even if it is almost seven.

Lanier observes that cold climate cultures organize their day by time and by schedules. Hot climate cultures will organize their day according to the event. Things are scheduled in progression or succession around this event.

During my first week here, I went up to the IS (Information Services) department to service my computer. Before I opened the door, someone else opened it from the inside. I did not step in right away. The IS worker inside looked at me and said brusquely, ‘Are you coming in or out?’ His direct communication threw me off guard and thought it rather rude. Now that I know him better, I know he is not a rude person, but he is German and from a cold climate. He was simply asking me a direct question. Are you in or out? And I was being hot climate. I don’t know too many Asians who will step into someone’s room without asking at least.

This directness can lead to many cultural discrepancies. Growing up, if I was visiting someone’s house with my parents as a child, the host may ask me if I wanted something to drink or eat. Never mind that I was either parched or craving the sweets or savories being offered, I was taught to say, ‘No, thank you.’ However, if I was asked several times, it would be impolite to keep refusing. Then there is the dilemma of me truly not wanting something being offered. Trust me, I was really saying ‘no’ during those times when the candy was a bit dodgy looking.

According to Lanier, many hot climate cultures use indirect communication. Many times I have seen my Chinese elders refuse gifts and acts of service. It is not that the hot climate person does not want the gift or act of service, but it would be impolite to accept right away. You may find this problematic, maybe even dishonest, but what is even more problematic is a hot climate person coming in contact with cold climate. Then the weather system becomes a bit crazy!

Cold climate people – such as the Dutchies on board – will have no problem speaking their mind. If they voice an opinion, it has nothing to do with you as a person (well, unless it’s a personal remark, I suppose!), and it should not, for the most part, be taken personally. If someone disagrees with my opinion, my first reflex is to validate that their opinion may be plausible, and ultimately be fair. I am subtly reaffirming – if only to me – the ‘intactness’ of the relationship and not the issue at hand. This, however, translated to the cold climate person might appear wishy-washy on my part or not direct enough.

In the area of my personal time and privacy, I am cold climate. Maybe not frigid, but cold at least ‘in-the-freezer-door’ type cold. I will not do things spontaneously and most likely, have already planned my day by the time I’ve woken up. My friends on board tease me for this. However, I wonder if at times, I come across not valuing our relationship when they ask me to join them and I say, ‘No’ because I already have plans. This could not be less true, because I value my relationships very much. However, for me to have a (perceived?) sense of order and priority in my life, I have a general or specific plan for the day already. It keeps me focused, my priorities aligned and just simply, going.

Even within the US, we can categorize people as cold or hot climate. Southern hospitality may mean you can show up at any time at one’s house, but the New York minute means you must be on time.

Speaking of hospitality, my Nepalese friends, the security guards here, were also in the presentation on hot/climate cultures. They are still learning English and so I explained the lecture to them through examples.

I said to the security guards, ‘If I wanted to come to your house, should I make an appointment to come?’ They laughed out loud. Making an appointment would be absurd. You just come over. Hot climate!

Sharing and group mentality is huge in hot climate cultures. Because we knew that the Nepalese guards struggle with the Western flavors on board, Leena cooked them a nice Indian meal. The ingredients and flavors are similar. The act of preparing a meal is something hot climate cultures relate to. I knew these ‘hot climate’ men were eager to eat when they showed up ten minutes early!



But then again, who wouldn't show up for home made chapati's?

For a better tomorrow

There was a request for monetary donations to the ward for knitting supplies, crochet supplies and craft supplies last week during our community meeting. If you cannot imagine being ‘trapped’ on a ship full time docked in a third world country, imagine being a patient, in a hospital bed, where you may be unable to move around all together due to your condition. The desire for activity, socializing and learning runs deep. Concurrent with the request for supplies for ward activities, I was honored this week when I was told by ward supervisors that I could freely come to the ward to teach knitting whenever I liked.

I went first to see Joanna and then came the flood. Flood of interest, that is.

First there was Joanna, then Dehne, mother of 8 yr old Musa (boy) who received an operation, then came Felicia, whom I met during my first week, and then now Lucy, a Nigerian day worker whom I befriended. None of them knew how to knit. All of them know how to crochet. In fact, only Lucy knew what knitting was. The three others had never seen it done. This was very surprising to me. (My far fetched theory of why they know how to crochet is that since Western Africa was mainly colonized by the French, and crocheting – though not solely French – has some heavy cultivation in France. Somebody want to weigh in?)

