Hey China!

'Zhe zhe!' Kossie yells at me. He's speaking Chinese and wants to learn more.

Kossie had two severly clubbed feet. His legs were like arches and he has been 'walking' around like that for ten years now. He went through two major operations to have that straightened out. And straightened out they are, as Kossie is presently always seen in a wheelchair, his two legs sticking straight out from underneath him. But the thing people notice most about him is that infectious smile.



I've befriended his mother Hawa, a school teacher from Sierra Leone, their country. She loves to knit. They will be here for 3 months while he heals.



Whenever he sees me, he yells, 'China! Hey China!' I've taught him some Chinese phrases in Mandarin and in Cantonese. His accent is very good!

He knows how to say, 'Thank you', 'I don't want any more' and 'Hello.'

The other day he wanted to learn how to say, 'I want my slippers.' I think he stumped me on that one as far as Mandarin was concerned.



He's also learning how to use a digital camera. Fingers off the lense, please!

Laminate

Passing through the ship's deck offices, amongst the deckies busy at work painting, welding and hammering, one of the deckie dayworkers stops me.

Smiling, he has a white piece of paper in his hand -- a grid of sorts, with writing on it. He hands it to me. 'Please,' he says, handing it to me. I'm not sure what he wants. He's making this shape with his hands -- a box, no, a rectangle, no... Then finally, he gets the word, 'Please, laminate.' Ah!

'Laminate for me?' he asks.

Is it for business, I ask him. His face falls. No, he says. He knows they are not to ask for anything personal to be laminated. I look at the sheet. It is his son's report card from the Jamaica Road Kinder-Care Center.



'Oh, I'll do it for you!' I tell him. Just one of those tiny bright spots in a day. A moment of clarity amongst many muddied instances of what seems to be hopelessness in this country. A gentle reminder that parents of any color or creed just love being proud of their kids. In short, it was just what I needed as I enter into the second half of this journey. As apathy tries to push itself into my heart.

One of the best parts of this story? The dad/dayworker's name is Billy Elliott!

How to fish

Synonymous to the old saying, 'Give a man a fish, feed him for a day. Teach a man how to fish, feed him for a lifetime', I like to say, 'Give someone a scarf, keep them warm for a winter. Teach someone to knit, teach them to keep others warm for a lifetime.'

I can't seem to pass through the ward without another person asking me how to knit. And since there's only one of me and so many finite hours in a day, I thought I'd train up a few new knitters from our crew.

Jane from Ireland showed up as did Laura from Idaho. Hawa, mother of ten year old patient, Kossie, also came up and sat with us. She really enjoys knitting and is glad to have something to keep her busy. She's going to be here for sometime while Kossie's legs heal. He had major surgery for very clubbed feet. She will be here for 3 months total.

In knitting, first there is doubt. Then there is success, if only in the completion of one stitch. But thankfully, no matter what, there is always fellowship:



The vesicovaginal fistula patients (more affectionately dubbed VVF ladies) are coming on August 4! I look forward to training up some more knitters for these women who have long overdue affection that I hope they will experience here on the ship.

Rest in peace

Baby Greg died last night. At six thirty pm, during a routine feeding, he stopped breathing in the arms of a ward nurse. A ship-wide emergency page was made and all the doctors rushed in to see what could be done. He died, and his mother Marian wept bitterly, crying, 'God has let me down!'

They wrapped up his small body to be taken home with his mother. Some doctors and nurses drove. Most likely they will have a burial today, since there isn't anything by way of a morgue around here. What a good fight he fought! He tried so desparately to learn to breathe on this Earth. At the time God ordained, Greg's stay with us ended.

My roommate Ellen had organized the 24/7 prayer chain event for him. She came into our cabin crying. Having heard the overhead announcement and then seeing her, I knew Greg had died. I stared at the one and a half pair of yellow socks made on my desk and felt immediate remorse that I hadn't finished them just yet. Is that what we're all left with? Just a bunch of prayers, a half finished sock and some good intentions?

And then this sacred Scripture came into my mind:

The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout people are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. -- Isaiah 57:1

Rest in peace, baby Greg. We love you and know you are breathing with a perfect set of lungs right now, spared from the future pain you may have had on this limited Earth.

It's raining, its pouring...

Sheets of rain have started falling day by day. The locals say it is only going to get worse. With no drainage or sewers in the streets of Monrovia, locals dig ditches that lead to giant swamps. This cesspool has collected quite a bit of garbage in it as well.

I got caught in the rain the other day, which can come without notice, although the huge gust of wind that sometimes precedes it can be a sure sign.



The windows of the ship get a washing over day, as though buckets of water are pouring down. Dark gray clouds huddle low in the sky. When it rains, visibility is very low and one can barely see five feet in front of them while driving. As for the horizon, it is totally gone, speckled by grey and white.



