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.

Freedom

Independence Day as celebrated in the US consists mostly of day long barbeques and a night long anticipation of fireworks. Here in Liberia, the Americans got together for a group photo. Can you find me?



Other countries may get together for a group photo all the same, but how many nations comprise of so many different faces, so many different origins? It was a delight to see that we had German-Americans, African Americans, Mexican Americans, and of course a Hong Kong-American. There was even a Liberian-American! Look closely, she's the one with the white bow in her hair. (Still camera shy, that one.)



Independence Day celebrates our freedom as a nation from England. Freedom is a bedrock value of the United States. Our thinking, our mentality, our culture - it is all built on the idea that when one sets foot on our soil, they can pursue that American Dream. My family and I are no stranger to these ideas, and I am grateful for these values.

Later that night on 4th of July, I watched the film Gandhi. Gandhi promoted values of freedom from (again) the British, first in South Africa then in his native India. Through his initiatives, he spoke out against injustice through his steadfast spirit and humility.

Today, I watched Barack Obama give a speech on his intentions during his possible Presidency. The first thing he will do, he said, is plan for our US troops to withdraw from Iraq. Success will be that we see a democratic, self empowered Iraq, to paraphrase him. He would want the Iraqi people to do this for themselves, to have freedom for themselves.

A few weeks ago, Ester and I were standing on the shores of Liberia, about a hundred yard from our group of friends. This strip of beach was yet uninhabited. No huts had been set up, no foreigners laid their towels out to sunbathe. No Lebanese restauranteur had set up shop just yet. It was untouched. A Liberian man floated on his back, a happy expression on his face. There was a round rock nestled comfortably by time into the shore. That moment, I shared my desire with Ester about how I wished the Liberians would take their own country into their hands, instead of allowing other investors, like the Lebanese, to be building restaurants dotted along their coastline. I shared this thought with some others. My Nigerian friend, Lucy, shook her head, 'They will not do it.' I asked why. 'They are waiting for others to do it for them.' The Liberians are economically under someone else's thumb.

If you have watched Gandhi (or better yet, know something about Indian history), you will know that when the British pulled out, huge tensions drew between Hindu Indians and Muslim Indians. And when the US pulls out of Iraq will the same happen between Sunni Muslims and Shiite Muslims?

Freedom is critical to us as human beings, this is true. In the case of two colliding ships, if the ship that bissected the first backs away, the first will sink. You must get the people off the ship first. Are we willing to do the work? I am not sure. For freedom is not just a state of not being inhabited by a foreign country politically or economically, because in the end we are all a slave to something. But freedom is the trust that whatever or whoever we are indebted to, will ultimately not hold us into bondage or forced acts against our will. It is the knowledge that we can create something for ourselves and others - out of our own will, and for the betterment and wellness of our society and world.

Brothers

An anecdote to throw in the memory bin marked 'random':

Standing around waiting in Monrovia's tiny international airport, a Pakistani UN guard walks up to me.

'You are Chinese?' he asked. 'I am Pakistani soldier. You are Chinese. Pakistan and China are brothers in Liberia. I take picture with you?'

'Sure!' I exclaimed.

A fellow soldier took the photograph and grinned widely. After about ten pictures with any combination of us, we waved goodbye.