Dehne sells mangos, coconuts and plaintains for a living. She has 4 boys. Musa is her youngest, and in 2006, he was in a bad car accident which left a deformity in his right jaw. He is the only child in the ward right now, and I can tell he is very lonely.

Felicia has noma. Noma is a gangrenous, acute infection in the face, common in African nations. It is extremely rapid, due to the hospitable environment of mucous membranes in the mouth.

There are now four ladies knitting in the ward! I was told by one of the nurses that they were up late at night, knitting by the dimmed lights while others slept. I’m known as the ‘little girl’ who comes and teaches. We’re making little knitted clutches (that’s purses, for you men folk), lined with fabric that I foraged from deck 2. A fancy button will hold it shut. Dehne, especially, is excited to learn this so that she can sell knitted items for money.

Because yarn and needles are hard to come by, I cut up some fabric, which is ‘plenty plenty’ (Liberian English) in this country. Felicia gives it a go.





Time drains away in the ward and I can easily spend 2 or 3 hours there at a time without realizing it. I have gotten use to the smells of strong body odor, medicine and bodily fluids. The language barrier is still difficult at times, but it is quite amusing that when I use my Liberian accent, they actually understand me better.

Though I teach them, I feel like I have been at their beck and call. I don’t mind this, but today it rose to near boiling point. I had barely had any time for myself in the last week or so. The last four days especially have very busy during work and off work. I had not left the ship in a week and a walk was desperately needed. Tonight in the ward, Joanna realizes that I had been sitting near Dehne and not with her. She is frustrated and raises her voice with me in front of everyone, asking why I didn’t get her crochet hook as I said I would. I firmly tell her that I cannot get everything she wants right away and that she must wait until tomorrow. Her discontentment hangs on the grimace on her face, and there is slight eye rolling involved. She asks me what I think of her clutch. I tell her it is beautiful and help her fix it a bit.

I need a needle, she says without looking up. I tell her I’ll go get her a new one.

As I get up, I slip on a spot of water and fall hard to my knees. I get up right away, despite the gasps of the nurses. I rush down the corridor, agitated. Slipping made me feel foolish, that little thing that breaks the camels back. Almost.

When I return, I give the needle to Joanna. She says, ‘Thank you.’ There is magic in those two words. Without them, returning tomorrow will be much harder, though I would do it. Gratitude is a luxury anyway when one has decided they will be in servitude of someone else’s purpose and life. Their interests become your primary interests and their wellness comes before yours.

Afterwards, I took a jog and watched the sunset. The wind cooled the sweat off my skin. I thought about my ladies in the ward. They were so thrilled at their first brush with success. Dehne buried her face her hand, giggling, when she was able to knit her first row. Felicia’s crooked smile lifted one corner, when she saw that she could do it as well. And Joanna, though it was hard for her, learned a left handed knitting method, which I taught her due to her skin grafts on her right arm.

Two days ago, Musa prodded for Dehne’s attention, and was kicking her a bit while he laid on the bed and she sat at the edge. Dehne was focused on her knitting. She turned to him, asked him to stop and said, ‘Musa, I learning. I learning for a better tomorrow.’

And that is why I will go back tomorrow, as well.

The rainy season is starting. We had our first major thunder and lightning storm last night which consisted of 3 hours of torrential downpour. Somebody might as well just have turned on a huge water hose and dumped it on Monrovia. The wind and rain reduced visibility to great degree, to the point that it was nearly impossible to see 10 feet in front of you. I watched it all from behind the reception desk as the day workers from the ship went home, trash bags over their bodies. The prepared ones had come to work with large umbrellas. They all rode home in cramped taxis or busses. I grew very concerned as I watched them leave, but Daniel, one of my Liberian day worker friends, assured me that this is common. Rainy season has to come at some point. He waved me and my worried look away with his hand and a shy smile, walking into the rain which battered against his umbrella.

When the bulk of rainy season hits in June and July, our freedoms will be more limited. There are many teams that leave the ship on a daily basis to do their work – agricultural teams, water and sanitation teams, dental teams, and palliative care to name a few. Those who work on the ship, make the effort to leave the ship when possible. When the rain hits, I imagine it will be a bit harder for us. Still there is work to be done and I rest assured, that the ‘outside world’ has a way of coming to me, even if I the weather doesn’t permit.

For example, the hospital wards will still be in full swing, no matter what. And apparently with a bit of creativity and a jump rope, you can entertain 11 year olds with a jump roping competition. Ester does this with bravado. Oh my ... the things that come with being a nurse on the Africa Mercy.