I love rain. This is no exaggeration. Living in LA, I crave rain and I am one of those people who gets a bit tired of the constantly sunny days of Southern California. I took a walk in it today and was glad to have packed a set of galoshes. Fashionable, no?

Baby Greg

Baby Greg is six months old. He was admitted to our hospital due to a tumor in his neck. Doctors assumed that this tumor was obstructing his breathing, but after removing it, they realized that he had very 'flappy lungs' (as Ester told me). He has very weak lungs, unlike the strong ones you or I may have. He is on a breathing machine which forces air into his lungs, causing him to work a bit harder. Even by First World standards, he is in very critical condition.

I was sitting in a departmental meeting the first time I heard about Baby Greg, and while department meetings are no place to cry, I found myself tearing up over Baby Greg. Later that day, I met him. He is tiny, his limbs wiry and thin. The breathing mask covers over half of his face. He is incredibly fragile and has a feeding pouch in his stomache.

His mother is 21 year old Marian, a very sweet woman. She is not married to Baby Greg's father, but they are still in a relationship. Her previous child had also died at child birth. She revealed that her father disapproves of their relationship and cursed her womb, saying she would never give birth to a healthy child.

With baby Greg, we are faced with an ethical dilemma. Because we are a triage hospital, we solve cases, do some follow up, and discharge them. We usually are not in the work of sustaining a patient. The longer a hospital bed is taken up, the longer someone else cannot be helped. Yet we know that without some care, Greg would die.

We're in a middle of a twenty four hour / seven days a week prayer chain for Baby Greg. Someone is always 'on duty' praying for him, offering up devotions to God on his behalf.

I started knitting socks for Baby Greg.



It turned out too big. Maybe it would work for a normal one or two year old baby. At least you could expect him to grow into it. At the moment that I decided to rip it out and start over, I decided that the size was perfect. I will present them to his mother, knowing they are too big, but telling her that I hope and know that a miracle will take place for Greg. And one day, he will grow into those little yellow socks.

Almost there

Joanna went home yesterday. Up until my new job started two weeks ago, I saw her every single day for two months. I spent time with her mostly through knitting and crocheting.



Her daughter stayed with her for the last month or so. Six year old Angela is a spunky girl, full of life and energy. She is a favorite amongst crew members.

Joanna has been a regular fixture on our ships. In the last three outreaches to Liberia, she has been a part of all three. This year, the devastating truth that her skin graft would not heal is finally becoming a reality. She has been sent home with an open wound, and she will receive dressings on it until the next plastics surgeon arrives in August. She is almost there. Almost totally healed. She has not lost hope.

Two beds down from Joanna is Bendu. She left today as well. Bendu is a burn victim. Half of her face is pink and deep brown, shapes like continents seem to extend down her neck, masses of flesh bumping into one another. Her nostrils are almost completely gone. Her left eye was completely shut when I met her. Over time, it has been healing and the flesh has closed it almost completely. There is a slit there with two pieces of flesh holding it in place. I have had opportunities to take a photograph of her, but I have never felt right about, nor has she ever offered to be in a photo with me. Without making a display of her, but at the same time trying to convey to you what she looks like, let me just conclude by saying that most people, if they saw her on the street, may not be able to hide their shock.

She laments that her once long hair is now cut short due to the surgery. She is an intelligent young woman of twenty four who loves to read. Her brother has faithfully visited her in the hospital, though when her mother comes, she is very discouraging. She speaks out loud her sadness at losing her daughter. Essentially, she has coined her as a worthless human being. You can see the hopelessness in Bendu's eyes. I see disappointment - in herself, in us as her helpers and I wonder if even at God.

I've spent quite a few hours trying to teach her how to knit and crochet. Because of the limited use of her hand and also her eyes, it has been hard for her. However, in addition to that, I think she gets discouraged very easily. I've hit a brick wall with this several times, unable to get past her own thick mental block. In those times, I tried to find something with her to laugh about. Her laugh is infectious and for a moment, I see a glimpse of a person who doesn't feel broken at all.

Her goodbye to me was very brief. She told me she was sad, but that it was time to go. She will return in August and do another surgery when our surgeon returns. I told her 'see you later' but that I would be praying for her. Eyes downcast, she said, 'Alright' turning to go. I asked her for a hug and embraced her fully. She laughed, uncomfortably at first, but then gave into my embrace.

I don't think Bendu will ever really get her face back. However, as for her spirits, I think she's almost there. Just almost. I hope that her time here in the hospital, the love she has experienced through the nurses, the total abandon into goofy fun we've had with her, the prayers with said with her and the environment we've provided has strengthened her. And I hope when she returns, she is closer to 'there' than she is now.