Alfred is happily seized by Keri and Ester. We don’t always tie up the club foot patients. Only the younger ones. (Yes, that’s a joke.)

The Empty Medicine Cabinet

While we visited the mines last weekend, we took a trip to nearby Bong Mines Hospital. It is one of two hospitals in Bong County servicing approximately 10,000 people. It will likely close unless a NGO steps up. They are lobbying for more money and the workers have gone 5 months without wages. Still, they come because it is a labor of love. In the pediatric ward, there is one nurse for 22 patients. And though it is very clean, and quite large, there is no room for improvement unless someone steps up for them financially.



And by the way, don't take your gun on the ambulance, please.



Colorful, but faded educational posters lined the walls. Tips on how to reduce a fever, prevent HIV-infection, and how to breast feed were my favorite ones.







The hospital corridors are spotless. There are 100 beds in this hospital. The surgeons and nurses that I am travelling with marvel at how sanitary the conditions are. The sad part is, it isn't as busy as it could be. Again, it is the money issue. As I turn the corner, I notice a modest cabinet with the words 'antihistamine' 'antihommonal' and other mispelled words. There should never be an empty medicine in a hospital, but there is in this one.



Outside, sitting in the shade of the overhang, under a sign that reads 'Bong Mines Hospital. Jesus Loves You.' are 4 women and their children, waiting for medical attention. It could be you, it could be me. But instead it is them. And they should not be deprived of medicine or medical care. I ask them if I can take photos of them. They say yes and love seeing their images on the digital display of my camera. In their faces and the way they hold their children, I see they are just women, like the women I know at home, who want their child to grow up, be well and do the best they can in this world.









As we leave, Debbie asks me if there's a way to take a monetary collection for this hospital. I am looking into it. While the process should not be that complicated, it is. Officials and people in places of authority tend to be corrupt. I am trying to work through a couple channels to find out how to effectively do this. We may not be able to sustain this hospital forever, but maybe we can sustain a few more lives and give someone back their livelihood.

Liberia is alive

At 7 AM on a Saturday morning, the usual bustle of the Monrovia city streets are just beginning to stir. Workers begin loading the flat beds of a coal engine train that will take us up country to Bong County, where we will visit the Bong Mines.

The engine waits patiently, and so must we, as various pieces of cargo (lumber, steel, different metals) and cars (owners of scrap metal companies, visitors, etc.) are loaded onto the flatbeds.



I've been told that we will be sitting outside during this train ride, which is part of the appeal. The missing detail was that we'd be loading the Land Rover onto the flatbed where the car will be parked, and that we'd be sitting on top of the Land Rover. There is a small red flag that comes up in my mind. I presume that they will secure the wheels of the vehicles. When I sadly totalled my vehicle in 2003, I remember the tow company throwing it on a flatbed and then securing its wheels with a belt like device. And today, they do secure our vehicle. With large cantaloupe sized boulders that they place behind the wheels of our Land Rover so that it doesn't roll backwards. And off we go.



We leave the city and head northwest into the country. Weaving through the city, the sounds of cars honking are replaced with silence, and the churning of the train. City huts made out of sheet metal are replaced by thatched roof huts. But in all cases, children run out to greet the train, to greet the Mercy Ships vehicles, and to catch a glimpse of foreigners. Their voices are joyful sounds, hatching out of nowhere, a welcome delight for someone in a foreign place.









The wind rushes through our hair. The clouds are creating big shadows on the ground, as we travel through patches of sunlight and shade. Carol scratches her face, nudges her hat and it flies off into the distance, lost to the jungles of Liberia. The foliage is vibrant, green and alive from last night's rain. Bananas and mangos dangle from the trunks of trees. Small bursts of leaves rise from a thick cluster of dark green bushes, stemming towards the sky like giraffes. Looking around, I thought to myself that it is indeed man who ruins God's creation, not the other way around. Liberia is blessed, luscious, and precious with its many fertile resources - iron, gold, diamonds and rubber.



Forty five minutes or so past. My bottom is beginning to fall asleep. The train slows to a stop. We have travelled through a long distance through the jungle, and then we arrive at a small township. We pick up a mother, a small child and a large bag of rice the size of the child.

We marvel at how people seem to travel from long distances in order to get to the train tracks. I suspect that they are waiting for different trains for purposes of trade or transportation. Also, walking along the train tracks provides a cleared path for them to travel upon.



As for us, we enjoy the sun and fresh air which we rarely receive in Monrovia and on the ship. Smiling happy and proud, here we are sitting on top of a Land Rover, trundling through the jungle on a train. From left to right: Timon (Switzerland), myself (USA), Debbie (Australia), Ester (Norway), Leena (South Africa) and Rosemary (England).



At the Bong Mines, our driver Odecious, formerly an employer at the mine, recalls the day that the LURD rebels came and drove everyone out. They captured strongholds of prosperity in the country and the mine was an attractive prosperous place. From accents, looks, behaviors and dialects, the LURD discerned between different tribe members. Odecious made it through. The others who were of the wrong tribe were shot here, the Ezekiel Valley. Over 5000 bodies were thrown in this valley. When President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf came to power, she held a memorial service here.

You would not think such a beautiful place, as it is now, was once a trench of horrors.

Leena becomes silent. She turns to me and says, 'Would you pray with me?' I nod and she utters words that come from that place that has none.



Odecious gives us a tour of the formerly prosperous mine, now a place where people scrap for metal to sell.



It is a broke down palace.





Odecious shows us some lakes in the surrounding land. There are still people living in Bong County. Before the war, people lived here then worked at the mine and enjoyed this beautiful countryside.



My ears are ringing. It is deafeningly quiet. I have been so attuned to the sounds of the engine whirring all day, the loud talking of Liberians, and the sounds of traffic that when I meet silence, it overwhelms me. Ester notices this too. We eat our lunch on a small jetty that reaches out into the lake, watching large dragonflies dart around in the air.



Odecious drives down a dirt road in the Land Rover. In Los Angeles, people drive Range Rovers and Land Rovers, but on well paved streets to go fetch their starbucks. Here, the Land Rovers rise up to the challenge and we drive over gravel, rocks, large pools of water and other things that Land Rovers were created to to.



We also visit a local hospital, which I will discuss in a later blog post. On our way back, we drive through the township to buy mangos, coconuts and pineapples. We stop off for a cold one at a local cafe.



As we return to Monrovia, I fall asleep inside the Land Rover, the warm breeze rushing against my sweat drenched clothes. Suddenly, Carol yells, 'My hat!' A man is standing on the side of the tracks, his hand in the air, her hat in his hand. He has been waiting all day for the train to come by. We are unable to stop, but she smiles at him.

Lightning strikes and it begins to rain. We pass through this patch uneventfully. I climb out of the Land Rover to breathe in my reserve of fresh air. The train rushes head long downhill. The speed picks up. I hold on with one hand to the roll bars of the vehicle. And with a smile on my face and the other hand in the air, I wave, and wave, and wave.

Liberia is alive.

Under Kaybo's skin

** Warning. The following post is about my time observing surgery and there are photos that some may find gory and graphic. So if you are on your lunch break and think you can’t hold that ham sandwich in your stomach, I suggest coming back at some other time. But I do hope you come back as this has been one of my best experiences here!**

After a couple slices of bread, some tomatoes and rice, I run down to the Women’s Locker Room to change into scrubs. I wonder to myself why they suggest eating lunch before observing surgery, since I assume some may have trouble holding onto their lunches. I pull the loose blue scrubs over my head and wonder if my lunch will stay in place, especially in the midst of riding out that stomach virus this week.

Right before 1 pm, I tell the OR (operating room) supervisor that I am ready to go. There are three surgeries going on. One involves some bone fusing that has been going on since the morning time and looks like it will take the rest of the day. Lots of blood. Everywhere. Second, a 15-minute surgery that involves removing some tongue that has been stuck to the bottom of the mouth. Third, the removal of a large egg-sized tumor from the carotid area as well as two fat packs from the patient’s arm.

‘Which would you like to see?’ she asks.

Bone fusing, tumor removing, tongue releasing. My lunch is about to give her an answer, but then I say, ‘If possible, may I watch the tongue surgery and then switch over to the tumor?’ I really want to see a surgery from beginning to end, and bone carnage is at the bottom of my list, anyway.

I walk into OR One and see that Dr. Gary has started begun. Only the patient’s mouth is in the open. The rest of the body is draped in aquamarine drop cloth. He has already freed the tongue and is now sewing the sutures. Like a skilled craftsman, and not unlike advanced knitters or embroiderers I’ve seen, his hands are swift, nimble, and very precise. He uses two forceps to sew up the suture. I am unable to see anything, and at this point am unsure if I want to see anything. It is very calm, very quick and as promised, fifteen minutes pass and he is done. The nurse asks me to step outside and wait for the tumor operation in OR Four.

As I am waiting outside, Dr. Gary comes out. I have never heard a bad word spoken against him. Gracious. Capable. Respectable. Those are commonly spoken of Dr. Gary. He is the kind of man who can smile with his eyes (which helps especially when constantly wearing a surgical mask.).

Dr. Gary stops to explain the tumor surgery to me. It is a tumor in the carotid area (neck, underneath the chin) on the left side. He has to be careful in cutting out the tumor because it is close to some nerves essential to blinking, smiling, and other functions he’s sure the patient wants to keep. It will take a while, he says. The patient has also developed two fat packs on her shoulder and forearm which causes her to look very disfigured.

When the patient is fully anesthesized, I am allowed in the room.

On the operating table is a fully grown woman with closely cropped hair. Her small feet poke out from beneath the aquamarine cloths and in passing I notice her chipped toe nails. Her head is turned to her right side and on her left, the tumor, as described by Dr. Gary. It bulges outward. The jaw line ceases at that point as the tumor hills and crests behind her ear.



Dr. Gary draws a line with a marker. This is where he will cut.



He asks Donna, the anesthestist, who this woman is.

‘Her name is Kaybo,’ she says.

Dr. Gary lays his skilled hands on the patient’s head. He says a prayer for her before he begins.

‘Kaybo, did you say?’ I ask. ‘I just selected her yesterday as my patient!’

I saw her name earlier in the week hanging on the poles for our ‘adopt-a-patient’ program and had a feeling about her. She is 49 years old. She will be here from anywhere from four days to two weeks. I had not visited her yet due to my own maladies, but here I was witnessing her surgery.

‘Well, that certainly isn’t a coincidence!’ Donna replies. Suddenly, the surgery took on a newer meaning. Here was someone I had chosen out of so many to take care of during her stay here. And, perhaps, not quite randomly, she was chosen for me ahead of time.

Dr. Gary picks up a scalpel. The first incision is small but decisive. The skin automatically splits and a layer of yellow fat tissue is revealed. There is a little bit of blood, but not much. I listen to the beeping of the heart monitor. Donna monitors her vitals.



Cut, snip, push, tuck. The movements are both gentle and firm. The tumor is revealed and blood begins to drip out. It is lumpy, foreign, and against the rest of the human body which seems to make sense, one can tell that it should have no place in this woman’s body. Yet, this thing has grown to be a part of her body and is nourished by her blood.



I remember what Dr. Gary says about his need for caution around this area of the body. Just then, he takes he finds a nerve and pokes at it. Kaybo’s mouth twitches. He’s found the nerve and it was only 30 minutes into the surgery. With this information he is able to move about faster.





Dr. Gary and his OR nurse, Steffa, proceed to cut, snip, push, and tuck some more. The tumor is coming out. I feel my tear ducts pinch. I’m about to cry. This woman’s life will change for the better without this tumor and I am so happy for her.







Dr. Gary plucks the tumor out and puts it on a cold, stainless steel tray that Debbie, another nurse, is holding.

‘Dinner?’ She jokes. Dr. Gary sews up the sutures in a neat, clean line.



Dr. Gary moves onto the fat packs. When he opens the skin, the fat cluster bursts out. The cluster is the color of flan, or meringue, or the hue of a bridesmaid’s dress for a summer wedding. He pulls it out with a pair of forceps as matter-of-factly as pulling out a ball of hair from the shower drain. He hands it to Steffa and she puts it on the instrument table. I want to poke at it, but decide not to.





After the second fat pocket, Dr. Gary looks over all the sutures he’s closed up. Kaybo’s heartbeat is normal. She’s breathing evenly. He gets up and removes his gloves, his mask, and outer gown. I thank him for the incredible experience, noting how God has made such amazing machines for human bodies. He makes a casual and humble remark about how it is even more amazing that surgeons don’t get in the way of God’s creation.

‘Wow and all before 3.30!’ I say. I mention that I’m still able to go to my practice fire drill, which I am a part of as my role on the reception team.

‘You’re not staying for OR One?’ He is already down the hallway. ‘I’m doing another surgery right now!’ I laugh, but dismiss myself. He’s in charge of one kind of life saving, but these practice fire drills are so that I can help in another kind of life saving, I hope.

As I leave, I pass by OR One. I see the patient lying down on the operating table before he is anesthesized. We make eye contact. He is very afraid.

Don’t worry, I say to him in my mind. You are in good hands.